Produced by Ron Swanson





THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER:

DEVOTED TO EVERY DEPARTMENT OF LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS.


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

As _we_ will, and not as the winds will.




VOL. I.




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


{1}


SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. I.]  RICHMOND, AUGUST, 1834.  [NO. 1.

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




PUBLISHER'S NOTICE.


In issuing the first number of the "SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER," the
publisher hopes to be excused for inserting a few passages from the
letters of several eminent literary men which he has had the pleasure
to receive, approving in very flattering terms, his proposed
publication. Whilst the sentiments contained in these extracts
illustrate the generous and enlightened spirit of their authors, they
ought to stimulate the pride and genius of the south, and awaken from
its long slumber the literary exertion of this portion of our country.
The publisher confidently believes that such will be the effect. From
the smiles of encouragement, and the liberal promises of support
received from various quarters--which he takes this opportunity of
acknowledging,--he is strongly imboldened to persevere, and devote his
own humble labors to so good a cause. He is authorised to expect a
speedy arrangement either with a competent editor or with regular
contributors to his work,--but, in the mean time, respectfully
solicits public patronage, as the only effectual means of ensuring
complete success.


FROM WASHINGTON IRVING.

"Your literary enterprise has my highest approbation and warmest good
wishes. Strongly disposed as I always have been in favor of 'the
south,' and especially attached to Virginia by early friendships and
cherished recollections, I cannot but feel interested in the success
of a work which is calculated to concentrate the talent and illustrate
the high and generous character which pervade that part of the Union."


FROM J. K. PAULDING.

"It gives me great pleasure to find that you are about establishing a
literary paper at Richmond,--and I earnestly hope the attempt will be
successful. You have abundance of talent among you; and the situation
of so many well educated men, placed above the necessity of laboring
either manually or professionally, affords ample leisure for the
cultivation of literature. Hitherto your writings have been
principally political; and in that class you have had few rivals. The
same talent, directed to other pursuits in literature, will,
unquestionably, produce similar results,--and Virginia, in addition to
her other high claims to the consideration of the world, may then
easily aspire to the same distinction in other branches that she has
attained in politics.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Besides, the muses must certainly abide somewhere in the beautiful
vallies, and on the banks of the clear streams of the mountains of
Virginia. Solitude is the nurse of the imagination; and if there be
any Virginia lass or lad that ever seeks, they will assuredly find
inspiration, among the retired quiet beauties of her lonely retreats.
Doubtless they only want a vehicle for their effusions,--and I cannot
bring myself to believe that your contemplated paper will suffer from
the absence of contributors or subscribers.

       *       *       *       *       *

"If your young writers will consult their own taste and genius, and
forget there ever were such writers as Scott, Byron, and Moore, I will
be bound they produce something original; and a tolerable original is
as much superior to a tolerable imitation, as a substance is to a
shadow. Give us something new--something characteristic of yourselves,
your country, and your native feelings, and I don't care what it is. I
am somewhat tired of licentious love ditties, border legends, affected
sorrows, and grumbling misanthropy. I want to see something wholesome,
natural, and national. The best thing a young American writer can do,
is to forget that any body ever wrote before him; and above all
things, that there are such caterpillars as critics in this world."


FROM J. FENIMORE COOPER.

"The south is full of talent, and the leisure of its gentlemen ought
to enable them to bring it freely into action. I made many
acquaintances, in early youth, among your gentlemen, whom I have
always esteemed for their manliness, frankness, and intelligence. If
some, whom I could name, were to arouse from their lethargy, you would
not be driven to apply to any one on this side the Potomac for
assistance."


FROM J. P. KENNEDY.

"I have received your prospectus, along with your letter of the 1st
instant. It gives me great pleasure to perceive so just an estimate of
the value of literary enterprise as that indicated by your
announcement of the 'Southern Literary Messenger.' A work of this kind
is due to the talents of your noble state, and I doubt not will be
received with a prompt encouragement."


FROM JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.

"Your design is so laudable, that I would gladly contribute to its
promotion; but the periodical literature of the country seems to be
rather superabundant than scanty. The desideratum is of quality rather
than quantity."


FROM PETER A. BROWNE.

"Although you could not have chosen one less able to assist you, owing
to my numerous professional engagements, which deprive me of the
pleasure of dipping into the other sciences, or literature, I am
willing to contribute my mite, and sincerely wish you success."




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SOUTHERN LITERATURE.


It is understood that the first number of the "Messenger," will be
sent forth by its Publisher, as a kind of pioneer, to spy out the land
of literary promise, and to report whether the same be fruitful or
barren, before he resolves upon future action. It would be a
mortifying discovery, if instead of kindness and good will, he should
be repulsed by the coldness and neglect of a Virginia public. Hundreds
of similar publications thrive and prosper north of the Potomac,
sustained as they are by the liberal hand of patronage. _Shall not one
be supported in the whole south?_ This is a question of great
importance;--and one which ought to be answered with sober earnestness
by all who set any value upon public character, or who are in the
least degree jealous of that individual honor and dignity which is in
some measure connected with the honor and dignity of the state. Are we
to be doomed forever to a kind of vassalage to our northern
neighbors--a dependance for our literary food upon our brethren, whose
superiority in all the great points of character,--in valor--eloquence
and patriotism, we are no wise disposed to admit? Is it not altogether
extraordinary that in this extensive commonwealth, containing a white
population of upwards of six hundred thousand souls--a vast deal of
agricultural wealth, and innumerable persons of both sexes, who enjoy
both leisure and affluence--there is not one solitary {2} periodical
exclusively literary? What is the cause? We are not willing to borrow
our political,--religious, or even our agricultural notions from the
other side of Mason and Dixon's line, and we generously patronize
various domestic journals devoted to those several subjects. Why
should we consider the worthy descendants of the pilgrims--of the
Hollanders of Manhattan, or the German adventurers of Pennsylvania, as
exclusively entitled to cater for us in our choicest intellectual
aliment? Shall it be said that the empire of literature has no
geographical boundaries, and that local jealousies ought not to
disturb its harmony? To this there is an obvious answer. If we
continue to be _consumers_ of northern productions, we shall never
ourselves become _producers_. We may take from them the fabrics of
their looms, and give in exchange without loss our agricultural
products--but if we depend exclusively upon their _literary_ supplies,
it is certain that the spirit of invention among our own sons, will be
damped, if not entirely extinguished. The value of a _domestic_
publication of the kind, consists in its being at once accessible to
all who choose to venture into the arena as rivals for renown. It
imparts the same energy, and exercises the same influence upon mental
improvement, that a rail road does upon agricultural labor, when
passing by our doors and through our estates. The literary spirit
which pervades some portions of New England and the northern cities,
would never have existed, at least in the same degree, if the journals
and repositories designed to cherish and promote it, had been derived
exclusively from London and Edinburgh. In like manner, if we look
entirely to Boston, New York or Philadelphia, for that delightful
mental enjoyment and recreation, which such publications afford, we
must content ourselves with being the readers and admirers of other
men's thoughts, and lose all opportunity of stirring up our own minds,
and breathing forth our own meditations. In other words, we must be
satisfied to partake of the feast, as it is set before us by our more
industrious and enterprising countrymen, and if peradventure, the
cookery should not be altogether to our taste, we must, nevertheless,
with our characteristic courtesy, be thankful,--and like honest
Sancho, "bid God bless the giver."

It is not intended to be intimated that the aristarchy of the north
and east, cherish any unkind feelings towards the literary claims of
the south. Oh no! In truth, they have no cause whatsoever, either for
unkindness or jealousy. If we only continue to patronize their
multitudinous magazines, they will pocket our money and praise us as a
very generous and chivalrous race; or if, perchance, some juvenile
drama, or poem, or some graver duodecimo of southern manufacture,
should find its way to the seats of learning and criticism beyond the
Susquehanna, it is an even chance, that in order to preserve the
monopoly of the southern market, they will dole out to us a modicum of
praise, and render some faint tribute to rising merit. Without
therefore intending any thing invidious, or without cherishing any
unkind or unmanly sentiment towards our political confederates, we
ought forthwith to buckle on our armour, and assert our mental
independence. All their own lofty and generous spirits will approve
the resolution, and be among the first to welcome the dawn of a
brighter era in a region of comparative twilight. Their Irvings and
Pauldings, their Everetts and Neals, their Coopers and Verplancks,
their Kennedys and Flints, their Hallecks and Bryants, their
Sedgewicks and Sigourneys, will rejoice in the emancipation of the
south, from the shackles which either indolence, indifference, or the
love of pleasure, have imposed upon us. We are too old, and ought to
be too proud to lag behind even some of our younger sisters, in the
cultivation of one of the most attractive departments of human
knowledge. It is folly to boast of political ascendancy, of moral
influence, of professional eminence, or unrivalled oratory, when, in
all the Corinthian graces which adorn the structure of mind, we are
lamentably deficient. It is worse than folly to talk of this "ancient
and unterrified commonwealth"--if we suffer ourselves to be
_terrified_ at the idea of supporting one poor periodical, devoted to
letters and mental improvement. It would be an indelible reproach to
us, that whilst we waste so many thousands annually in luxury--whilst
we squander our means in expensive tours of recreation and
pleasure,--and even impoverish our resources in indulgences too gross
to be mentioned--we should be unwilling to contribute a single mite
towards building up a character of our own, and providing the means of
imbodying and concentrating the neglected genius of our country. Let
the hundreds of our gifted sons, therefore, who have talents and
acquirements, come forth to this work of patriotism, with a firm
resolution to persevere until victory is achieved. Let them dismiss
their apprehensions,--that because as yet they are unpractised in
composition--and the highway to literary eminence is already thronged
with competitors--that, therefore, the most vigorous effort will be
vanquished in the contest. In the race for political or professional
distinction, who is influenced by such timid suggestions? In that
noble strife, which animates southern bosoms to control by the magic
of oratory the passions of the multitude, or in a more learned arena
"the applause of listening senates to command"--who ever heard of
discouragements and difficulties sufficient to chill their ardor, or
restrain their aspirations? And yet is it less difficult to attain the
prize of eloquence--to rival the fame of a Henry, or a Wirt, than to
achieve the task of vigorous and graceful composition?

{3} To our lovely and accomplished countrywomen, may not a successful
appeal be also addressed, to lend their aid in this meritorious task.
Their influence upon the happiness and destiny of society, is so
extensively felt and acknowledged, that to dwell upon its various
bearings and relations, would be altogether superfluous. It is to the
watchful care of a mother's love, that those first principles of moral
wisdom are implanted in childhood, which ripen into the blossoms and
fruit of maturer years; and it is to the reproving virtues and
refining tenderness of the sex, through all its mutations, from
blooming sixteen to the matronly grace of forty--that man is indebted
for all that is soft, and for much that is noble and wise, in his own
character. It is true that there is another side to this picture. If a
woman's education has itself been neglected; if she has been trained
up in the paths of folly and vanity--and been taught to ornament the
casket in preference to the celestial jewel which it contains,--she
will neither be a fit companion for the sterner sex, nor be qualified
to assume the divine responsibility of maternal instruction. To
diffuse therefore not only the benefits of moral but intellectual
culture, among those whom heaven has given to restore in part the
blessings of a lost Eden--to withdraw their minds from vain and
unprofitable pursuits--to teach them to emulate the distinguished
names of their own sex, who have given lustre to literature, and
scattered sweets in the paths of science--is a duty not only of
paramount importance on our part, but claims the united and cordial
support of the fair and interesting objects of our care.

Let no one therefore presume to disparage this humble effort to redeem
our country's escutcheon from the reproach which has been cast upon
it. Let the miser open his purse--the prodigal save a pittance from
his health-wasting and mind-destroying expenditures--the lawyer and
physician, spare a little from their fees--the merchant and mechanic,
from their speculations and labor--and the man of fortune, devote a
part, a very small part of his abundance, towards the creation of a
new era in the annals of this blessed Old Dominion. It may possibly be
the means of effecting a salutary reform in public taste and
individual habits; of overcoming that tendency to mental repose and
luxurious indulgence supposed to be peculiar to southern latitudes;
and of awakening a spirit of inquiry and a zeal for improvement, which
cannot fail ultimately to exalt and adorn society.

H.




EXTRACT FROM A JOURNAL.


The following is from the unpublished journal of a gentleman of this
state, who visited Europe some years since, with objects, we believe,
exclusively literary and scientific. Though not at liberty to mention
his name, if we mistake not, the time will come when his country will
be proud to claim him as one whose fine natural genius has been
adorned and improved by the treasures of learning. Though we do not
present this sketch of a voyage over the great deep as having any
peculiar claims to admiration, and are sure that the author himself
would disclaim for it any such pretensions--yet we do not hesitate to
recommend it to our readers as a sportive, graphic, and interesting
delineation of the novelties and adventures of a sea trip.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the 15th of June, 18--, the fine ship Edward Quesnel, E. Hawkins,
master, one of the packets between New York and Havre, received her
passengers on board at the former place, and dropped down to Sandy
Hook Bay, where she anchored, awaiting a favorable wind.

Here she remained until the next morning, which however brought no
change of wind, but rather an increase of that which was already
blowing full in our teeth, together with a most disagreeable
accompaniment in the shape of a misty rain, which caused us to confine
ourselves below the deck.

The next morning came--and the next--but still all was dark and
lowering, and still did the wind meet us from the ocean, or--what was
equally unfavorable--remain hushed and calm. Day after day thus rolled
by and found us quietly resting on the bosom of the waters; each
morning hoping that

  "The breeze would freshen when the day was done;"

and each evening retiring to rest, anxiously expecting to have our
slumbers broken by the heaving up of the anchor.

Each day however, were our hopes disappointed, until the evening of
the 24th, when the wind proving favorable, we moved from our station
with as much pleasure as would animate the garrison of a besieged
fortress, marching out after the departure of the besiegers. Our
probation of nine days was succeeded by weather as bright as that had
been gloomy. The sky was unclouded--

  "The sails were filled, and fair the light winds blew."

The pilot left us; and it was not until this last link which bound us
to terra firma was separated, that I could realize to myself, that I
was upon the pathless deep; of which I had heard, and read, and
dreamed; but never had it entered my dreams, that I was one day to
"wend my way" over its billows. The coast of America, rapidly receded
from the view; and when I laid my head upon my pillow, I bade

  "My native land good night!"

with a heaviness of heart, which I presume there is no one who has not
felt, who sees fading from his sight, the land of his birth--the land
which contains all for which he cares to live.

There is something indescribable in the feeling of being thus
separated as it were, from the rest of the world. It seems as though
our ship is of itself, {4} a distinct and independent world, on which
we wing our way, with

  "All heaven above, all ocean around us;"

not knowing any, and unknown to all. Empires may fall--states be
dissolved--whole nations swept from the earth; yet we pursue our
course as profoundly ignorant of aught that has occurred, as are the
inhabitants of another planet, of what is done upon our own.

After getting fairly upon the ocean, and being satisfied, that we were
making the best of our way to our place of destination, I began to
direct my attention to those with whom my lot had been cast, and with
whom I was daily to associate, whether willing or otherwise. And
surely, since the days of Noah, never was a more heterogeneous
congregation deposited within the compass of a ship. Imprimis, there
were three ladies--two of them French and one American. There were
three Frenchmen, two Germans, one Italian, one Spaniard, one Austrian
Baron, one Dutch Naval Officer, one Portuguese--two natives of
Massachusetts, two Rhode Islanders, two Pennsylvanians, two Virginians
and one Mississippian.

Of this number there were three, who from their peculiarities, merit a
more particular notice, than the mere enumeration I have given; and
who, should any chance inform them, that any one had been "takin
notes" of this voyage, would never forgive the chronicler who should
pass over in silence their multifarious merits;--for however different
otherwise, they most harmoniously agreed in the one particular of
placing a sufficiently exalted estimate upon their own qualities. One
of these notable individuals was a Catholic Priest, a native of
Gascony, whose character may at once be comprehended, by referring to
the idea which one always conceives of the "Gascon;"--for he imbodied
in an eminent degree, those peculiarities which I had hitherto
supposed ridicule and satire, but which I now found that truth,
assigned to his countrymen. Further, his tolerance towards the
gentlemanly peccadilloes of gaming and intoxication, was most
praiseworthy. His zeal, or rather wrath, in defence of the Catholic
religion, was most edifying--and his admiration of Bishop Dubourg most
profound.

Another of these worthies was a young gentleman of ----, from whose
dissertations upon the subject, I learned more of the sublime science
of cookery, than it had ever before fallen to my lot to acquire. He
abused the viands which were every day set before us in profusion, and
(as I most unscientifically imagined) of excellent quality, with most
gentlemanly and connoisseurlike assurance; for the purpose I presume,
of insinuating in that indirect and delicate manner, that he had been
used to better things;--and verily his expedient was ingenious--since
from no other part of his conduct could this conclusion have been
derived. It would be unbecoming to omit to mention three articles
which he excepted from the sweeping condemnation, and honored with his
commendation. These were--1. Whiskey punch, whereof he occasionally
illustrated the potency--2. A dish consisting of mustard, cayenne
pepper and broiled ham, and in cuisinical nomenclature ycleped "a
devil"--and 3. French mustard--of which the chief excellence seemed to
consist in its containing something of almost every thing, save only
the article whose name it bears: reminding me of the sermon of a
priest who preached before Louis 16th, of whom the Monarch remarked,
that had he but touched upon religion a little, he would have had a
little of every thing.

The last of the trio was the aforesaid Portuguese--an old doctor--who
was equally an epicure with the last named gentleman, but who extended
his critical acumen to works of the votaries of the muses, as well as
to the productions of the followers of "Le Sieur Louis Eustace Ude."
He was indeed a man of extensive reading and various information, but
his arrogance detracted from these advantages, as much as they would
have been adorned by modesty. In short, this compound of Apicius,
Petronius and Dennis, would have served admirably, as the original of
Fadladeen, the chamberlain of the Harem in Lalla Rookh, "who was a
judge of every thing, from the mixture of a conserve to the
composition of an epic poem;" and of whom it is recorded, that "all
the cooks and poets of Delhi, stood in awe of him."

The rest of my fellow voyagers were unfortunate enough to be
remarkable for no peculiarities, and among them, I found some pleasant
companions, who caused the time to pass with as little of irksomeness
and inconvenience as can be expected on board a ship, where there is
nothing of the beauty and variety of scenery which beguile the land
traveller of weariness, and where every one is forced to turn to his
companions as the only source which can afford amusement, or which
can, for "one treacherous hour," obliterate the recollection that
every wave which urges the vessel onward in her course, does but
increase the distance between himself and his home.

For some time indeed, the situation of a voyager, who for the first
time crosses the ocean, possesses sufficient novelty to interest him;
nor is the scene around and above him, destitute of all that can
attract the eye and excite admiration. The ship itself is an object
worthy of attention. It is delightful to see

  "How gloriously her gallant course she goes,
   Her white wings flying;" ---- ----

to watch the billows which she spurns from her prow, chafed into foam
as if enraged at the impotency of their attempts to resist the
superiority which the genius of man asserts over their mighty {5}
waters. It is beautiful at night to see these billows rolled from the
prow in sheets of flame, whilst all around, where the waters are
agitated, their surface appears studded with stars, which shine as if
to rival those which sparkle on high:--or when the moon arises, to
behold the flood of mild radiance which she casts along the deep,
which

  "Sleeps in the night-beam beauteously."

Should a sail perchance cross this path of light, it seems a fairy
visitant of this earth, and just about to take its departure from it
for the bright world beneath which it seems suspended.

All this is scenery which can in no other situation be enjoyed, yet
which like every thing else, soon palls upon the taste, as I can bear
testimony both on my own behalf and on that of

  "My comates and brothers in exile."

We soon became accustomed to "the wonders of the deep" and far from
responding to the sentiment of Long Tom in "the Pilot," who declared
that "the sight of land always made him feel uncomfortable;" rather
agreed with Gonzalo in the Tempest, when he asseverated that he would
"give a thousand furlongs of sea, for an acre of barren ground." Our
taste became so perverted, that we heeded not the grandeur of the
ocean or the beauties of the heavens, and sighed that we had

  "No delight to pass away the time,
   Unless to spy our shadows in the sun,"

or engage in the most sage pastime of building castles in the clouds
where,

  "Sometime we'd see a cloud look dragonish;
   A vapour sometime like a bear or lion,
   A tower'd citadel, a pendant rock,
   A forked mountain, or blue promontory
   With trees upon 't." ---- ----

In short, every thing which could divert for a while, was eagerly
caught at, as a child pursues a butterfly. "A sail in sight," served
as the event of a day; a porpoise or flying fish excited as much
interest, as would on land be produced by the apparition of a gryphon,
a winged dragon, or any other fabulous monster of romance; whilst the
huge leviathan, heaving his vast bulk into view and spouting rivers to
the skies, created as much sensation, as an earthquake or a
revolution.

The graceful little nautilus too, spreading its transparent sail, and
pursuing its dancing career over the waves, was ever hailed with
acclamation; though as a faithful journalist, who would wish even in
the slightest affairs to be considered "an honest chronicler," I am
compelled to denounce them as unprofitable sailors, as they ever steer
full in the "wind's eye."

A most remarkable event in our voyage was the celebration of the
anniversary of our independence; which, happening about the middle of
our course, was mirthfully kept by the Americans on board, aided by
the representatives of the different nations there assembled. The
celebration commenced with a prayer from the Rev. Mr. ---- of ----;
and I wish I could say that it ended as appropriately; for soon after
dinner it became quite apparent, that a certain young gentleman, and
old doctor, of whom I have before spoken, however well fortified
against mustard and cayenne, were not proof against
champagne--so----they were put to bed.

On the evening of the 16th of July, we were first greeted by that
sound of all others, the most grateful to the ears of those who have
been for twenty tedious days, upon the unstable element. The deck was
soon deserted by the younger portion of the passengers, who climbed to
various heights, according to their proficiency, to behold the welcome
prospect. The shore of "merry England" could then be seen; presenting
to the eye however, nothing save a line faintly sketched, undulating a
little above the horizon, so that many still remained in doubt

  "---- 'till the light-house far blazed,
   Like a star in the midst of the ocean."

Thus did we enter the English channel (almost the end of our voyage,)
without having encountered any of those "dangers of the seas" of which
we hear and read such appalling descriptions. I really felt almost
mortified that I should have crossed the great Atlantic, without
having beheld the waves running "mountain high," with bottomless
abysses between; without having seen,

  "---- the strained mast quiver as a reed,
   And the rent canvass, fluttering strew the gale."

I cannot pretend to say however that this would at all have improved
my idea of a sea voyage; towards which I cannot say that my experiment
has impressed me very favorably. Indeed I cannot but wonder at the
magnificent descriptions sometimes given, of an "excursion over the
waters"--gentle Zephyrs swelling the sails--Tritons and Nereids
sporting around, melodious with Conchs--Old Neptune calming the
waves--and the gallant vessel gaily bounding

  "O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea,"

as if the whole were a fairy pageant. I can only give it as my
opinion, that most of those who give such glowing representations of a
sea voyage, have either, never tried one; or are guilty of the common
littleness of imitation--imitation of the noble bard who "laid his
hand on ocean's mane," and who exclaimed--"I have loved thee ocean!"
because in reality he did.

For my own part, I can give no better idea of my opinion of a ship,
than by quoting a definition of one, which struck me as peculiarly
felicitous--viz. "a dirty prison with a good chance of being drowned."

On the 18th; our eyes when turned towards the east, no longer wandered
over a drear expanse of {6} waters, but the coast of "la belle France"
offered itself to our view, and as we gradually approached, it assumed
the appearance of tremendous cliffs, presenting their awful fronts
full to the ocean.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON.


Amid the untiring efforts of the present age, to elevate the standard
of female education, it is possible that the excellencies of a more
ancient system, may be too much disregarded. In our zeal for
reformation, we are in danger of discarding, or pronouncing obsolete,
some requisitions of salutary tendency. The wider range both of
intellect and accomplishment, which is now prescribed, seems to
exclude some of those practical and homebred virtues, on which the
true influence of woman depends.

There was a fine mixture of energy and dignity, in the character of
females, of the higher ranks in our olden time. We of modern days, to
whom languor and luxury are dear, allege that it was carried too far.
We complain that it involved reserve and sternness. Perhaps, we are
not sensible that we verge so palpably to the other extreme, as to
retain in our style of manners scarcely the shadow of that power by
which folly is checked and frivolity silenced.

The mother of Washington, has been pronounced a model of the true
dignity of woman. She seemed to combine the Spartan simplicity and
firmness, with the lofty characteristics of a Roman matron. With a
heart of deep and purified affections, she blended that majesty which
commanded the reverence of all. At the head of a large household,
whose charge, by the death of her husband, devolved solely on her, the
energy of her tireless superintendence preserved subordination and
harmony. The undeviating integrity and unshaken self-command of her
illustrious son, were developements of her own elements of
character,--fruits from those germs which she planted in the soil of
his infancy. To the inquiry, what course had been pursued in the early
education of one, whom not only America, but the world, regarded with
honor almost divine, she replied,--_"his first lesson was to obey."_
It was her dignity of manner, courteous, yet rejecting all
ostentation, and content to array itself in the "plain and becoming
garb of the ancient Virginian lady,"--that elicited from those
accustomed to the pomp and gorgeous costume of European courts, the
high praise, that _"it was no wonder that a country which produced
such mothers, could boast such a man as Washington."_

He therefore, who has been likened to Fabius,--to Cincinnatus, and to
other heroes of antiquity, only to show how greatly he transcended
them by being a christian,--he who has made the hallowed shades of
Mount Vernon, as sacred to the patriot, as the shrine at Mecca, to the
pilgrim,--shares his glory with her, who wrought among the rudiments
of his being, with no careless or uncertain hand. The monument which
now designates her last repose,--which her native clime should have
hasted to erect,--but which private munificence exulted to
rear,--speaks strongly and eloquently to her sex. It bids them impress
the character of true greatness upon the next generation. It warns
them to prepare by unslumbering effort, for this tremendous
responsibility. It reminds them that in their appointed ministration,
they stand but "a little lower than the angels." And let her who is
disposed to indulge in lassitude, or to trifle away the brief season
of her probation,--or to forget that she may stamp an indelible
character either for good or evil, on some immortal mind,--go and
renounce her errors, and deepen her energies,--and relumine her hopes,
at the tomb of the _Mother of Washington_.

L. H. S.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SERVILITY.


The most servile are frequently the most arrogant. The possessor of
these qualities will display the one or the other according to the
condition of the person whom he encounters. For an individual who in
the estimation of society holds a rank above him, he will be ready to
perform any office, however menial: while to another, whose situation
in life is more humble, he will be in the highest degree haughty and
assuming. No man of proper feeling can entertain the least respect for
such a character. How very different from that of Urbanus. His manner
always shows a consideration for those whose station in society may be
less desirable than his own. He feels the disposition to oblige, and
never fails to indulge it when a proper occasion is presented. Let any
individual of correct deportment be in want of aid which Urbanus can
give, and no matter how humble his condition, that aid will be
extended. Not so, however, when the man who wishes his services
assumes a superiority over him. A laudable pride and a proper
self-respect will then forbid what otherwise might be done. Urbanus
will be courteous and polite to all, but in a state of subjection to
none. He will take a pleasure in yielding, of his own free will, to
talents, attainments, and high character, their just due. But this
must be the result of his own opinion as to what is right, and not the
effect of base submission to another's will.

C.




The communication which follows on the subject of that remarkable kind
of "extemporaneous speaking" which has been long practised in some
parts of Europe, but is entirely unknown in this country,--is entitled
to the reader's attention not only on account of the source from which
it is derived, but also from its intrinsic merit. An accomplished
_improvvisatore_ is certainly an intellectual phenomenon, of the
existence of which we should be strongly inclined to doubt--if so many
well attested facts did not establish it beyond all controversy. We
hope that some one of our readers of taste and erudition will furnish
a handsome translation of the Italian poetry which accompanies the
article.


{7}  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXTEMPORANEOUS SPEAKING.


Astonishing as it may appear, there are men who can deliver
extemporaneously, not only excellent orations and discourses, but also
beautiful poems, tragedies and comedies. Exhibitions of this kind have
been so frequent, that no deception can possibly exist. You may even
specify the measure in which you desire the poetical production, and
the verses, as if inspired, will flow from the lips of the
_improvvisatore_, with ease, elegance, and beauty. When I was in
Paris, Sgricci extemporized several tragedies in Italian.[1] Eugene
Pradel delivered a poem on Columbus, and proposed to extemporize
tragedies and operas in French. Manuel could at any time speak
appropriately and eloquently without preparation. The number of
_improvvisatori_ is very great, and I might enumerate, if necessary,
many of these distinguished men. Italy boasts of the names of several
ladies who have acquired fame by their poetical extempore
compositions, among whom I may mention the Bandettini, the Mazei and
the Corilla. This fact being admitted, two questions arise--1st. Is it
possible to acquire this wonderful talent? 2nd. What are the means to
be employed in order to succeed in speaking extemporaneously?

To the first question, I answer affirmatively.--The talent of speaking
extempore is always an acquired one: all good _improvvisatori_ have
followed a course of mental exercises. Illustrious men at first
uttered a few words with stammering tongues, then spoke
hesitatingly--and by proper combinations of their intellectual
faculties, became the extraordinary _improvvisatori_, who excite
wonder and admiration. Experience shows the truth of this assertion.

The second question is, what are the means to be employed in order to
succeed in speaking extempore? They are numerous, and they must be
pursued with that enthusiasm and perseverance, without which, a man
can never reach the temple of fame: for he who feels the noble
ambition of distinguishing himself from the crowd which surrounds
him--he who wishes to leave traces of his passage on earth, and to
raise a monument which ages shall not destroy--must be moved by an
energetic spirit, and have the moral courage to banish mental
indolence from his bosom--to shake off that apathy so fatal to
intellectual improvement, and to imbibe that love of immortality,
which will carry him triumphantly through his career. He will bear in
mind meanwhile, that

  "Aucun chemin de fleurs ne conduit à la gloire,"

and deeply impressed with this important truth, will display the
energy necessary to overcome all difficulties. I will not say that it
is easy--that it requires but little labor to become a good extempore
speaker. Still less will I advance the false opinion, that some men
are naturally so. You will perceive by what follows, that I am far
from believing it. What are the preliminary acquirements of a good
_improvvisatore_? He must embrace the whole circle of human knowledge.
He must know the fundamental principles of nearly all the arts and
sciences, (I do not mean by this, that it is necessary he should
possess the details connected with them--that is above human
strength)--he must be acquainted with all the revolutions in which
human genius has been displayed--he must be familiar with all
important discoveries, and with the deeds of great men, in all ages
and countries. He must be a cosmopolite, that is to say, he must be
acquainted with the customs {8} and manners of every nation--and it is
necessary he should put aside his prejudices, in order to understand
the peculiarities which characterize the members of the great human
family. The wonders of nature must be impressed on his mind, and above
all, he must have read and meditated upon the works of the classical
writers of all nations, and know perfectly the beauties and genius of
his own language.

These are the materials of the _improvvisatore_,--but these
acquirements, extensive as they are, will not give him the power of
extemporizing. How often do we see men endowed with profound
wisdom,--vast experience and learning,--unable to express and convey
to others the result of their long meditations! The reason of this is
obvious. How could the man who devotes the whole of his time to the
acquisition of sciences, expect to express himself well, if he
neglects to study the only art which can teach him the means of
speaking fluently and extempore?

When a man has learned the arts and sciences of which I have
spoken--when he has examined the political, religious and
philosophical opinions which have governed the world from the remotest
ages--he sees that the number of original ideas is not as great as one
might suppose--he perceives that all mental faculties are
connected--and that there is a chain which unites all thoughts--that
they proceed from each other--that an idea must spring from a cause
which gives rise to it. Thus he studies the laws of reasoning--thus by
practice he learns to fix his attention on his sensations, and
sometimes a single sensation, when properly analyzed, presents him the
substance of a whole discourse: for a good discourse is nothing more
than _a series of judgments_ logically deduced from each other,--_it
is a chain of ideas connected by a close analogy_. By training his
mind to logical deductions, he acquires by degrees, the facility of
combining ideas; and, guided by analogy, he reasons correctly without
effort. Reasoning is learned like languages. At first, we hesitate in
placing the words of a foreign tongue--we are obliged to recollect the
rule which is to guide us in every part of speech; but when thoroughly
versed in the genius of the language, we speak it fluently, without
thinking about the arrangement of words. So it is with reasoning. A
man who is equally versed in several languages, may express his ideas
without knowing at the moment, in what idiom he imbodies his thoughts.
A man who has trained his mind logically, reasons well, without
thinking about the principles which guide him. It is well known that
men have many ideas in common, and very often an author becomes
popular and illustrious, only because he expresses with great
superiority and beauty, that which every body thinks and feels. This
is the very foundation of poetry and eloquence. It is this art which
is called _nature_, and which gives immortality to literary
productions. The work which does not awake our sympathy--which is not
in harmony with the feelings of our nature--and which is not expressed
in words best suited to its subject, can never acquire fame for its
author. Hence the importance of the _improvvisatore's_ studying
mankind--hence the necessity of learning to imbody his ideas in
appropriate language.--As each _passion_ has its peculiar expression
and style, the _improvvisatore_ must engrave on his mind, the
_association_ of suitable expressions for every _feeling_; so, that
every time he experiences or brings back to his memory a _sensation_,
a _passion_, or an _idea_, he may also, simultaneously recall the
words best suited to express them. He must acquire the faculty of
bringing before his mind, all the scenes of nature--and the passions
which spring from the heart of man; and, at the same time, possess
language to convey them with eloquence. His imagination must be
active, impetuous, or overwhelming, according to the objects which he
intends to describe. The mind of the _improvvisatore_ must be
exercised to employ every style: the simple--the flowery--the
majestic--the pathetic--the sublime--to combine ideas with the
rapidity of lightning;--in a word, he must know all the springs of the
human heart, in order to move it at his will, as if by enchantment.

Although it may seem paradoxical, it is seldom for want of ideas, that
a man fails in being eloquent. Thought is always ready--always
instantaneous. Learn to extemporize its expression. Where is the man
who surrounded by an indignant people, breaking the chains of
despotism, and defending their sacred rights with courage and
patriotism--where is the man, I say, who, at the sight of such a
spectacle, could remain unmoved? Where is the man who could not be
eloquent, were his mind provided with expressions worthy of his
thoughts? Where is the man who can be thoughtless at the view of a
vessel beaten by the tempestuous billows in the midst of the
ocean--when he perceives this frail nautic dwelling at war with
infuriated storms--when on a sudden he sees the long agitated ship
breaking asunder, and every human being which she contains scattered
and struggling against death? In this frightful scene, where darting
lightnings are shedding their vacillating light on the ghastly faces
of expiring victims, and when the last beam of earthly hope is to be
buried with them in the bosom of the deep,--can that spectator be
unconcerned? No. His very soul shudders--his limbs are trembling, and
his eyes filled with tears. Are not these feelings impressed in the
bosom of every human being? If the witness of such a shipwreck could
imbody faithfully in language his sensations at the moment he
experiences them, could he fail to excite our sympathy? No--no--a man
who has ready {9} expressions to convey his thoughts and feelings will
always be eloquent. I need not mention Demosthenes and Cicero,
Æschines and Hortensius, Isocrates, Lysias, Pericles, and a crowd of
sophists who displayed, in former ages, great skill in the art of
speaking. Their writings have been the mental food for those who
studied antiquity. In modern times, lord Chatham, Fox, Pitt, Burke,
Sheridan, Canning, have shone in the British House of Commons, and
their fame is familiar to every American scholar. I will only name
some of those illustrious men who displayed splendid abilities in the
different political assemblies of France. Who has not heard of the
astonishing oratorical powers of Mirabeau, Maury, Barnave and
Vergniaud the pride of the Gironde? Manuel, Foy, Benjamin Constant,
Lamarque, and several others have of late added a new lustre to French
eloquence. All these eminent orators were distinguished for their
improvisations. My intention now is not to discuss their peculiar
merit as men of genius and extempore speakers; I merely quote them as
models. I must not omit mentioning three orators now wandering in
exile, after having displayed in their native land all the magic of
eloquence, in order to restore liberty to their enslaved country.
Though the efforts of Galiano, Argüelles and Martinez de la Rosa were
not crowned with success, they will ever be the pride of Spain. These
gifted patriots, struggling against adversity and preserving their
noble independence, deserve the admiration of mankind.[2]

In concluding, I may say that the power of combining just and useful
ideas, and expressing them extemporaneously in an appropriate
language--the knowledge of man and of every thing which concerns
him--a strong and well modulated voice, and dignified gestures,
constitute what is called a _good improvvisatore_. Few succeed in all
the multifarious qualifications of an extempore speaker--few are led
by this unabated enthusiastic spirit resolved to meet and triumph over
difficulties. This disposition of mind, however, must exist--for in
mental contention as in war,

 "A vaincre sans péril on triomphe sans gloire."

And every one that has witnessed the wonders of this art, will grant
that if there be a talent by which the powers of man are exhibited in
all their sublimity, it is undoubtedly that of the accomplished
_improvvisatore_.

J. H.

[Footnote 1: It was in 1825 that Sgricci invited the literati of Paris
to meet in a spacious hall, where he was to extemporize a tragedy.
Every spectator was allowed to vote for the subject of the play, and
the majority decided in favor of _the Death of Charles I_. A few
moments afterwards, Sgricci explained the _dramatis personæ_, and
began to deliver extempore a tragedy of about _fifteen hundred
verses!_ That production was printed, and many passages are full of
poetical talent. Francisco Gianni extemporized, during one year, every
morning and evening, two pieces of poetry under the title of _Saluto
del Matino_, and _Saluto de la Sera_. In order that the lovers of
Italian poetry may judge Gianni's skill in extemporising, I will quote
as a specimen, one of his productions.

SALUTO DE LA SERA.

  Poca favilla gran fiamma seconda.
                _Dant. Parad._ cant. 1.


  Or non più de' pianti miei        Che parean cangiate in rose.
  Violette inumidite,               Ma nel punto che più fiso
  Non andrete impietesite.          In te gli occhi disbramava,
  A infiorar quel niveo petto,      Cui tra il velo già diviso
  Che diè funebre ricetto           Agitato in sen balsava;
  Al più amabil degli Dei:          Ecce uscir con la facella
  Chè li dove tomba avea,           Da quel sen tra fiore e fiore,
  Sorger vidilo in subito           Ecco uscir volando amore;
  E sorgendo sorridea               E col vento de le penne
  D'un tal riso, ch'io non dubito,  Irritare cosi quella,
  Per deludermi l'accorto,          Che più fervida divenne
  Abbia únto d' esser morto.        E una sua scintilla ardente
  E tu, bell' amica, in vano,       Nel mio cor passò repente:
  Tenti in van col tuo rigore       Come fosca nube tetra,
  Di celarmi un tanto arcano;       Quando in Ciel risorgì il sole,
  Che mal puù celarsi amore.        Se d' un raggio la penetra,
  Beu del suo risorgimento,         Arder tutta e splender suole.
  Beu m' avvidi nel momento         Tale in esso quella immensa
  Che di lagrime e di fiori         Ed antica flamma intensa
  Io gli offriva il don funebre;    Che sembrava spenta affatto
  Porche allor le tue palpebre      Rallumavasi ad un tratto;
  Un soave e chiare lume            E più viva traboccarsi
  Abbelliva di splendori;           Dal mio cor con dolce pena,
  E le guancie a poco a poco        E veloce diramarsi
  Rosseggiaro oltra il costume      La sentii di vena in vena,
  D' una porpora di fuoco;          E di vena in vena errando,
  Et il tornito sen venusto,        Risalir più accesa al core,
  Che balzando allor più gia        Che tremando, va mancando
  Lo spiraglio meno angusto         Di dolcezza a tanto ardore.
  Fea del vel che lo copria:        Onde più de' pianti miei
  Sin le caste violette             Violette inumidite,
  Che locate su quel seno,          Non andrete impietesite
  Già languenti venian meno,        A infiorar quel niveo petto,
  In sembianze lascivette           Che diè funebre ricetto
  Arrossian si grazione,            Al più amabil degli Dei.]

[Footnote 2: Since this was written, the late political events of
Spain have placed Martinez de la Rosa at the head of the ministry of
the regent queen, Isabella. Supported by the count of Toreno, who is
considered as the first statesman of his country, Gareli, who is known
by his great talents, general Llander, minister of war, and Remisa,
minister of finance, the Spanish government has at last published the
_Estatuto Real_, which regulate the convocation of the _Cortes_.]




INTERESTING RUINS ON THE RAPPAHANNOCK.


If we do not err in the conjecture, our correspondent "NUGATOR" has
frequently charmed the public by his writings both in prose and verse.
But whether we are right or wrong, we can assure him that he will
always find a ready demand for his "wares" at our "emporium."
According to his request we have handed the inscription to a classical
friend, whose elegant translation we also subjoin with the original.


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

Mr. White,--As I find you are about to establish a sort of Literary
Emporium, to which every man, no matter how trifling his capital of
ideas, may send his productions, I have resolved to transmit to you my
small wares and merchandise. The relation I shall bear to your other
correspondents, will be that, which the vender of trifles in a town
bears to the wealthy merchant; and, therefore, I shall assume an
appropriate title, and under this humble signature, shall consider
myself at liberty to offer you any thing I may have, without order or
method, and just as I can lay my hands upon it.--My head is somewhat
like Dominie Sampson's, which as well as I remember, resembled a
pawnbroker's shop where a goodly store of things were piled together,
but in such confusion, he could never find what he wanted. When I get
hold of any thing, however, I will send it to you, and if it be worth
nothing, why just "martyr it by a pipe."

NUGATOR.


  "Here lived, so might it seem to Fancy's eye,
  The lordly Barons of _our_ feudal day;
  On every side, lo! grandeur's relics lie
  Scatter'd in ruin o'er their coffin'd clay.--
  How vain for man, short-sighted man, to say
  What course the tide of human things shall take!
  How little dream'd the Founder, that decay
  So soon his splendid edifice should shake,
  And of its high pretence, a cruel mock'ry make."

There cannot be a more striking exemplification of the powerful
influence of laws upon the state of society, than is exhibited on the
banks of the rivers in the lower part of Virginia. How many spacious
structures are seen there, hastening to decay, which were once the
seats of grandeur and a magnificent hospitality! The barons of old
were scarcely more despotic over their immediate demesnes, than were
the proprietors of these noble mansions, with their long train of
servants and dependents; their dicta were almost paramount to law
throughout their extensive and princely possessions. But since the
introduction of republican institutions, and the alteration in the
laws respecting the descent of property, and more especially since the
"docking of entails," a total change has been effected. Our castles
are crumbling on every side--estates are subdivided into minuter
portions, instead of being transmitted to the eldest son; and so
complete is the revolution in sentiment, that he would be deemed a
savage, who would now leave the greater part of his family destitute,
for the sake of aggrandizing an individual. It is not unusual to find
a son in possession of the once splendid establishment of his fathers,
with scarcely paternal acres enough to afford him sustenance, and
hardly wood enough to warm a single chamber of all his long suite of
apartments. The old family coach, with his mother and sisters, lumbers
along after a pair of superannuated skeletons; and some faithful
domestic, like Caleb {10} Balderstone, is put to the most desperate
shifts to support the phantom of former grandeur. Debts are fast
swallowing up the miserable remnant of what was once a principality,
while some wealthy democrat of the neighborhood, who has accumulated
large sums by despising an empty show, is ready to foreclose his
mortgage, and send the wretched heir of Ravenswood to mingle with the
Bucklaws and Craigengelts of the west. Many a story of deep interest
might be written upon the old state of things in Virginia, if we
possessed some indefatigable Jedidiah Cleishbotham to collect the
traditions of our ancestors.

Those who took part in our revolutionary struggle were too much
enlightened not to foresee these consequences, and therefore deserve
immortal credit for their disinterested opposition to Great Britain.
Had they been aristocrats instead of the purest republicans, they
would surely have thrown their weight into the opposite scale. We do
not estimate enough the merit of the rich men of that day. The danger
is now past--the mighty guerdon won--the storm is gone over, and the
sun beams brightly: but though bright our day, it was then a dark
unknown--dark as the hidden path beyond the grave--and it was nobly
dared to risk their all in defence of liberty. They knew that freedom
spurned a vain parade, and would not bow in homage to high-born
wealth; yet their splendid possessions were staked upon the desperate
throw, and the glorious prize was won. Such were not the anticipations
of the _founders_ of these establishments; but such was surely the
merit of their sons: and it is painful to think how few, of all who
engaged in that noble struggle, have been handed down to fame. Many a
one, whose name has been loudly sounded through the earth, would have
shrunk from such a sacrifice, and clung to his paternal hearth; and
yet these modern Curtii, who renounced the advantages of birth, and
leaped into the gulf for their country's sake, have not won a single
garland for their Roman worth.

There is a scene in the county of Lancaster, where these reflections
pressed themselves very forcibly upon my mind. Imagine an ample estate
on the margin of the Rappahannock--with its dilapidated mansion
house--the ruins of an extensive wall, made to arrest the inroads of
the waves, as if the proprietor felt himself a Canute, and able to
stay the progress of the sea--a church of the olden time, beautiful in
structure, and built of brick brought from England, then the home of
our people. Like Old Mortality, I love to chisel out the moss covered
letters of a tombstone; and below I send you the result of my labors,
with a request that some of your correspondents will take the trouble
to give you a faithful translation of the Latin inscription. The only
difficulty consists in a want of knowledge of the names of the
officers under the colonial government. The epitaph will show by whom
the church was built, and the motive for its erection. In the yard are
three tombstones conspicuous above the rest, beneath which repose the
bones of the once lordly proprietor of the soil and his two wives. How
vain are human efforts to perpetuate by monuments the memory of the
great! The sepulchre of Osymandus is said by Diodorus to have been a
mile and a quarter in circumference. It had this inscription: _"I am
Osymandus, King of Kings. If any one is desirous to know how great I
am and where I lie, let him surpass any of my works."_ With more
propriety might he have said, _let him search out my works_; for we
are left to conjecture the very site of his tomb. It would be easy to
extend this narrative, but perhaps what struck me as interesting would
be unworthy a place in your Literary Messenger.

             THE EPITAPH.                          TRANSLATION.
               H. S. E.                             HERE LIES

  Vir honorabilis Robertus Carter,  Robert Carter, Esquire; an
  Armiger, qui genus honestum       honorable man, who exalted his
high
  dotibus eximiis, moribus          birth by noble endowments and pure
  antiquis illustravit. Collegium   morals. He sustained the College
of
  Gulielmi et Mariæ temporibus      William and Mary in the most
trying
  difficilimis propugnavit.         times.

            Gubernator,                     He was Governor,
  Senatus Rogator et Quæstor, sub   Speaker of the House and
Treasurer,
  serenissimis Principibus          under the most serene Princes
  Gulielmo, Anna, Georgio 1 mo. et  William, Anne, George the 1st and
  2 do.                             2d.

  A publicis consiliis concilii     Elected Speaker by the Public
  per sexennium præses, plus annum  Assembly for six years, and
  Coloniæ Præfectus cum regiam      Governor for more than a year, he
  dignitatem tam publicum           equally upheld the regal dignity
  libertatem æquali jure asseruit.  and public freedom.

  Opibus amplissimis bene partis    Possessed of ample wealth,
  instructus, ædem hanc sacram In   honorably acquired, he built and
  Deum pietatis grande monumentum,  endowed at his own expense this
  propriis sumptibus extruxit.      sacred edifice, a lasting monument
                                    of his piety to God.

        Locupletavit.
  In omnes quos humaniter incepit,  Entertaining his friends with
  nec prodigus, nec parcus hospes.  kindness, he was neither a
prodigal
  Liberalilatem insignem testantur  not a thrifty host.
  debita munifice remissa.

  Primo Judithum, Johannis          His first wife was Judith,
daughter
  Armistead Armigeri filiam,        of John Armistead, Esquire; his
  deinde Betty, generosa            second Betty, a descendant of the
  Landonorum stirpe oriundam sibi   noble family of the Landons, by
  connubio junctas habuit. E        whom he had many children--
  quibus prolem numerosam
  suscepit.
                                    On whose education he expended a
  In qua erudienda pecuniæ vim      considerable portion of his
  maximam insumpsit                 property.

  Tandem honorum et dierum satur    At length, full of honors and
  cum omnia vitæ munera egregiæ     years, having discharged all the
  præstitisset obiit Pri. Non.      duties of an exemplary life, he
  Aug. An. Dom. 1732 Aet. 69.       departed from this world on the
4th
                                    day of August, 1732, in the 69th
                                    year of his age.

  Miseri solamen, viduæ             The wretched, the widowed and the
  præsidium, orbi patrem, ademptum  orphans, bereaved of their
comfort,
  lugent.                           protector and father, alike lament
                                    his loss.




STORY FROM VOLTAIRE.


We hope to have the pleasure of delighting our readers frequently with
the chaste and classic pen of our correspondent M. By a curious
coincidence, about the time he was translating the subjoined story
from Voltaire, a correspondent of the Richmond Compiler furnished the
Editor of that paper with another version, which was published.
Without disparagement to the latter however, the reader of taste will
find no difficulty in awarding the preference to the one which we
insert in our columns.


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

Below, is a neat and sportive little story of Voltaire's, never before
translated into English, that I know of; though containing sufficient
point and good sense to make it well worthy of that honor. No one who
has ever sorrowed, can fail to acknowledge the justice of {11} styling
TIME the "Great Consoler." The balm he brings, has never failed sooner
or later to heal any grief, which did not absolutely _derange_ the
mind of its victim. By one part of the tale, the reader will be
reminded of the philosopher in Rasselas, who, the morning after he had
eloquently and conclusively demonstrated the folly of grieving for any
of the ills of life, was found weeping inconsolably, for the loss of
his only daughter. Whether Dr. Johnson, or the French wit, first
touched off this trait of human weakness, is not material: it may be
set down as rather a coincidence than a plagiarism. So much of the
region of thought is _common ground_, over which every active mind
continually gambols, that it would be wonderful if different feet did
not sometimes tread in identical foot prints.

M.


  From the French of Voltaire.

THE CONSOLED.


The great philosopher, Citophilus, said one day to a justly
disconsolate lady--"Madam, an English Queen, a daughter of the great
Henry IV. was no less unhappy than you are. She was driven from her
kingdom: she narrowly escaped death in a storm at sea: she beheld her
royal husband perish on the scaffold." "I am sorry for her;" said the
lady--and fell a weeping at her own misfortunes.

"But," said Citophilus, "remember Mary Stuart. She was very becomingly
in love with a gallant musician, with a fine _tenor_ voice. Her
husband slew the musician before her face: and then her good friend
and relation, Elizabeth, who called herself the Virgin Queen, had her
beheaded on a scaffold hung with black, after an imprisonment of
eighteen years." "That was very cruel," replied the lady--and she
plunged again into sorrow.

"You have perhaps heard," said her comforter, "of the fair Jane of
Naples, who was taken prisoner and strangled?" "I have a confused
recollection of her," said the afflicted one.

"I must tell you," added the other, "the fate of a Queen, who, within
my own time, was dethroned by night, and died in a desert island." "I
know all that story," answered the lady.

"Well then, I will inform you of what befel a great princess, whom I
taught philosophy. She had a lover, as all great and handsome
princesses have. Her father once entering her chamber, surprised the
lover, whose features were all on fire, and whose eye sparkled like a
diamond: she, too, had a most lively complexion. The young gentleman's
look so displeased the father, that he administered to him the most
enormous box on the ear, ever given in that country. The lover seized
a pair of tongs, and broke the old gentleman's head; which was cured
with difficulty, and still carries the scar. The nymph, in despair,
sprung through the window; and dislocated her foot in such a way, that
she to this day limps perceptibly, though her mien is otherwise
admirable. The lover was condemned to die, for having broken the head
of a puissant monarch. You may judge the condition of the princess,
when her lover was led forth to be hanged. I saw her, during her long
imprisonment: she could speak of nothing but her afflictions."

"Then why would not you have me brood over mine?" said the lady.
"Because," said the philosopher, "you _ought not_ to brood over them;
and because, so many great ladies having been so miserable, it ill
becomes _you_ to despair. Think of Hecuba--of Niobe." "Ah!" said the
lady, "if I had lived in their time, or in that of all your fine
princesses, and you, to comfort them, had told them my misfortunes, do
you think they would have listened to you?"

The next day, the philosopher lost his only son; and was on the point
of dying with grief. The lady had a list prepared, of all the kings
who had lost their children, and carried it to the philosopher: he
read it, found it correct, and----wept on, as much as ever. Three
months after, they met again; and were surprised to find each other
cheerful and gay. They caused a handsome statue to be reared to TIME,
with this inscription:

  "TO THE GREAT CONSOLER."




ORIGINAL POETRY.


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

I have been permitted to copy the original verses which I send you,
from a young lady's album. They were written by a gentleman of
literary merit, whose modesty will probably be somewhat startled at
seeing himself in print. I could not resist the opportunity however,
of adorning the columns of your first number with so fine a specimen
of native genius. According to my poor taste, and humble judgment in
such matters, these lines are beautiful. They are tinged with the deep
misanthropy of Byron, and yet have all the flowing smoothness and
vivacity of Moore. Shall it be said after reading such poetry, that
the muses are altogether neglected in the Ancient Dominion--that there
is no genuine ore in our intellectual mines which with a little labor
may be refined into pure gold? Shall it be longer contended that we
are altogether a nation of talkers, and that politics, summer
barbecues and horse-racing are our all engrossing and exclusive
recreations. In truth, is not this the very land of poetry! Our
colonial and revolutionary history is itself fruitful in the materials
of song; and even our noble rivers--our lofty mountains--our vast and
impenetrable forests--and our warm and prolific sun, are so many
sublime sources of inspiration. With respect to the belle
passion,--_that_ has in all ages, climates and countries, constituted
one of the strongest incitements to poetical genius. The imagination,
warmed by impressions of feminine beauty and innocence, at once takes
wing, and wanders through regions of thought and melancholy--investing
the object of its idolatry with attributes and perfections which more
properly belong to a purer state of being. Whether the philosophy of
the subjoined stanzas is equal to their harmony, I leave to your
readers to decide. The voluntary sacrifice {12} of the heart at the
shrine of prudence is doubtless heroic; but there are few lovers, and
especially of the poetic temperament, who are willing to submit to
"brokenness of heart" rather than encounter the hazard of sharing with
a beloved object the "cup of sorrow." Whether, moreover, the ingenious
author was actually breathing in eloquent earnestness his own "private
griefs," or amusing himself only by the creations of fancy,--I am not
prepared to determine. One thing I do know, however--that the charming
nymph in whose album these lines were written, though not "too dear to
love," possesses a heart both "warm and soft," and is in every respect
worthy of all the admiration which the most romantic lover could
bestow.

H.


_Lines written in a Young Lady's Album._

_Air_--"The Bride."


  I'd offer thee this heart of mine,
    If I could love thee less;
  But hearts as warm, as soft as thine,
    Should never know distress.
  My fortune is too hard for thee,
    'Twould chill thy dearest joy:
  I'd rather weep to see thee free,
    Than win thee to destroy.

  I leave thee in thy happiness,
    As one too dear to love!
  As one I'll think of but to bless,
    Whilst wretchedly I rove.
  But oh! when sorrow's cup I drink,
    All bitter though it be,
  How sweet to me 'twill be, to think
    It holds no drop for thee.

  Then fare thee well! An exile now,
    Without a friend or home,
  With anguish written on my brow,
    About the world I'll roam.
  For all my dreams are sadly o'er--
    _Fate_ bade them all depart,--
  And I will leave my native shore,
    In brokenness of heart.
                                    S.


Our young correspondent "M'C." will perceive that his poem has been
altered in some of its expressions, and perhaps not altogether to his
liking. Our object has been, not to damp the aspirations of genius,
but to prune its luxuriance. The ardour of youth too often betrays
into extravagance, which can only be corrected by cultivation and
experience. We hope that he will persevere in his invocations to the
muse,--believing that the time will come when she will amply reward
him by her smiles.


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SERENADE.


  Sweet lady, awake from thy downy pillow!
  Moonlight is gleaming all bright on yon billow,
  Night-flowers are blooming,--south winds are blowing
  So gently, they stir not the smooth waters flowing.

  Wake lady! wake from thy gentle slumber,
  Heav'n's gems are all sparkling, uncounted in number,
  How calm, yet how brilliant those beautiful skies,
  Which the wave glances back like the beam of thine eyes.

  Wake, dearest! wake thou, my heart's fond desire!
  All trembling these fingers sweep over the lyre,
  This bosom is heaving with love's tender throes,
  And my song, like the swan's last, is wild at the close.

  Yet thou wilt not list to me,--then lady, farewell!
  My lyre shall be hush'd with this last mournful swell;
  All lonely and desolate,--onward I roam;
  My bosom is void!--the wide world is my home!
                                                      M'C.


It is with much pleasure that the publisher is enabled to present in
the first number of the "Messenger" the following poetical
contributions, not heretofore published, from the pen of Mrs.
Sigourney, of Hartford, Connecticut. There are few literary readers on
either side of the Potomac, who are not familiar with some of the
productions at least, of this accomplished authoress. The purity of
her sentiments, and the strength and mellowness of her versification,
will remind the reader of the highly gifted and almost unrivalled
Hemans.


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

COLUMBUS BEFORE THE UNIVERSITY OF SALAMANCA.

"Columbus found, that in advocating the spherical figure of the earth,
he was in danger or being convicted not merely of _error_,--but even
of heterodoxy."--_Washington Irving_.


  St. Stephen's cloister'd hall was proud
    In learning's pomp that day;
  For there, a rob'd and stately crowd
    Press'd on, in long array.
  A mariner, with simple chart
    Confronts that conclave high,
  While strong ambition stirs his heart,
  And burning thoughts, in wonder part
    From lip and sparkling eye.

  _What hath he said?_--With frowning face,
    In whisper'd tones they speak,
  And lines upon their tablets trace,
    That flush each ashen cheek:
  The Inquisition's mystic doom
    Sits on their brows severe,
  And bursting forth in vision'd gloom,
  Sad heresy from burning tomb,
    Groans on the startled ear.

  Courage, thou Genoese!--Old Time
    Thy brilliant dream shall crown;
  Yon western hemisphere sublime,
    Where unshorn forests frown,
  The awful Andes' cloud-wrapp'd brow,
    The Indian hunter's bow,
  Bold streams untam'd by helm or prow,
  And rocks of gold and diamond, thou
    To thankless Spain shalt show. {13}

  Courage, world-finder!--Thou hast need!--
    In fate's unfolding scroll,
  Dark woes, and ingrate-wrongs I read,
    That rack the noble soul.
  On!--On!--Creation's secrets probe,
    Then drink thy cup of scorn,
  And wrapp'd in fallen Cesar's robe,
  Sleep, like that master of the globe,
    All glorious,--yet forlorn.
                                       L. H. S.


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

INTEMPERANCE.


  Parent!--who with speechless feeling
    O'er thy cradled treasure bent,
  Every year, new claims revealing,
    Yet thy wealth of love unspent,--
  Hast thou seen that blossom blighted,
    By a drear, untimely frost?
  All thy labor unrequited?
    Every glorious promise lost?

  Wife!--with agony unspoken,
    Shrinking from affliction's rod,
  Is thy prop,--thine idol broken,--
    Fondly trusted,--next to God?
  Husband!--o'er thy hope a mourner,
    Of thy chosen friend asham'd,
  Hast thou to her burial borne her,
    Unrepentant,--unreclaimed?

  Child!--in tender weakness turning
    To thy heaven-appointed guide,
  Doth a lava-poison burning,
    Tinge with gall, affection's tide?
  Still that orphan-burden bearing,
    Darker than the grave can show,
  Dost thou bow thee down despairing,
    To a heritage of woe?

  Country!--on thy sons depending,
    Strong in manhood, bright in bloom,
  Hast thou seen thy pride descending
    Shrouded,--to th' unhonor'd tomb?
  Rise!--on eagle-pinion soaring,--
    Rise!--like one of Godlike birth,--
  And Jehovah's aid imploring,
    Sweep the Spoiler from the earth.
                                       L. H. S.


The following beautiful lines have been very generally ascribed to the
pen of the Hon. R. H. Wilde, a member of the present House of
Representatives from the State of Georgia. We do not know that Mr. W.
has ever confessed the authorship, but we think that they would not
discredit even their supposed origin. We have had the pleasure to read
some of Mr. Wilde's brilliant speeches in Congress, and we are
confident that they are the emanations of a mind deeply imbued with
the spirit of poesy. Not that we thence necessarily infer that these
lines are the genuine offspring of his muse--but merely allude to the
character of his parliamentary efforts, in connexion with the common
opinion that the poetry is from the same source. One of our present
objects is to give what we conceive to be a correct version of these
admired lines; for in almost all the copies we have seen, we have been
struck with several gross errors, alike injurious to their sense and
harmony. Not the least remarkable of these errors has been the uniform
substitution of _Tempè_ for some other word,--thereby imputing to the
author the geographical blunder of converting the delightful and
classic valley of Greece, into a desert shore or strand. We have no
doubt that _Tampa_ is the word originally written by the author, there
being a bay of that name in Florida sometimes described on the maps as
the bay of Espiritu Santo.


MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE.


  My life is like the summer rose
    That opens to the morning sky,
  And ere the shades of evening close,
    Is scattered on the ground to die;
  Yet on that rose's humble bed
  The softest dews of night are shed
  As though she wept such waste to see,
  But none shall drop one tear for me!

  My life is like the autumn leaf
    Which trembles in the moon's pale ray,
  Its hold is frail, its date is brief,
    Restless;--and soon to pass away:
  Yet when that leaf shall fall and fade
  The parent tree will mourn its shade,
  The wind bemoan the leafless tree,
  But none shall breathe a sigh for me!

  My life is like the print, which feet
    Have left on Tampa's desert strand,
  Soon as the rising tide shall beat
    Their trace will vanish from the sand;
  Yet, as if grieving to efface
  All vestige of the human race,
  On that lone shore loud moans the sea,
  But none shall thus lament for me.


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER EVE.

_By Mrs. D. P. Brown._


  Fair little flow'r, may no rude storm
    Impair thy early bloom,--
  No cank'rous grief that smile deform,
    Or antedate its doom.

  In soul be ever as thou art
    Mild, merciful, and kind,
  Date all enjoyments from the heart,
    All conquests from the mind.

  The body is an empty thing,
    Frail, worthless, weak, and vain;
  The _mind_ alone can pleasure bring,
    Or soothe the bed of pain. {14}

  What is the gaudy casket, when
    The priceless jewel's gone?
  Such to the eyes of noble men,
    Is beauty's charm _alone_.

  Fashion may decorate the brow,
    Fortune the eye allure,
  But nothing _worldly_ can bestow
    Those treasures which _endure_.

  Then fix, my child, thy hopes above;
    All earthly joys deceive:
  Rest solely on a Saviour's love,
    My gentle daughter _Eve_.

_Philadelphia._


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MY CHILDREN--ON NEW-YEAR.

_By Mrs. D. P. Brown._


  Another year has wing'd its flight,
    And left us where it found us,
  In health, affection, and delight,
    With every charm around us.

  The overseeing Eye of Heaven
    Has guided, guarded, cheer'd us,
  Its bounteous hand has freely given,
    Its bounteous love endeared us.

  Time shall roll on, and still each year
    Enhance our mutual pleasure,--
  Tho' fortune frown on our career
    The _heart_ shall be our treasure:

  And when at last stern Fate's decree
    Our kindred souls shall sever,
  In regions of eternity
    They'll join in joy forever.

_Philadelphia._


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MUSINGS--_By the Author of Vyvyan._

  A patchwork of disjointed things--
  Of grave and gay imaginings.--_The Visionary._


  My thoughts resemble scattered leaves,
  Which Fancy, like the Sybil, weaves,
  Just as may suit her wayward whim,
  Into a many colored dream.

       *       *       *       *       *

  A tablet resteth on my knee--
  The gift of one most dear to me;
  Upon its fair unwritten face
  My pencil now and then may trace
  The flitting visions of my mind,
  Like cloud-forms varying in the wind--
  Too incoherent, wild and roving,
  To weave into a song of loving--
  Such as might suit the gentle ear
  Of one--I wish to heaven were here.

  All things breathe loveliness--the sky
  Looks on me like my lady's eye,
  Clear--beautiful as crystal blue
  And darkling in its own bright hue.

  The faint air, sighing from the south,
  Steals sweetly o'er my cheek and brow,
  As late I felt and _fancy_ now
  The breath of her own rosy mouth
  When, in her eagerness to look
  Into the pages of my book
  She stood by, o'er my shoulder leaning,
  In innocent but simple meaning.

       *       *       *       *       *

        Amid the voiceless wild
      Of the ancestral forest,
        I feel even as a child,
      Whose pleasure is the surest
  When most by wonderment beguiled.
  A lovely lake before me sleeps,
  Whose quiet on my spirit creeps--
  Around and o'er me, solemn trees
  Of the eternal forest, dart
  Their wildly straggling boughs athwart
  The sky--with their rich panoplies
  Of varied foliage. Here and there
  A withered trunk by storms laid bare,
  Spectre like--whitening in the air,
  Spreads wide and far its skeleton limbs,
  Where, up the creeping verdure climbs,
  And wreathes its draperies, ere they fall,
  In festoons so fantastical.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Here moves the Genius of Romance,
  With lofty mien and eagle glance--
  No plumed casque adorns his brow--
  No glittering falchion does he wield--
  Nor lance bears he, nor 'scutcheoned shield.
  Nor among fallen columns low,
  Behold him crouch and muse upon
  The shattered forms of sculptured stone--
  Fair classic marbles, which recall
  The glories of an ancient time--
  Its pride--its splendor and its fall--
  Such things belong not to our clime.
  The Genius of our Solitude
  Stalks forth in hunter's garb arrayed,
  A child of nature--wild and rude--
  Yet not averse to gentle mood:
  The same high spirit, undismayed,
  Amid the stormy battles roar,
  As when he wooes his dusky maid,
  Beside some dim lake's lonely shore;
  Or paddles his skiff at eventide,
  O'er Niagara's waters wide.

       *       *       *       *       *

    'Tis sweet to sit alone, and muse
      In such a spot as this--
    Thus imperceptibly to lose
      In dim, imagined bliss,
  The vulgar thoughts and cares that shroud
  The spirits of the busy crowd--
  That chain their grovelling minds to earth
  And wretched things of little worth.
  Years seem not many, since a child,
  I loved to haunt this pathless wild,
  And wearied lay me down to rest
  Upon some broad rock's mossy breast,
  Lulled by a dreamy listless thought,
  From loneliness and quiet caught-- {15}
  Or, prying with most curious eye
  Into dark hollows, to descry
  Some robber haunt or hidden grot,
  Where haply it might be my lot,
  Like Alla-Ad-Deen, to find a treasure
  Of gems and jewels without measure.
  But what a change is wrought since then!
  I've mingled with the world and men,
  Who scoff at boyhood's guiltless joys,
  Yet scorn them but for _greater_ toys.
  Well--let them mar their health for fame,
  And waste their days, to gain a name,
  Built on the rabble's wretched praise,
  Whose voice awhile may sink or raise,
  But cannot rescue from the lot
  Old Time, the despot, hath assigned
  Impartially to all earth's kind.
  Such record vain I envy not,
  Nor burn with mightier men to mate--
  The followers of a fiercer fate,
  Who trample on all human good
  To win awards least understood.
  Such is renown reaped with the sword--
  Such glory! Empty, fatal word,
  That lures men on through fire and flood--
  Through scenes of rapine, crime and blood,
  To write in history's page, a tale,
  O'er which their fellow man grows pale.
  Could half the tears they cause to flow
  Bedew that page--how few could read
  The blotted record of each deed,
  Which laid the brave by thousands low
  And broke more living hearts with wo,
  That ONE might be what good men hate,
  And fools and knaves miscal "THE GREAT."




ORIGINAL LITERARY NOTICES.




INAUGURAL ADDRESS, DELIVERED BY THE REV. STEPHEN OLIN, President of
Randolph-Macon College, on the occasion of his induction into office,
5th March, 1834. _Richmond: Nesbitt & Walker._


Randolph-Macon College is a new institution, in Mecklenburg county,
Virginia; and President Olin, we believe, is a late comer into the
state: at least we are so ignorant as not to have heard of him before.
If we are permitted to judge from the "inaugural address," we
congratulate the commonwealth upon the acquisition of an instructor of
solid endowments, sound practical views, and elegant taste. He treats
the subject of education like one who had thoroughly mastered the
philosophy upon which it is founded--and who evidently prefers to be
guided by the safe lights of experience, rather than by the specious
but uncertain theories which acquire a transient popularity--but which
cannot bear the test of sound investigation and analysis. President
Olin, we think, combats with effect a very popular error, to wit: that
education ought to be so directed as to subserve a particular
profession or pursuit; in other words, that the profession or pursuit
of a young man ought to be previously selected, and the course of
instruction made to conform accordingly. Now nothing, in our view, can
be more preposterous; and we concur entirely with the President in the
opinion, that _one of the objects of education it to develop the
intellectual aptitudes and moral qualities_, and that these when
developed, should entirely control the preference or choice of a
profession. Not that if these aptitudes and qualities when manifested,
should point in an evil direction, they should therefore be indulged.
By no means. The primary object of education should be--the highest
development of morals and intellect. In the pursuit of this great
object however, if the course of instruction is rightly ordered, the
predominant aptitudes and qualities will appear--and then is the time
for the judicious parent or guardian to co-operate with the wise
indications of nature.

In conformity to this view of the subject, the President urges the
choice of such studies in a collegiate course, as have a tendency to
_enlarge_, _invigorate_ and _discipline_ the mind. To the mathematics
he assigns a high rank. "They habituate the mind to protracted and
difficult efforts of attention, and to clear and lively perception of
truth, and at the same time furnish it with principles and facts of
inestimable value in many of the departments of useful industry and
philosophical research."

Nor does he attach less importance to the study of the Greek and Roman
languages. In the opinion of President Olin they "give useful
employment to the intellectual faculties at a period when they are
incompetent to more abstract and severe occupations. They call up the
attention to such short and easy, but repeated efforts, as are best
calculated to correct its wanderings and increase its energies. The
mind is accustomed to analysis and comparison, and its powers of
discrimination are improved by frequent exercises in declension,
inflexion and derivation, and by the constant necessity that is
imposed upon it, of deciding between the claims of rival definitions.
The memory is engaged in the performance of such tasks as are
precisely fitted for its development, and the judgment and other
reasoning faculties find ample and invigorating employment in the
application of grammatical rules, and the investigation of
philological principles." We wish we had space for the whole of Mr.
Olin's remarks upon classical learning. He considers the growing
scepticism in reference to its utility and importance as an evil omen.

Next to pure and mixed mathematics and the learned languages, the
President is inclined to give a place to intellectual philosophy. "It
familiarises the student with the laws and the phenomena of mind, and
with such efforts of subtle analysis and difficult combination as are
best fitted to enlarge and fill the grasp of the highest intellectual
capacities." He also recommends as subordinate, but highly important
studies--composition and eloquence--moral and natural
philosophy--chemistry--the French language--and geology and
mineralogy.

Mr. Olin opposes with much force the excessive multiplication of
studies without a correspondent prolongation of the collegiate term.
"The industry which was profitably directed to a few, may be divided
amongst a multitude of objects; but it will incur the inevitable
penalty of fitful and dissipated intellectual exertion--superficial
attainments and vicious intellectual habits." In what is denominated
the art of {16} education, the President is not inclined to set as
high a value upon the lecture system as upon the mode of frequent
recitations from well digested text books. From the history of the two
universities, and of the literature of Scotland and England for the
last century, he is led to draw the conclusion that the "lecture
system is more favorable to the improvement of the professor, and the
reputation of the university--whilst the opposite method has been more
productive of thorough and accomplished scholars."

Upon the subject of moral restraint and college discipline, Mr. Olin
is forcible and interesting. With a mind well organized for the clear
perception of truth, we take the President to be fearless in
proclaiming his convictions, without stopping to calculate the
strength of opposing prejudices and opinions. He does not hesitate to
come up boldly to the mark, and to advocate the only rational system
by which our erring nature, and especially our youthful nature, can be
brought to a just sense of what is due to its own interests, as well
as to the requirements of society. Upon this subject, however, we
prefer that the President should speak for himself.

"In proportion as virtue is more valuable than knowledge, pure and
enlightened morality will be regarded by every considerate father the
highest recommendation of a literary institution. The youth is
withdrawn from the salutary restraints of parental influence and
authority, and committed to other guardians, at a time of life most
decisive of his prospects and destinies. The period devoted to
education usually impresses its own character upon all his future
history. Vigilant supervision, employment, and seclusion from all
facilities and temptations to vice, are the ordinary and essential
securities which every institution of learning is bound to provide for
the sacred interests which are committed to its charge. But safeguards
and negative provisions are not sufficient. The tendencies of our
nature are retrograde, and they call for the interposition of positive
remedial influences. The most perfect human society speedily
degenerates, if the active agencies which were employed in its
elevation are once withdrawn or suspended. What then can be expected
of inexperienced youth, sent forth from the pure atmosphere of
domestic piety, and left to the single support of its own untested and
unsettled principles, in the midst of circumstances which often prove
fatal to the most practised virtue! I frankly confess that I see no
safety but in the preaching of the cross, and in a clear and
unfaltering exhibition of the doctrines and sanctions of christianity.
The beauty and excellence of virtue are excusable topics, though they
must ever be inefficient motives, with those who reject the authority
of revelation; but in a christian land, morality divorced from
religion, is the emptiest of all the empty names by which a deceitful
philosophy has blinded and corrupted the world. I venture to affirm,
that this generation has not given birth to another absurdity so
monstrous, as that which would exclude from our seminaries of learning
the open and vigorous inculcation of the religious faith which is
acknowledged by our whole population, and which pervades every one of
our free institutions. Our governors and legislators, and all the
depositaries of honor and trust, are prohibited from exercising their
humblest functions till they have pledged their fidelity to the
country upon the holy gospels. The most inconsiderable pecuniary
interest is regarded too sacred to be entrusted to the most upright
judge or juror, or to the most unsuspected witness, till their
integrity has been fortified by an appeal to the high sanctions of
christianity. Even the exercise of the elective franchise is usually
suspended upon the same condition. The interesting moralities of the
domestic relations--the laws of marriage and divorce--the mutual
obligations of parents and children--are all borrowed from the
christian scriptures. The fears of the vicious and the hopes of the
upright--the profane ribaldry of the profligate, no less than the
humble thanksgiving of the morning and evening sacrifice, do homage to
the gospel as the religion of the American people. Our eloquence and
our poetry--our periodical and popular literature in all their
varieties--the novel, the tale, the ballad, the play, all make their
appeal to the deep sentiments of religion that pervade the popular
bosom. Christianity is our birthright. It is the richest inheritance
bequeathed us by our noble fathers. It is mingled in our hearts with
all the fountains of sentiment and of faith. And are the guardians of
public education alone 'halting between two opinions?' Do they think
that in fact, and for practical purposes, the truth of christianity is
still a debateable question? Is it still a question whether the
generations yet to rise up and occupy the wide domains of this great
empire--to be the representatives of our name, our freedom and our
glory, before the nations of the earth, shall be a christian or an
infidel people? Can wise and practical men who are engaged in rearing
up a temple of learning to form the character and destinies of their
posterity, for a moment hesitate to make 'Jesus Christ the chief
corner stone?"

It is not to be supposed, however, that Mr. Olin is in favor of
subjecting our public seminaries to the control of any particular
religious denomination, or that the faith of the student is either to
be influenced or regulated by sectarian views. On the contrary, he
considers that such a course would be a manifest violation of the
principles of free government. His remarks upon the internal
discipline of a college are sound and excellent. He is decidedly
opposed to that "multitude of vexatious enactments," and those
frivolous and arbitrary regulations which too often disgrace our seats
of learning. In the administration of such wise and salutary laws,
however, as experience has proved to be necessary, President Olin
refers to the co-operation of parents and guardians as absolutely
essential. We wish that conviction on this subject was more general
than it is, and that all who are in any wise responsible for the
intellectual and moral training of youth, whether at colleges,
academies, or private schools, would consider the importance of
sustaining, by parental authority, the just and wholesome government
of the teacher. A weak or capricious parent, who from false
tenderness, countenances the wayward inclinations of a child in
opposition to school authority, is not only inflicting upon it
irreparable mischief, but is doing equal injury to others by the
encouragement of a bad example.




A DISCOURSE ON THE LIFE AND CHARACTER OF WM. WIRT, late Attorney
General of the United States; pronounced at the request of the
Baltimore Bar before the Citizens of Baltimore, on the 20th of May,
1834, by John P. Kennedy. _Baltimore: Wm. & Joseph Neal._ 1834.


Mr. Kennedy is favorably known as an eloquent lawyer and literary
writer of distinction. The task therefore of delineating the character
and genius of Mr. Wirt, could not have been confided to abler hands.
We have read his oration with great pleasure; a pleasure it is true,
alloyed by the reflection that the country has sustained a bereavement
so afflicting and irreparable. There is a mournful satisfaction in
recalling the eminent {17} virtues, and matchless accomplishments of
the deceased,--in dwelling upon his bright example, and retracing the
incomparable graces and excellencies which adorned his public and
private character. Mr. Kennedy has touched with the hand of a master,
the sad but brilliant theme, and has poured forth in "thoughts that
breathe and words that burn"--a most eloquent tribute to the memory of
one of the brightest and purest spirits of the age. Mr. Wirt, though a
native of Maryland, was in truth a Virginian, by all the endearing
ties of social and domestic life. He spent the prime of his youth and
manhood among us, and it was here in the Metropolis of the Old
Dominion, that he reared that enduring fabric of illustrious talent
and virtue which placed him first among his equals--and which will
long be embalmed in the recollection of his contemporaries. Hundreds
in this city, still remember those surpassing triumphs of his genius
as an orator and advocate, achieved in the celebrated trial of
Burr;--how he depicted in colors glowing and beautiful the enchanting
island of Blennerhassett--the misery of his disconsolate wife--and the
wiles of that evil genius who entered the Paradise of the Ohio, and
withered forever its enjoyments. Hundreds here and elsewhere have hung
with ecstasy over the rich pages of the "British Spy" and "Old
Batchelor"--have listened to the magic of his voice both in public and
colloquial discourse--and have been constant eyewitnesses of the
"daily beauty" and sublime morality of his life. Proudly and sacredly
however as his native and adopted states ought to cherish his
memory--the fame of such a man as Wirt, must be regarded as the
property of the whole nation. His great and commanding genius
illustrated and adorned the age and country in which he lived, and
thousands and tens of thousands of American bosoms have exulted at the
thought that _he was their countryman_.

In one respect especially, Mr. Wirt was an uncommon man. Most persons
distinguished for their moral and intellectual qualities, have at some
time or other, been the objects of illiberal censure. Greatness is
almost invariably the mark of envy, and envy gives birth to
detraction. The deceased however, it is believed, lived and died
without an enemy. His manners were so bland and gentle--his purposes
so pure--and his life so blameless--that even malice had no
nourishment left whereon to feed. In the language of Mr. Kennedy "he
possessed, in a remarkable degree, that trait which has been called
simplicity of heart--it was single mindedness, straight forward
candor. His manners had the wayward playfulness of a boy, that won
upon, and infected with their own buoyancy every class of his
associates, from the youngest to the oldest--from the humblest
retainer about his person, or casual stranger, to the most eminent and
most intimate."

In analyzing the intellectual qualities of the deceased, Mr. Kennedy
is inclined to the opinion, that powerful as was his legal acumen, and
almost unsurpassed his eloquence, yet, that if circumstances had
permitted an exclusive devotion to literary pursuits, his fame might
have become still more brilliant. We cannot forbear to extract from
the oration, the whole passage which illustrates this idea.

"In taking this survey of the chief productions of Mr. Wirt's pen, I
am tempted to pause for a moment, to express my regret that the
pursuits of his life had not been more decidedly applied to literary
labors, than either circumstances or his own choice seem to have
permitted. He was remarkably qualified by the character of his mind,
and, I think I am warranted in saying, by his inclination, to attain
great distinction in these pursuits. A career, in a larger degree,
directed to this end would certainly have been not less honorable to
himself, nor less useful to his country, and, I would fain persuade
myself, not less profitable,--although the consideration of gain be
but an unworthy stimulant to the glorious rewards which should
interest the ambition of genius. He had, however, a large family
around him who depended upon him for protection; and it may be that,
surveying the sad history of the gifted spirits who have lighted the
path of mankind with the lamps of their own minds and made their race
rich with the treasures of wisdom and science, he has turned
distrustfully from the yearnings of his ambition, and followed the
broader and more certain track that led to professional fame and
wealth. I can excuse him for the choice, whilst I lament over the
dispensation of human rule by which the latter pursuits should have
such an advantage.

"As a literary man he would have acquired a more permanent renown than
the nature of professional occupation or the exercises of the forum
are capable of conferring upon their votaries. The pen of genius
erects its own everlasting monument; but the triumphs of the speaker's
eloquence, vivid, brilliant and splendid as they are, live but in the
history of their uncertain effects and in the intoxicating applause of
the day:--to incredulous posterity they are distrusted tradition, the
extravagant boasting of an elder age prone by its nature to disparage
the present by the narrated glories of the past. So has it, even now,
befallen the name of Patrick Henry, whom not all his affectionate
biographer's learned zeal has rescued from the unbelieving smile of
but a second generation. The glory of Cicero lives more conspicuously
in his written philosophy than even in his speeches, which, although
transmitted by his own elaborate and polished hand, may rather be
assigned to his literary than to his forensic fame.

"Mr. Wirt had many inducements to the cultivation of letters. He might
have entered upon the field, in this country, almost without a rival.
Our nation, young in the career of liberal arts, had but few names to
reckon when asked, as she has sometimes been in derision, where were
the evidences of her scholarship. Her pride would have pointed to a
man like William Wirt with a peculiar complacency. His comprehensive
and philosophical mind, acute and clear-sighted, was well adapted to
master the truths of science: it was fruitful and imaginative and full
of beautiful illustration. He had wit and humor of the highest flavor,
combined with a quick and accurate observation of character: his
taste, sensitive and refined, delighted in the harmony and truth of
nature: his full memory furnished him abundant stores of learning: his
style, rich and clear, like a fountain of sparkling waters played
along a channel of golden sands and bright crystals and through meads
begirt with flowers. Above all, the tendency of his mind was to
usefulness: he indited no thought that did not serve to inculcate
virtuous sentiments, noble pursuits, love of country, the value of
generous and laudable ambition, trust in Heaven, or earnest attachment
to duty. He has embellished and vivified the grave experience of age
with all the warm enthusiasm of youth, and has taught his countrymen
the most severe and self-denying devotion to purposes of good, in
lessons of so amiable a tone, as to win many a young champion to
virtue by the kindness of his persuasion. His sketches of character
are pleasantly graphic, and leave us room to believe that, either, in
the drama or in that species of fictitious history which the great
enchanter of this age has made so popular a vehicle for profound
philosophy, he would have attained to an exalted fame. In short, there
are {18} but few amongst us who, in scholarship, learning, observation
or facility and beauty of expression, may claim to be ranked with
William Wirt."

Our readers must not be denied the pleasure of another quotation in
which Mr. Wirt's powers of oratory are sketched with a graphic pencil.

"He was a powerful orator, and had the art to sway courts and juries
with a master's spirit. The principal traits of his eloquence were
great clearness and force in laying the foundations of an argument,
and the steady pursuit of it through the track of logical deduction.
He was ingenious in choosing his position, and, that once taken, his
hearers were borne to his conclusion upon a tide almost as
irresistible as that which wafts the idle skiff upon the Potomac,
downward from the mountains to the last cataract that meets the ebb
and flood of the sea. In this train of earnest argumentation the
attention of his auditory was kept alive by a vivid display of classic
allusion, by flashes of wit and merriment, and by the familiar imagery
which was called in aid to give point to his demonstrations, or light
to what the subject rendered obscure to the common apprehension. He
sometimes indulged in satire and invective, and, where the subject
called for it, in stern denunciation. Many have felt with what
indignant power these weapons have been wielded in his hand. His
utterance, in early life, was said to have been confused and
ungraceful. Practice had conquered these defects, and no man spoke
with a more full, effortless and unobstructed fluency. His diction was
scrupulously neat, and might have often deceived an audience into the
opinion that his speeches were prepared in the closet. His manner was
remarkably impressive. Endowed with a commanding figure, a singularly
graceful carriage and with a countenance of manly and thoughtful
beauty, that struck an instant sense of respect into all that looked
upon him, he was pre-eminent in that most significant trait of an
orator, action. We can all remember the rich and flowing music of that
voice which was wont to stir the inmost souls of our tribunals and
bring down the loud applause of delighted bystanders; the dignity with
which we have seen his majestic person dilate itself before the
judgment seat; the ineffable grace that beamed upon the broad expanse
of his brow, and the kindled transport of his fine face, in those
wrapt moments when his mind was all in a blaze with the inspirations
of his own eloquence. These were the rare gifts that imparted a charm
to his oratory, which often wrought more powerfully for the success of
his cause than even the efficacy of 'right words set in order.'"

We shall conclude with one more passage, in which the man who filled
so large a space in the public eye--whose eloquence placed him on the
highest pedestal of fame, and whose writings have charmed by their
richness and beauty so many thousand readers--is exhibited in a light
more attractive and enduring than the highest human attainments are
able to bestow. Mr. Wirt looked far beyond the narrow bounds of earth
for his reward. He saw that neither wealth, nor power, nor fame, could
satisfy the immortal cravings of the mind--and he lifted up his
thoughtful eye to another and more permanent state of being.

"Lastly, he was a zealous and faithful christian. In such a mind as
his, so inquiring, so masterly, so discriminating, religion was the
child of his judgment, not the creation of his passion. It was an
earnest, abiding sense of truth, and showed itself in daily exercise
and constant acknowledgment. With the sublime system of revelation
resting ever in his thoughts, the christian law hung like a tablet
upon his breast, and duty ever pointed her finger to the sculptured
commands that were graven there to serve him as a manual of practice.
He loved old forms and old opinions, and, with something like a
patriarch's reverence, he headed his little family flock on their
Sunday walks to church: morning and evening he gathered them together,
and on bended knee, invoked his Father's blessing on his household;
and at the daily meal bowed his calm and prophet-like figure over the
family repast, to ask that grace of the Deity, on which his heart
rested with its liveliest hope, and to express that thankfulness which
filled and engrossed his soul. Such was this man in the retirement of
his domestic hearth, and thus did his affections, in that little
precinct, bloom with the daily increasing virtues of love of family,
of friends, of his country and of his God."

We hope that Mr. Kennedy's discourse will be extensively circulated
and read. We confess that we rose from its perusal much wiser, better,
and happier than before. It not only gave play to the imagination, but
it distilled precious dews of thought and feeling, the memory of which
is still delightful.




A LETTER TO HIS COUNTRYMEN. By J. Fenimore Cooper.--_New York: John
Wiley._ 1834.


Mr. Cooper's letter is partly private and controversial, and partly
political, and therefore any thing like an extended notice or review
of it does not fall within the range which has been prescribed for the
"Southern Literary Messenger." We cannot but express our regret,
however, that Mr. Cooper should have suffered himself to be seduced
into the arena of party politics. Upon that theatre he will meet with
many distinguished rivals--whereas he had none or few to contend with
on his favorite ground of romantic fiction. Is it possible that Mr.
Cooper will suffer himself to be driven from the field on which he has
earned so many enduring laurels, by the criticisms or even illnature
of a few newspaper editors? Why, if we had been fortunate enough to
write the "Red Rover," or even the "Bravo," we would have good
humoredly defied the whole fraternity from Maine to New Orleans. Mr.
Cooper forgets that there are thousands, who form their own opinions
of literary works, without ever once thinking to turn over the pages
of a daily or semiweekly instructor in order to learn its opinion.
What if some of his finest romances have been criticised? Is there any
human production which can be said to be perfect? Even Walter Scott
acknowledged that his "Monastery" and probably some of his other works
were total failures. We hope to spend many a long winter night yet in
reading some of Mr. Cooper's new novels.




DIARY OF AN ENNUYEE. _Boston: Lilly, Wait, Colman & Holden._ 1833.


We opened this book, we confess, with some reluctance. The reading
world has been so completely surfeited, especially in late years, by
works of the same description,--by the diaries and letters of
travellers and tourists,--and many of them have been so obviously
designed to encourage the art of _book making_, rather than to impart
solid instruction or intellectual pleasure, that we had almost
resolved to proscribe altogether that branch of literature. France,
Switzerland and Italy, have, moreover, been so often described, that
neither the theatre of Napoleon's glory, nor the {19} sublimities of
Alpine scenery--nor the classical antiquities of the "Eternal
City"--could impart any longer, it was supposed, the grace or
freshness of novelty to the sketches of a new adventurer. Fortunately
for us, however, we did not carry our resolution into effect, until we
looked into the charming volume whose title is at the head of this
article. For rich and powerful thought,--for glowing and beautiful
description,--for chaste composition and elegance of taste, we have
seldom or never seen it surpassed. It is, too, the production of a
lady,--an Englishwoman of rank and fortune, who seems to have visited
the sunny clime of Italy in order to restore a constitution wasted by
disease, and if possible, alleviate some secret misery which was
"feeding on her damask cheek" and withering her
heart.--Notwithstanding her efforts to conceal her wretchedness,
enough is told to excite the reader's sympathy and impart a melancholy
interest to the narrative. She finally fell a victim to her
sufferings, and found at the age of twenty-six, a premature grave at
Autun, in France, on her return to her native England.

In the course of her pilgrimage she visited Paris, Geneva, Milan,
Venice, Florence, Rome, Naples, Genoa, and various other cities. All
the wonders of art and glories of nature in Italy's elysian land, seem
to have borrowed additional splendor and beauty from the touches of
her magic pencil--and in her reflections upon men and manners there is
a purity of sentiment which could neither be sullied by the
temptations of wealth and fashion, nor by the prevalence of licentious
customs in that voluptuous climate.

We cannot deny to our readers the pleasure of a few extracts, which
will fully justify the estimate we have placed upon this delightful
volume.

The frivolous extravagance which in many things characterises the
French people, and especially the Parisian circles, is thus described:

"_La mode_ at Paris is a spell of wondrous power: it is most like what
we should call in England a rage, a mania, a torrent sweeping down the
bounds between good and evil, sense and nonsense, upon whose surface
straws and egg-shells float into notoriety, while the gold and the
marble are buried and hidden till its force be spent. The rage for
cashmeres and little dogs, has lately given way to a rage for Le
Solitaire, a Romance written, I believe, by a certain vicomte
d'Arlincourt. Le Solitaire rules the imagination, the taste, the dress
of half Paris: if you go to the theatre, it is to see the 'Solitaire,'
either as tragedy, opera, or melodrame: the men dress their hair and
throw their cloaks about them _à la Solitaire_; bonnets and caps,
flounces and ribbons are all _à la Solitaire_; the print shops are
full of scenes from Le Solitaire; it is on every toilette, on every
work table;--ladies carry it about in their reticules to show each
other that they are à la mode; and the men--what can they do but
humble their understandings and be _extasiés_, when beautiful eyes
sparkle in its defence, and glisten in its praise, and ruby lips
pronounce it divine, delicious, 'quelle sublimité dans les
descriptions, quelle force dans les caractères! quelle âme! quel feu!
quelle chaleur! quelle verve! quelle originalité! quelle passion!' &c.

"'Vous n'avez pas lu le Solitaire?' said Madame M. yesterday; 'eh mon
dieu! est-il donc possible! vous? mais, ma chère, vous êtes perdue de
reputation, et pour jamais!'

"To retrieve my lost reputation, I sat down to read Le Solitaire, and
as I read, my amazement grew, and I did in 'gaping wonderment abound,'
to think that fashion, like the insane root of old, had power to drive
a whole city mad with nonsense; for such a tissue of abominable
absurdities, bombast, and blasphemy, bad taste and bad language, was
never surely indited by any madman, in or out of Bedlam: not Maturin
himself, that king of fustian,

   '---- ever wrote or borrowed,
  Any horror half so horrid!'

and this is the book which has turned the brains of half Paris, which
has gone through fifteen editions in a few weeks, which not to admire
is '_pitoyable_,' and not to have read '_quelque chose d'inouie_.'"

Again,

"This is the place to live in for the merry poor man, or the
melancholy rich one; for those who have too much money, and those who
have too little; for those who only wish like the Irishman, 'to live
all the days of their life,'--_prendre en légère monnoie la somme des
plaisirs_--but to the thinking, the feeling, the domestic man, who
only exists, enjoys, suffers through his affections--

  'Who is retired as noontide dew,
   Or fountain in a noonday grove--'

to such a one, Paris must be nothing better than a vast frippery shop,
an ever varying galanty show, an eternal vanity fair, a vortex of
folly, a pandemonium of vice."

At Milan the fair invalid was induced to visit the Scala, where she
saw the _Didone Abandonnato_, a ballet by Vigano. This piece was
founded upon the loves of Dido and Eneas, and the celebrated cavern
scene in the 4th book of Virgil was copied _almost_ to the life. A
noble English family just arrived at Milan, was present at the
performance, and the effect upon one of its members is thus described:

"In the front of the box sat a beautiful girl, apparently not fifteen,
with laughing lips and dimpled cheeks, the very personification of
blooming, innocent, _English_ loveliness. I watched her, (I could not
help it, when my interest was once awakened,) through the whole scene.
I marked her increased agitation: I saw her cheeks flush, her eyes
glisten, her bosom flutter, as if with sighs I could not overhear,
till at length, overpowered with emotion, she turned away her head,
and covered her eyes with her hand. Mothers!--English mothers! who
bring your daughters abroad to finish their education--do ye well to
expose them to scenes like these, and _force_ the young bud of early
feeling in such a precious hotbed as this?--Can a finer finger on the
piano,--a finer taste in painting, or any possible improvement in
foreign arts, and foreign graces, compensate for one taint on that
moral purity, which has ever been, (and may it ever be!) the boast,
the charm of Englishwomen? But what have I to do with all this?--I
came here to be amused and to forget:--not to moralize, or to
criticise."

The picture of Venice, "throned on her hundred isles," is vivid and
beautiful.

"The morning we left Padua was bright, lovely and cloudless. Our drive
along the shores of the Brenta crowned with innumerable villas and gay
gardens was delightful; and the moment of our arrival at Fusina, where
we left our carriages to embark in gondolas, was the most auspicious
that could possibly have been chosen. It was about four o'clock: the
sun was just declining towards the west; the whole surface of the
_lagune_ smooth as a mirror, appeared as if paved with fire;--and
Venice with her towers and domes, indistinctly glittering in the
distance, rose before us like a gorgeous exhalation from the bosom of
the ocean. It is farther from the shore than I expected. As we
approached, the splendor faded: but the interest and the {20} wonder
grew. I can conceive nothing more beautiful, more singular, more
astonishing, than the first appearance of Venice, and sad indeed will
be the hour when she sinks, (as the poet prophecies) 'into the slime
of her own canals.'

"The moment we had disembarked our luggage at the inn, we hired
gondolas and rowed to the Piazza di San Marco. Had I seen the church
of St. Mark any where else, I should have exclaimed against the bad
taste which every where prevails in it: but Venice is the proper
region of the fantastic, and the Church of St. Mark, with its four
hundred pillars of every different order, color, and material; its
oriental cupolas, and glittering vanes, and gilding and mosaics,
assimilates with all around it: and the kind of pleasure it gives is
suitable to the place and people.

"After dinner I had a chair placed on the balcony of our inn, and sat
for some time contemplating a scene altogether new and delightful. The
arch of the Rialto, just gleamed through the deepening twilight; long
lines of palaces, at first partially illuminated, faded away at length
into gloomy and formless masses of architecture; the gondolas glided
to and fro, their glancing lights reflected on the water. There was a
stillness all around me, solemn and strange in the heart of a great
city. No rattling carriages shook the streets, no trampling of horses
echoed along the pavement:--the silence was broken only by the
melancholy cry of the gondoliers, and the dash of their oars; by the
low murmur of human voices, by the chime of the vesper bells, borne
over the water, and the sounds of music raised at intervals along the
canals. The poetry, the romance of the scene stole upon me unawares. I
fell into a reverie, in which visionary forms and recollections gave
way to dearer and sadder realities, and my mind seemed no longer in my
own power. I called upon the lost, the absent, to share the present
with me--I called upon past feelings to enhance that moment's delight.
I did wrong--and memory avenged herself as usual. I quitted my seat on
the balcony, with despair at my heart, and drawing to the table took
out my books and work. So passed our first evening at Venice."

At Florence she met with the poet Rogers, who seems to have been a
familiar acquaintance:

"Samuel Rogers paid us a long visit this morning. He does not look as
if the suns of Italy had _revivified_ him--but he is as _amiable_ and
amusing as ever. He talked long, _et avec beaucoup d'onction_, of
ortolans and figs; till methought it was the very poetry of epicurism;
and put me in mind of his own suppers--

  'Where blushing fruits through scatter'd leaves invite,
   Still clad in bloom and veil'd in azure light.
   The wine as rich in years as Horace sings;'

and the rest of his description worthy of a poetical Apicius.

"Rogers may be seen every day about eleven or twelve, in the Tribune,
seated opposite to the Venus, which appears to be the exclusive object
of his adoration; and gazing, as if he hoped, like another Pygmalion,
to animate the statue: or rather, perhaps, that the statue might
animate _him_. A young Englishman of fashion, with as much talent as
espiéglerie, placed an epistle in verse between the fingers of the
statue, addressed to Rogers; in which the Goddess entreats him not to
come there _ogling_ her every day;--for though 'partial friends might
deem him still alive,' she knew by his looks he had come from the
other side of the Styx; and retained her _antique_ abhorrence of the
spectral dead, &c. &c. She concluded by beseeching him, if he could
not desist from haunting her with his _ghostly_ presence, at least to
spare her the added misfortune of being be-rhymed by his Muse.

"Rogers with equal good nature and good sense, neither noticed these
lines, nor withdrew his friendship and intimacy from the writer."

The fine arts which are cultivated with so much distinction in the
"Etrurian Athens," attracted the particular attention of our
accomplished traveller. Referring to the Dutch school and the Salle
des Portraits,--she says,

"The Dutch and Flemish painters (in spite of their exquisite pots and
pans, and cabbages and carrots, their birch brooms, in which you can
count every twig, and their carpets in which you can reckon every
thread) do not interest me; their landscapes too, however natural, are
mere Dutch nature (with some brilliant exceptions,) fat cattle,
clipped trees, boors and wind-mills. Of course I am not speaking of
Vandyke, nor of Rubens, he that 'in the colors of the rainbow lived,'
nor of Rembrandt, that king of clouds and shadows; but for mine own
part, I would give up all that Mieris, Netscher, Teniers and Gerard
Duow ever produced, for one of Claude's Eden-like creations, or one of
Guido's lovely heads--or merely for the pleasure of looking at
Titian's Flora once a day, I would give a whole gallery of Dutchmen,
if I had them."

The following _coup-d'oeil_ of Florence is distinct and impressive:

"We then ascended the Campanile or Belfry Tower to see the view from
its summit. Florence lay at our feet, diminished to a model of itself,
with its walls and gates, its streets and bridges, palaces and
churches, all and each distinctly visible; and beyond, the Val d'Arno
with its amphitheatre of hills, villas, and its vineyards--classical
Fiesole, with its ruined castle, and Monte Ulivetto, with its diadem
of cypresses; luxuriant nature and graceful art, blending into one
glorious picture, which no smoky vapors, no damp exhalations, blotted
and discolored; but all was serenely bright and fair, gay with moving
life, and rich with redundant fertility."

But it was in Rome, "the city of the soul," that the spirit of the
authoress revelled amidst the magnificent trophies of art, and was
refreshed in spite of pain and despondency, by the reviving beauties
of nature.

"The weather is cold here during the prevalence of the tramontana: but
I enjoy the brilliant skies, and the delicious purity of the air,
which leaves the eye free to wander over a vast extent of space.
Looking from the gallery of the Belvedere at sun-set this evening, I
clearly saw Tivoli, Albano, and Frascati, although all Rome, and part
of the Campagna lay between me and those towns. The outlines of every
building, ruin, hill and wood, were so distinctly marked, and _stood
out_ so brightly to the eye! and the full round moon, magnified
through the purple vapor which floated over the Appenines, rose just
over Tivoli, adding to the beauty of the scene. O Italy! How I wish I
could transport hither all I love! how I wish I were well enough,
happy enough to enjoy all the lovely things I see! but pain is mingled
with all I behold, all I feel: a cloud seems for ever before my eyes,
a weight for ever presses down my heart. I know it is wrong to repine;
and that I ought rather to be thankful for the pleasurable sensations
yet spared to me, than lament that they are so few. When I take up my
pen to record the impressions of the day, I sometimes turn within
myself, and wonder how it is possible, that amid the strife of
feelings not all subdued, and the desponding of the heart, the mind
should still retain its faculties unobscured, and the imagination all
its vivacity, and its susceptibility to pleasure,--like the beautiful
sun-bow I saw at the falls of Terni, bending so bright and so calm
over the verge of the abyss, which toiled and raged below."

Having visited and examined in detail, with the feelings of an
amateur, almost every thing worthy of note {21} in the ancient
city--the sublime architecture of St. Peter's--the treasures of the
Vatican and the Capitol--the numberless galleries of painting and
sculpture--and having loitered with the spirit of an antiquary amidst
the ruins of tombs and temples, our fair tourist describes the rapid
_survey_ which she made with a view to generalize the whole.

"For this purpose, making the Capitol a central point, I drove first
slowly through the Forum, and made the circuit of the Palatine hill,
then by the arch of Janus (which by a late decision of the
antiquarians has no more to do with Janus than with Jupiter,) and the
temple of Vesta, back again over the site of the Circus Maximus,
between the Palatine and the Aventine (the scene of the Rape of the
Sabines,) to the baths of Caracalla, where I spent an hour, musing,
sketching, and poetizing; thence to the Church of San Stefano Rotundo,
once a temple dedicated to Claudius by Agrippina; over the Celian
hill, covered with masses of ruins, to the Church of St. John and St.
Paul, a small but beautiful edifice: then to the neighboring church of
San Gregorio, from the steps of which there is such a noble view.
Thence I returned by the arch of Constantine, and the Coliseum, which
frowned on me in black masses through the soft and deepening twilight,
through the street now called the Suburra, but formerly the Via
Scelerata, where Tullia trampled over the dead body of her father, and
so over the Quirinal, home.

"My excursion was altogether delightful, and gave me the most
magnificent, and I had almost said, the most _bewildering_ ideas of
the grandeur and extent of ancient Rome: every step was classic
ground; illustrious names, and splendid recollections crowded upon the
fancy--

  'And trailing clouds of glory did they come.'

On the Palatine Hill were the houses of Cicero and the Gracchi:
Horace, Virgil, and Ovid resided on the Aventine; and Mecænas and
Pliny on the Æsquiline. If one little fragment of a wall remained,
which could with any shadow of probability be pointed out as belonging
to the residence of Cicero, Horace, or Virgil, how much dearer, how
much more sanctified to memory would it be than all the magnificent
ruins of the fabrics of the Cæsars! But no--all has passed away. I
have heard the remains of Rome coarsely ridiculed, because after the
researches of centuries, so little is comparatively known, because of
the endless disputes of antiquarians, and the night and ignorance in
which all is involved. But to the imagination there is something
singularly striking in this mysterious veil which hangs like a cloud
upon the objects around us. I trod to-day over shapeless masses of
building, extending in every direction as far as the eye could reach.
Who had inhabited the edifices I trampled under my feet? What hearts
had burned--what heads had thought--what spirits had kindled _there_,
where nothing was seen but a wilderness and waste, and heaps of ruins,
to which antiquaries--even Nibby himself, dare not give a name? All
swept away--buried beneath an ocean of oblivion, above which rise a
few great and glorious names, like rocks, over which the billows of
time break in vain."

Her journey from Rome to Naples was short and delightful. The
following is one among innumerable descriptive passages in her diary:

"In some of the scenes of to-day--at Terracina particularly, there was
a beauty beyond what I ever beheld or imagined: the scenery of
Switzerland is of a different character, and on a different scale; it
is beyond comparison grander, more gigantic, more overpowering, but it
is not so poetical. Switzerland is not Italy--is not the enchanting
_south_. This soft balmy air, these myrtles, orange groves, palm
trees; these cloudless skies, this bright blue sea, and sunny hills,
all breathe of an enchanted land; 'a land of Faery.'"

At Naples our traveller was fortunate enough to witness a brilliant
eruption of Mount Vesuvius--and overcoming the natural timidity of her
sex, she resolved to ascend the mountain at midnight attended by
chosen guides and companions. Her account of the terrible spectacle is
too graphic to withhold from our readers.

"Before eleven o'clock we reached the Hermitage, situated between
Vesuvius and the Somma, and the highest habitation on the mountain. A
great number of men were assembled within, and guides, lazzaroni,
servants, and soldiers were lounging round. I alighted, for I was
benumbed and tired, but did not like to venture among those people,
and it was proposed that we should wait for the rest of our party a
little farther on. We accordingly left our donkeys and walked forward
upon a kind of high ridge, which serves to fortify the Hermitage and
its environs, against the lava. From this path as we slowly ascended,
we had a glorious view of the eruption, and the whole scene around us,
in its romantic interest and terrible magnificence, mocked all power
of description. There were, at this time, five distinct torrents of
lava rolling down like streams of molten lead; one of which extended
above two miles below us, and was flowing towards Portici. The showers
of red hot stones flew up like thousands of sky rockets; many of them
being shot up perpendicularly, fell back into the crater, others
falling on the outside, bounded down the side of the mountain, with a
velocity which would have distanced a horse at full speed: these
stones were of every size, from two to ten or twelve feet in diameter.

"My ears were by this time wearied and stunned by the unceasing
roaring and hissing of the flames, while my eyes were dazzled by the
glare of the red, fierce light: now and then I turned them for relief,
to other features of the picture, to the black shadowy masses of the
landscape stretched beneath us, and speckled with little shining
lights, which showed how many were up and watching that night; and
often to the calm vaulted sky above our heads, where thousands of
stars (not twinkling, as through our hazy or frosty atmosphere, but
shining out of 'heaven's profoundest azure,' with that soft steady
brilliance, peculiar to a highly rarified medium) looked down upon
this frightful turmoil, in all their bright and placid loveliness. Nor
should I forget one other feature of a scene, on which I looked with a
painter's eye. Great numbers of the Austrian forces, now occupying
Naples, were on the mountain, assembled in groups, some standing, some
sitting, some stretched on the ground and wrapped in their cloaks, in
various attitudes of amazement and admiration; and as the shadowy
glare fell on their tall martial figures and glittering accoutrements,
I thought I had never beheld any thing so wildly picturesque."

After spending the day with a select party of friends amidst the ruins
of Pompeii, she draws the following picture of the celebrated environs
of Naples.

"Of all the heavenly days we have had since we came to Naples, this
has been the most heavenly; and of all the lovely scenes I have beheld
in Italy, what I saw to-day has most enchanted my senses and
imagination. The view from the eminence on which the old temple stood,
and which was anciently the public promenade, was splendidly
beautiful: the whole landscape was at one time overflowed with light
and sunshine; and appeared as if seen through an impalpable but
dazzling veil. Towards evening, the outlines became more distinct: the
little white towns perched upon the hills, the gentle sea, the fairy
island of Rivegliano with its old tower, the smoking crater of
Vesuvius, the bold forms of Mount Lactarius and Cape Minerva, stood
out full and clear under the cloudless sky; and as we returned, I saw
the sun sink behind Capri, {22} which appeared by some optical
illusion, like a glorious crimson transparency suspended above the
horizon: the sky, the earth, the sea, were flushed with the richest
rose color, which gradually softened and darkened into purple: the
short twilight faded away, and the full moon, rising over Vesuvius,
lighted up the scenery with a softer radiance."

We intended to have quoted other passages, in which our fair authoress
sketches with striking eloquence, the exhibitions of _Sestine_, one of
that extraordinary race called _Improvvisatori_--a race which seems to
be almost peculiar to Italy; and which, far from being extinct, are
still to be found in almost every town from Florence to Naples. Her
description too of a splendid illumination at St. Peter's, and her
just observations upon the works of the great masters, particularly of
the _Divine Raffaelle_, are worthy of particular designation; but it
would be an almost endless task to select passages from a work, which
from beginning to end, and through almost every page, is a volume of
thrilling interest. We shall content ourselves with one or two
beautiful extracts distinguished for their deep moral tone, and
somewhat connected, as we suppose, with that all-engrossing and
mysterious source of melancholy which seems to have imbittered the
peace and hastened the dissolution of this interesting female.

"It is sorrow which makes our experience; it is sorrow which teaches
us to feel properly for ourselves and for others. We must feel deeply
before we can think rightly. It is not in the tempest and storm of
passions, we can reflect--but afterwards, when the _waters have gone
over our soul_; and like the precious gems and the rich merchandise
which the wild wave casts on the shore out of the wreck it has
made--such are the thoughts left by retiring passions."

Again; what can be more affecting than her final adieu to Naples.

"When we turned into the Strada Chiaja, and I gave a last glance at
the magnificent bay and the shores all resplendent with golden light;
I could almost have exclaimed like Eve, 'must I then leave thee,
Paradise!' and dropt a few natural tears--tears of weakness, rather
than of grief: for what do I leave behind me worthy one emotion of
regret? Even at Naples, even in this all-lovely land, 'fit haunt for
gods,' has it not been with me as it has been elsewhere? as long as
the excitement of change and novelty lasts, my heart can turn from
itself 'to luxuriate with indifferent things:' but it cannot last
long; and when it is over, I suffer, I am ill: the past returns with
tenfold gloom; interposing like a dark shade between me and every
object: an evil power seems to reside in every thing I see, to torment
me with painful associations, to perplex my faculties, to irritate and
mock me with the perception of what is lost to me: the very sunshine
sickens me, and I am forced to confess myself weak and miserable as
ever. O time! how slowly you move! how little you can do for me! and
how bitter is that sorrow which has no relief to hope but from time
alone!"

We shall quote only one of the many interesting specimens of poetry
with which the volume is interspersed. It is an extempore translation
of a beautiful sonnet of Zappi, an Italian poet.

  "Love, by my fair one's side is ever seen,
  He hovers round her steps, where'er she strays,
  Breathes in her voice, and in her silence speaks,
  Around her lives and lends her all his arms.

  "Love is in every glance--Love taught her song;
  And if she weep, or scorn contract her brow,
  Still Love departs not from her, but is seen
  Even in her lovely anger and her tears.

  "When, in the mazy dance she glides along,
  Still Love is near to poise each graceful step:
  So breathes the zephyr o'er the yielding flower.

  "Love in her brow is throned, plays in her hair,
  Darts from her eye and glows upon her lip,
  But oh! he never yet approached her heart!"

Upon the whole we earnestly recommend this book to the attention of
the public, and especially to our fair countrywomen, whose pride and
curiosity will be gratified in so rich an example of the taste and
intellectual power of their own sex.




THE MAGDALEN AND OTHER TALES. By Jas. Sheridan Knowles, author of
Virginius, The Hunchback, The Wife, &c. _Philadelphia: Carey, Lea &
Blanchard_, 1833.

SKETCHES, by Mrs. Sigourney. _Philadelphia: Key & Biddle_. 1834.


Both these volumes are by writers of distinction; the first a
gentleman well known to the British public, and the last an American
lady who devotes her delightful seclusion, near Hartford, Connecticut,
to the cultivation of the muses and to the moral improvement of
society. Though both are excellent in their way, each is adapted to a
distinct class of readers. Mr. Knowles will be particularly acceptable
to those who think that the happiness of reading consists in
_amusement_. He depicts with a graphic pencil, and his pictures will
be highly attractive to the young, the ardent and romantic. Mrs.
Sigourney takes a loftier aim. Though highly gifted with the powers of
imagination, and of course capable of exciting that faculty in others,
her object seems to be rather to touch the springs of the heart and
awaken the moral feelings of our nature. Her spirit is not only imbued
with poetry but religion. In all her productions that we have seen,
there is a direct tendency to improve as well as to delight. She is an
example altogether worthy of imitation among the professors of
literature, in enlisting all its allurements in the great cause of
human virtue.

Mr. Knowles' book consists of various interesting tales, one of which,
"Love and Authorship," we have selected for publication as a fair
specimen of the rest. It is a genuine love story, and of course will
have its admirers. From Mrs. Sigourney's volume, we have transferred
to our own pages the story of the "Patriarch," in which the fair
authoress personates, in the narrator of the tale, a minister of the
gospel. The scene is laid in the state of North Carolina; and the few
remarks in allusion to Bishop Ravenscroft will strike many of our
readers as faithful notices of the eloquence and piety of that
distinguished and lamented champion of the cross.




LOVE AND AUTHORSHIP.


"Will you remember me, Rosalie?"

"Yes!"

"Will you keep your hand for me for a year?"

"Yes!"

"Will you answer me when I write to you?"

"Yes!"

"One request more--O Rosalie, reflect that my life depends upon your
acquiescence--should I succeed, will you marry me in spite of your
uncle?"

{23} "Yes," answered Rosalie. There was no pause--reply followed
question, as if it were a dialogue which they had got by heart--and by
heart _indeed_ they had got it--but I leave you to guess the book they
had conned it from.

'Twas in a green lane, on a summer's evening, about nine o'clock, when
the west, like a gate of gold, had shut upon the retiring sun, that
Rosalie and her lover, hand in hand, walked up and down. His arm was
the girdle of her waist; hers formed a collar for his neck, which a
knight of the garter--ay, the owner of the sword that dubbed
him--might have been proud to wear. Their gait was slow, and face was
turned to face; near were their lips while they spoke, and much of
what they said never came to the ear, though their souls caught up
every word of it.

Rosalie was upwards of five years the junior of her lover. She had
known him since she was a little girl in her twelfth year. He was
almost eighteen then, and when she thought far more about a doll than
a husband, he would set her upon his knee, and call her his little
wife. One, two, three years passed on, and still, whenever he came
from college, and as usual went to pay his first visit at her
father's, before he had been five minutes in the parlor, the door was
flung open, and in bounded Rosalie, and claimed her accustomed seat.
The fact was, till she was fifteen, she was a child of a very slow
growth, and looked the girl when many a companion of hers of the same
age had begun to appear the woman.

When another vacation however came round and Theodore paid his
customary call, and was expecting his little wife as usual, the door
opened slowly, and a tall young lady entered, and curtseying, colored,
and walked to a seat next the lady of the house. The visitor stood up
and bowed, and sat down again, without knowing that it was Rosalie.

"Don't you know Rosalie," exclaimed her father.

"Rosalie!" replied Theodore in an accent of surprise; and approached
his little wife of old who rose and half gave him her hand, and
curtseying, colored again; and sat down again without having
interchanged a word with him. No wonder--she was four inches taller
than when he had last seen her, and her bulk had expanded
correspondingly; while her features, that half a year before gave one
the idea of a sylph that would bound after a butterfly, had now
mellowed in their expression, into the sentiment, the softness, and
the reserve of the woman.

Theodore felt absolutely disappointed. Five minutes before, he was all
volubility. No sooner was one question answered than he proposed
another--and he had so many capital stories for Rosalie, when she came
down--and yet, when Rosalie did come down, he sat as though he had not
a word to say for himself. In short, every thing and every body in the
house seemed to have changed along with its young mistress; he felt no
longer at home in it, as he was wont; and in less than a quarter of an
hour he made his bow and departed.

Now this was exceedingly strange; for Rosalie, from a pretty little
girl, had turned into a lovely young woman. If a heart looked out of
her eyes before, a soul looked out of them now; her arm, which
formerly the sun had been allowed to salute when he liked, and which
used to bear the trace of many a kiss that he had given it, now shone
white through a sleeve of muslin, like snow behind a veil of haze; her
bosom had enlarged its wavy curve, and leaving her waist little more
than the span it used to be, sat proudly heaving above it; and the
rest of her form which, only six months ago, looked trim and airy in
her short and close-fitting frock now lengthening and throwing out its
flowing line, stood stately in the folds of a long and ample drapery.
Yet could not all this make up for the want of the little wife that
used to come and take her seat upon Theodore's knee.

To be sure there was another way of accounting for the young man's
chagrin. He might have been disappointed that Rosalie, when five feet
four, should be a little more reserved than when she was only five
feet nothing. Romantic young men, too, are apt to fancy odd things.
Theodore was a very romantic young man; and having, perhaps traced for
himself the woman in the child--as one will anticipate, in looking at
a peach that is just knit, the hue, and form, and flavor of the
consummate fruit--he might have set Rosalie down in his mind as his
wife in earnest, when he appeared to call her so only in jest.

Such was the case. Theodore never calculated that Rosalie knew nothing
about his dreams--that she had no such vision herself; he never
anticipated that the frankness of girlhood would vanish, as soon as
the diffidence of young womanhood began its blushing reign; the
thought never occurred to him that the day would come when Rosalie
would scruple to sit on his knee--ay, even though Rosalie should then
begin to think upon him, as for many a year before he had thought upon
her. He returned from college the fifth time; he found that the woman
which he imagined in a year or two she would become, was surpassed by
the woman that she already was; he remarked the withdrawal of
confidence, the limitation of familiarity--the penalty which he must
inevitably pay for her maturing--and he felt repelled and chilled, and
utterly disheartened by it.

For a whole week he never returned to the house. Three days of a
second week elapsed, and still he kept away. He had been invited,
however to a ball which was to be given there the day following; and,
much as he was inclined to absent himself, being a little more
inclined to go--he went.

Full three hours was he in the room without once setting his eyes upon
Rosalie. He saw her mother and her father, and talked with them; he
saw 'squire this and doctor that, and attorney such-a-one, and had
fifty things to say to each of them; he had eyes and tongue for every
body, but Rosalie--not a look, or a word did he exchange with her; yet
he was here and there and every where! In short he was all
communicativeness and vivacity, so that every one remarked how bright
he had become since his last visit to college!

At last, however, his fine spirits all at once seemed to forsake him,
and he withdrew to the library, which was lighted up for the occasion
as an anti-room, and taking a volume out of the book-case, threw
himself into a chair and began to turn over the leaves.

"Have you forgotten your little wife," said a soft voice near
him--'twas Rosalie's--"if you _have_," she added as he started from
his seat, "she has not forgotten you."

She wore a carnation in her hair--the hue of the flower was not deeper
than that of her cheek as she stood and extended her hands to Theodore
who, the moment he rose, had held forth both of his.

"Rosalie!"

"Theodore!"--He led her to a sofa, which stood in a recess on the
opposite side of the room, and for five minutes not another word did
they exchange.

At length she gently withdrew her hand from his--she had suffered him
to hold it all that time--"We shall be observed," said she.

"Ah Rosalie," replied he, "nine months since you sat upon my knee, and
they observed us, yet you did not mind it!"

"You know I am a woman now," rejoined Rosalie, hanging her head,
"and--and--will you lead off the next dance with me?" cried she,
suddenly changing the subject. "There now; I have asked you," added
she, "which is more than you deserve!"--Of course Theodore was not at
all happy to accept the challenge of the metamorphosed Rosalie.

One might suppose that the young lady's heart was interested, and that
Theodore was a far happier man than he imagined himself to be. The
fact was neither more nor less. Little Rosalie was proud of being
called Theodore's wife, because she heard every body else speak in
praise of him. Many a marriageable young lady had she heard
declare--not minding to speak before a child--that Theodore was the
finest young man {24} in B----; that she hoped Theodore would be at
such or such a house where she was going to dine, or spend the
evening; nay, that she would like to have a sweetheart like Theodore.
Then would Rosalie interpose, and with a saucy toss of her head
exclaim, nobody should have Theodore but Rosalie, for Rosalie was his
little wife, 'twas thus she learned to admire the face and person of
Theodore, who more than once paid for her acquired estimation of them;
for sometimes before a whole room full of company she would march up
to him, and scanning him from head to foot, with folded arms, at
length declare aloud, that he _was_ the handsomest young man in B----.
Then Theodore was so kind to her, and thought so much of any thing she
did, and took such notice of her! Often, at a dance, he would make her
his partner for the whole evening; and there was Miss Willoughby,
perhaps, or Miss Miller, sitting down, either of whom would have given
her eyes to stand up if only in a reel with Theodore.

But when the summer of her seventeenth year beheld her bursting into
womanhood; when her expanding thoughts, from a bounding, fitful,
rill-like current, began to run a deep, a broad, and steady stream;
when she found that she was almost arrived at the threshold of the
world, and reflected that the step which marks a female's first
entrance into it is generally taken in the hand of a partner--the
thought of who that partner might be, recalled Theodore to her
mind--and her heart fluttered as she asked herself the
question--should she ever be indeed his wife? when, this time, he paid
his first visit, Rosalie was as much mortified as he was. Her vexation
was increased when she saw that he absented himself; she resolved, if
possible, to ascertain the cause; and persuaded her mother to give a
ball, and specially invite the young gentleman. He came: she watched
him, observed that he neither inquired after her nor sought for her;
and marked the excellent terms that he was upon with twenty people,
about whom she knew him to be perfectly indifferent. Women have a
perception of the workings of the heart, far more quick and subtle
than we have. She was convinced that all his fine spirits were
forced--that he was acting a part. She suspected that while he
appeared to be occupied with every body but Rosalie--Rosalie was the
only body that was running in his thoughts. She saw him withdraw to
the library; she followed him; found him sitting down with a book in
his hand; perceived, from his manner of turning over the leaves, that
he was intent on any thing but reading.--She was satisfied that he was
thinking of nothing but Rosalie. The thought that Rosalie might one
day become indeed his wife, now occurred to her for the thousandth
time, and a thousand times stronger than ever; a spirit diffused
itself through her heart which had never been breathed into it before;
and filling it with hope and happiness, and unutterable contentment,
irresistibly drew _it_ towards him. She approached him, accosted him,
and in a moment was seated with him, hand in hand, upon the sofa!

As soon as the dance was done,--"Rosalie," said Theodore, "'tis almost
as warm in the air as in the room! will you be afraid to take a turn
with me in the garden?"

"I will get my shawl in a minute," said Rosalie, "and meet you there;"
and the maiden was there almost as soon as he.

They proceeded, arm-in-arm, to the farthest part of the garden; and
there they walked up and down without either seeming inclined to
speak, as though their hearts could discourse through their hands,
which were locked in one another.

"Rosalie!" at last breathed Theodore. "Rosalie!" breathed he a second
time, before the expecting girl could summon courage to say "Well!" "I
cannot go home to-night," resumed he, "without speaking to you." Yet
Theodore seemed to be in no hurry to speak; for there he stopped, and
continued silent so long that Rosalie began to doubt whether he would
open his lips again.

"Had we not better go in?" said Rosalie, "I think I hear them breaking
up."

"Not yet," replied Theodore.

"They'll miss us," said Rosalie.

"What of that?" rejoined Theodore.

"Nay," resumed the maid, "we have remained long enough, and at least
allow me to go in."

"Stop but another minute, dear Rosalie!" imploringly exclaimed the
youth.

"For what!" was the maid's reply.

"Rosalie," without a pause resumed Theodore, "you used to sit upon my
knee, and let me call you wife. Are those times passed forever? dear
Rosalie!--will you never let me take you on my knee and call you wife
again?"

"When we have done with our girlhood, we have done with our plays,"
said Rosalie.

"I do not mean in _play_, dear Rosalie," cried Theodore. "It is not
playing at man and wife to walk, as such, out of church. Will you
marry me, Rosalie?"

Rosalie was silent.

"Will you marry me?" repeated he.

Not a word would Rosalie speak.

"Hear me?" cried Theodore. "The first day, Rosalie, I took you upon my
knee, and called you my wife, jest as it seemed to be, my heart was
never more in earnest. That day I wedded you in my soul; for though
you were a child, I saw the future woman in you, rich in the richest
attractions of your sex. Nay, do me justice; recal what you yourself
have known of me; inquire of others. To whom did I play the suitor
from that day? To none but you, although to you I did not seem to play
it. Rosalie! was I not always with you? Recollect now! did a day pass,
when I was at home, without my coming to your father's house! When
there were parties there, whom did I sit beside, but you? Whom did I
stand behind at the piano forte, but you? Nay for a whole night, whom
have I danced with, but you? Whatever you might have thought _then_,
can you believe _now_, that it was merely a playful child that could
so have engrossed me? No, Rosalie! it was the virtuous, generous,
lovely, loving woman, that I saw in the playful child. Rosalie! for
five years have I loved you, though I never declared it to you till
now. Do you think I am worthy of you? Will you give yourself to me?
Will you marry me? Will you sit upon my knee again, and let me call
you wife?"

Three or four times Rosalie made an effort to speak; but desisted, as
if she knew not what to say, or was unable to say what she wished;
Theodore still holding her hand. At last, "Ask my father's consent!"
she exclaimed, and tried to get away; but before she could effect it
she was clasped to the bosom of Theodore, nor released until the
interchange of the first pledge of love had been forced from her
bashful lips!--She did not appear, that night, in the drawing-room
again.

Theodore's addresses were sanctioned by the parents of Rosalie. The
wedding day was fixed; it wanted but a fortnight to it, when a
malignant fever made its appearance in the town; Rosalie's parents
were the first victims. She was left an orphan at eighteen, and her
uncle, by her mother's side, who had been nominated her guardian in a
will, made several years, having followed his brother-in-law and
sister's remains to the grave, took up his residence at B----.

Rosalie's sole consolation now was such as she received from the
society of Theodore; but Theodore soon wanted consolation himself. His
father was attacked by the fever and died, leaving his affairs, to the
astonishment of every one, in a state of the most inextricable
embarrassment; for he had been looked upon as one of the wealthiest
inhabitants of B----. This was a double blow to Theodore, but he was
not aware of the weight of it till, after the interment of his father,
he repaired, for the first time to resume his visits to his Rosalie.

He was stepping up without ceremony to the drawing-room, when the
servant begged his pardon for stopping him, telling him, at the same
time, that he had {25} received instructions from his master to shew
Theodore into the parlor when he should call.

"Was Miss Wilford there?"

"No." Theodore was shewn into the parlor. Of all savage brutes, the
human brute is the most pernicious and revolting, because he unites to
the evil properties of the inferior animal the mental faculties of the
superior one; and then he is at large. A vicious tempered dog you can
muzzle and render innocuous; but there is no preventing the human dog
that bites from fleshing his tooth; he is sure to have it in somebody.
And then the infliction is so immeasurably more severe!--the quick of
the mind is so much more extensive than that of the body! Besides, the
savage that runs upon four legs is so inferior in performance to him
that walks upon two? 'Tis he that knows how to gnaw! I have often
thought it a pity and a sin that the man who plays the dog should be
protected from dying the death of one. He should hang, and the other
go free.

"Well, young gentleman!" was the salutation which Theodore received
when he entered the parlor; "and pray what brings you here?"

Theodore was struck dumb; and no wonder.

"Your father, I understand, has died a beggar! Do you think to marry
my niece?" If Theodore respired with difficulty before, his breath was
utterly taken away at this. He was a young man of spirit, but who can
keep up his heart, when his ship, all at once, is going down.

The human dog went on. "Young gentleman, I shall be plain with you,
for I am a straightforward man; young women should mate with their
matches--you are no match for my niece; so a good morning to you!" How
more in place to have wished him a good halter! saying this, the
straightforward savage walked out of the room, leaving the door wide
open, that Theodore might have room for egress; and steadily walked up
stairs.

It was several minutes before he could recover his self-recollection.
When he did so he rang the bell.

"Tell your master I wish to speak to him," said Theodore to the
servant who answered it. The servant went up stairs after his master,
and returned.

"I am sorry, sir," said he, "to be the bearer of such an errand; but
my master desires you instantly to quit the house; and has commanded
me to tell you that he has given me orders not to admit you again."

"I must see Miss Wilford!" exclaimed Theodore.

"You cannot, sir!" respectfully remarked the servant, "for she is
locked in her room; but you can send a message to her," added he in a
whisper, "and I will be the bearer of it. There is not a servant in
the house, Mr. Theodore, but is sorry for you to the soul."

This was so much in season, and was so evidently spoken from the
heart, that Theodore could not help catching the honest fellow by the
hand. Here the drawing-room bell was rung violently.

"I must go, sir," said the servant; "what message to my mistress?"

"Tell her to give me a meeting, and to apprize me of the time and
place," said Theodore; and the next moment the hall door was shut upon
him.

One may easily imagine the state of the young fellow's mind. To be
driven with insult and barbarity from the house in which he had been
received a thousand times with courtesy and kindness--which he looked
upon as his own! Then, what was to be done? Rosalie's uncle, after
all, had told him nothing but the truth. His father had died a beggar!
Dear as Rosalie was to Theodore, his own pride recoiled at the idea of
offering her a hand which was not the master of a shilling! Yet was
not Theodore portionless. His education was finished; that term he had
completed his collegiate studies. If his father had not left him a
fortune, he had provided him with the means of making one himself--at
all events, of commanding a competency. He had the credit of being a
young man of decided genius, too. "I will not offer Rosalie a beggar's
hand!" exclaimed Theodore; "I shall ask her to remain true to me for a
year; and I'll go to London, and maintain myself by my pen. It may
acquire me fame as well as fortune; and then I may marry Rosalie?"

This was a great deal of work to be done in a year; but if Theodore
was not a man of genius, he possessed a mind of that sanguine
temperament, which is usually an accompaniment of the richer gift.
Before the hour of dinner all his plans were laid, and he was ready to
start for London. He waited for nothing but a message from Rosalie,
and as soon as the sweet girl could send it, it came to him. It
appointed him to meet her in the green lane after sunset; the sun had
scarcely set when he was there; and there, too, was Rosalie. He found
that she was Rosalie still. Fate had stripped him of fortune; but she
could not persuade Rosalie to refuse him her hand, or her lip; when,
half-way down the lane, she heard a light quick step behind her, and,
turning, beheld Theodore.

Theodore's wishes, as I stated before, were granted soon as
communicated: and now nothing remained but to say good by--perhaps the
hardest thing to two young lovers. Rosalie stood passive in the arms
of Theodore, as he took the farewell kiss, which appeared as if it
would join his lips to hers for ever, instead of tearing them away.
She heard her name called from a short distance, and in
half-suppressed voice; she started and turned towards the direction
whence the pre-concerted warning came; she heard it again; she had
stopped till the last moment! She had half withdrawn herself from
Theodore's arms; she looked at him; flung her own around him, and
burst into tears upon his neck!--In another minute there was nobody in
the lane.

London is a glorious place for a man of talent to make his way
in--provided he has extraordinary good luck. Nothing but merit can get
on there; nothing is sterling that is not of its coinage. Our
provincial towns won't believe that gold is gold unless it has been
minted in London. There is no trickery there; no treating, no
canvassing, no intrigue, no coalition! there, worth has only to show
itself if it wishes to be killed with kindness! London tells the
truth! You may swear to what it says--whatsoever may be proved to the
contrary. The cause--the cause is every thing in London! Shew but your
craft, and straight your brethren come crowding around you, and if
they find you worthy, why you shall be brought into notice--even
though they should tell a lie for it and damn you. Never trouble
yourself about getting on by interest in London! Get on by yourself.
Posts are filled there by merit: or if the man suits not the office,
why the office is made to adapt itself to the man, and so there is
unity after all! What a happy fellow was Theodore to find himself in
such a place as London!

He was certainly happy in one thing: the coach in which he came set
him down at a friend's whose circumstances were narrow, but whose
heart was large--a curate of the Church of England. Strange that, with
all the appurtenances of hospitality at its command, abundance should
allow it to be said, that the kindest welcome which adversity usually
meets with, is that which it receives from adversity! If Theodore
found that the house was a cold one to what he had been accustomed,
the warmth of the greeting made up for it. "They breakfasted at nine,
dined at four, and, if he could sleep upon the sofa, why there was a
bed for him!" In a day he was settled, and at his work.

And upon what did Theodore found his hopes of making a fortune, and
rising to fame in London?--Upon writing a play. At an early period he
had discovered, as his friends imagined, a talent for dramatic
composition; and having rather sedulously cultivated that branch of
literature, he thought he would now try his hand in one bold effort,
the success of which should determine him as to his future course in
life. The play was written, presented, and accepted; the performers
were ready in their parts; the evening of representation came on, and
Theodore, seated in the pit beside his friend, at last, with a
throbbing heart, beheld the {26} curtain rise. The first and second
acts went off smoothly, and with applause.

Two gentlemen were placed immediately in front of Theodore. "What do
you think of it?" said the one to the other.

"Rather tame," was the reply.

"Will it succeed?"

"Doubtful."

The third act, however, decided the fate of the play; the interest of
the audience became so intense, that, at one particular stage of the
action, numbers in the second and third rows of the side boxes stood
up, and the clapping of hands was universal, intermingled with cries
of "bravo!" from every part of the theatre. "'Twill do," was now the
remark, and Theodore breathed a little more freely than he had done
some ten minutes ago. Not to be tedious, the curtain fell amidst
shouts of approbation, unmingled with the slightest demonstration of
displeasure, and the author had not twenty friends in the house.

If Theodore did not sleep that night, it was not from inquietude of
mind--contentment was his repose. His most sanguine hopes had been
surpassed; the fiat of a London audience had stamped him a dramatist;
the way to fortune was open and clear, and Rosalie would be his.

Next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, Theodore and his friend
repaired to the coffee-room. "We must see what the critics say,"
remarked the latter. Theodore, with prideful confidence,--the
offspring of fair success,--took up the first morning print that came
to his hand. _Theatre Royal_ met his eye. "Happy is the successful
dramatist!" exclaimed Theodore to himself; "at night he is greeted by
the applause of admiring thousands, and in the morning they are
repeated, and echoed all over the kingdom through the medium of the
press! What will Rosalie say when her eye falls upon this!"--And what,
indeed, would Rosalie say when she read the utter damnation of her
lover's drama, which the critic denounced from the beginning to the
end, without presenting his readers with a single quotation to justify
the severity of his strictures!

"'Tis very odd!" said Theodore.

"'Tis very odd, indeed!" rejoined his friend, repeating his words.
"You told me this play was your own, and here I find that you have
copied it from half a dozen others that have been founded upon the
same story."

"Where?" inquired Theodore, reaching for the paper.

"There!" said his friend, pointing to the paragraph.

"And is this London," exclaimed Theodore. "I never read a play, nor
the line of a play upon the same subject. Why does not the writer
prove the plagiarism?"

"Because he does not know whether it is or is not a plagiarism,"
rejoined the other. "He is aware that several other authors have
constructed dramas upon the same passage in history; and--to draw the
most charitable inference, for you would not suspect him of telling a
deliberate lie--he thinks you have seen them, and have availed
yourself of them."

"Is it not the next thing to a falsehood," indignantly exclaimed
Theodore, "to advance a charge, of the justness of which you have not
assured yourself?"

"I know not that," rejoined his friend; "but it certainly indicates a
rather superficial reverence for truth; and a disposition to censure,
which excludes from all claim to ingenuousness the individual who
indulges it."

"And this will go the round of the whole kingdom?"

"Yes."

"Should I not contradict it?"

"No."

"Why?"

"'Tis beneath you; besides, the stamp of malignancy is so strong upon
it, that, except to the utterly ignorant, it is harmless; and even
these, when they witness your play themselves, as sometime or another
they will, will remember the libel, to the cost of its author and to
your advantage. I see you have been almost as hardly treated by this
gentleman," continued he, glancing over the paper which Theodore had
taken up when he entered the room. "Are you acquainted with any of the
gentlemen of the press?"

"No; and is it not therefore strange that I should have enemies among
them!"

"Not at all."

"Why?"

"Because you have succeeded. Look over the rest of the journals,"
continued his friend; "you may find salve, perhaps, for these
scratches."

Theodore did so; and in one or two instances salve, indeed, he found;
but upon the whole he was in little danger of being spoiled through
the praises of the press. "Why," exclaimed Theodore, "why do not
letters enlarge the soul, while they expand the mind? Why do they not
make men generous and honest? Why is not every literary man an
illustration of Juvenal's axiom?"

"Teach a dog what you may," rejoined his friend, "can you alter his
nature, so that the brute shall not predominate?"

"No," replied Theodore.

"You are answered," said his friend.

The play had what is called a run, but not a decided one. Night after
night it was received with the same enthusiastic applauses; but the
audiences did not increase. It was a victory without the acquisition
of spoils or territory. "What can be the meaning of this?" exclaimed
Theodore; "we seem to be moving, and yet do not advance an inch?"

"They should paragraph the play as they do a pantomime," remarked his
friend. "But then a pantomime is an expensive thing; they will lay out
a thousand pounds upon one, and they must get their money back. The
same is the case with their melo-dramas; so, if you want to succeed to
the height, as a play-wright, you know what to do."

"What?" inquired Theodore.

"Write melo-dramas and pantomimes!"

Six months had now elapsed, and Theodore's purse, with all his
success, was rather lighter than when he first pulled it out in
London. However, in a week two bills which he had taken from his
publisher would fall due, and he would run down to B----, and perhaps
obtain an interview with Rosalie. At the expiration of the week his
bills were presented, and dishonored! He repaired to his publisher's
for an explanation: the house had stopped! Poor Theodore! They were in
the gazette that very day! Theodore turned into the first coffee room
to look at a paper: there were, indeed, the names of the firm! "I defy
fortune to serve me a scurvier trick!" exclaimed Theodore, the tears
half starting into his eyes. He little knew the lady whose ingenuity
he was braving.

He looked now at one side of the paper, and now at the other, thinking
all the while of nothing but the bills and the bankrupt's list.
_Splendid Fete_ at B---- met his eye, and soon his thoughts were
occupied with nothing but B----; for there he read that the young lord
of the manor, having just come of age, had given a ball and supper,
the former of which he opened with the lovely and accomplished Miss
Rosalie ----. The grace of the fair couple was expatiated upon; and
the editor took occasion to hint, that a pair so formed by nature for
each other, might probably, before long, take hands in another, a
longer, and more momentous dance. What did Theodore think of fortune
now?

"O that it were but a stride to B----!" he exclaimed, as he laid down
the paper, and his hand dropped nerveless at his side. He left the
coffee-house, and dreamed his way back to his friend's. Gigs,
carriages, carts rolled by him unheeded; the foot path was crowded,
but he saw not a soul in the street. He was in the ball room at B----,
and looking on while the young lord of the manor handed out Rosalie to
lead her down the dance, through every figure of which Theodore
followed them with his eyes with scrutinizing glance, scanning the
countenance of his mistress. Then the set was over, and he saw them
walking arm-in-arm {27} up and down the room, and presently they were
dancing again; and now the ball was over, and he followed them to the
supper room, where he saw the young lord of the manor place Rosalie
beside him. Then fancy changed the scene from the supper room to the
church, at the altar of which stood Rosalie with his happy rival; and
he heard the questions and responses which forge the mystic chain that
binds for life; and he saw the ring put on, and heard the blessing
which announces that the nuptial sacrament is complete! His hands were
clenched; his cheek was in a flame; a wish was rising in his
throat--"Good news for you," said some one clapping him on the back:
"a letter from Rosalie lies for you at home. Why are you passing the
house?" 'Twas his friend.

"A letter from Rosalie!" exclaimed Theodore.--Quickly he retraced his
steps, and there on his table lay, indeed, the dear missive of his
Rosalie.

"Welcome, sweet comforter!" ejaculated Theodore, as he kissed the
cyphers which his Rosalie's hand had traced, and the wax which bore
the impress of her seal. "Welcome, O Welcome! you come in time: you
bring an ample solace for disappointment, mortification,
poverty--whatever my evil destiny can inflict! You have come to assure
me that they cannot deprive me of my Rosalie!"

Bright was his eye, and glistening while he spoke; but when he opened
the fair folds that conveyed to him thoughts of his mistress, its
radiancy was gone!

"THEODORE,

"I am aware of the utter frustration of your hopes; I am convinced
that at the end of a year you will not be a step nearer to fortune
than you are now; why then keep my hand for you? What I say briefly,
you will interpret fully. You are now the guardian of my happiness; as
such I address you. Thursday, so you consent, will be my wedding day.
ROSALIE."

Such was the letter, upon the address and seal of which Theodore had
imprinted a score of kisses before he opened it. "Fortune is in the
mood," said Theodore with a sigh, so deeply drawn, that any one who
had heard it would have imagined he had breathed his spirit out along
with it--"Fortune is in the mood, and let her have her humor out! I
shall answer the letter; my reply to her shall convey what she
desires--nothing more! she is incapable of entering into my feelings,
and unworthy of being made acquainted with them; I shall not
condescend even to complain!"

"ROSALIE,

"You are free! THEODORE."

Such was the answer which Theodore despatched to Rosalie. O the
enviable restlessness of the mind upon the first shock of thwarted
affection! How it turns every way for the solace which it feels it can
no more meet with, except in the perfect extinction of consciousness.
Find it an anodyne!--you cannot. A drug may close the eye for a time,
but the soul will not sleep a wink: it lies broad awake, to agony
distinct, palpable, immediate;--howsoever memory may be cheated to
lose for the present the traces of the cause. Then for the start, the
spasm, the groan which, while the body lies free, attest the presence
and activity of the mental rack! Better walk than go to sleep! A
heath, without a soul but yourself upon it!--an ink-black sky, pouring
down torrents--wind, lightning, thunder, as though the vault above was
crackling and disparting into fragments!--any thing to mount above the
pitch of your own solitude, and darkness, and tempest; and overcome
them, or attract and divert your contemplation from them, or threaten
every moment to put an end to them and you!

Theodore's friend scarcely knew him the next morning. He glanced at
him, and took no further notice. 'Twas the best way, though people
there are who imagine that it rests with a man in a fever, at his own
option to remain in it, or to become convalescent.

Theodore's feelings were more insupportable to him the second day than
the first. He went here and there and every where; and nowhere could
he remain for two minutes at a time at rest. Then he was so
abstracted. Crossing a street he was nearly run over by a vehicle and
four. This for a moment awakened him. He saw London and B---- upon the
pannels of the coach. The box seat was empty; he asked if it was
engaged. "No." He sprung up upon it and away they drove. "I'll see her
once more," exclaimed Theodore, "it can but drive me mad or break my
heart."

Within a mile of B---- a splendid barouch passed them. "Whose is
that?" inquired Theodore.

"The young lord of the manor's," answered the driver, "Did you see the
lady in it?"

"No."

"I caught a glimpse of her dress," said the driver. "I'll warrant
she's a dashing one! The young squire, they say, has a capital taste!"
Theodore looked after the carriage. There was nothing but the road.
The vehicle drove at a rapid pace, and was soon out of sight.
Theodore's heart turned sick.

The moment the coach stopped he alighted, and with a misgiving mind he
stood at the door which had often admitted him to his Rosalie. It was
opened by a domestic whom he had never seen before. "Was Miss Wilford
within?" "No." "When would she return?" "Never. She had gone that
morning to London to be married!" Theodore made no further inquiries,
neither did he offer to go, but stood glaring upon the man more like a
spectre than a human being.

"Any thing more?" said the man retreating into the house, and
gradually closing the door, through which now only a portion of his
face could be seen. "Any thing more?" Theodore made no reply: in fact
he had lost all consciousness. At last, the shutting of the door,
which half from panic, half from anger the man pushed violently to,
aroused him. "I shall knock at you no more!" said he, and departed,
pressing his heart with his hand, and moving his limbs as if he cared
not how, or whither they bore him. A gate suddenly stopped his
progress; 'twas the entrance to the green lane. He stepped over the
stile--he was on the spot where he had parted last from Rosalie--where
she had flung her arms about his neck, and wept upon it. His heart
began to melt, for the first time since he had received her letter: a
sense of suffocation came over him, till he felt as if he would choke.
The name of Rosalie was on his tongue: twice he attempted to
articulate it, but could not. At last it got vent in a convulsive sob,
which was followed by a torrent of tears. He threw himself upon the
ground--he wept on--he made no effort to check the flood, but let it
flow till forgetfulness stopped it.

He rose with a sensation of intense cold.

'Twas morning! He had slept! "Would he had slept on!" He turned from
the sun, at it rose without a cloud, upon the wedding morn of Rosalie.
'Twas Thursday. He repassed the stile; and, in a few minutes, was on
his road to London, which he entered about eleven o'clock at night,
and straight proceeded to his friend's. They were gone to bed.

"Give me a light," said Theodore, "I'll go to bed."

"Your bed is occupied, sir," replied his servant.

"Is it?" said Theodore; "Well, I can sleep upon the carpet." He turned
into the parlor, drew a chair towards the table, upon which the
servant had placed a light, and sat down. All was quiet for a time.
Presently he heard a foot upon the stair; it was his friend's who was
descending, and now entered the parlor.

"I thought you were abed," said Theodore.

"So I was," replied his friend, "but hearing your voice in the hall, I
rose and came down to you." He drew a chair opposite to Theodore. Both
were silent for a time; at length Theodore spoke.

"Rosalie is married," said he.

"I don't believe it."

"She is going to be married to the young lord of the manor."

"I don't believe it."

"She came to town with him yesterday."

{28} "I don't believe it."

Theodore pushed back his chair, and stared at his friend.

"What do you mean?" said Theodore.

"I mean that I entertain some doubts as to the accuracy of your
grounds for concluding that Rosalie is inconstant to you."

"Did I not read the proof of it in the public papers?"

"The statement may have been erroneous."

"Did not her own letter assure me of it?"

"You may have misunderstood it."

"I tell you I have been at B----; I have been at her house. I inquired
for her, and was told she had gone up to London to be married! Oh, my
friend," continued he, covering his eyes with his handkerchief,--"'tis
useless to deceive ourselves. I am a ruined man! You can see to what
she has reduced me. I shall never be myself again! Myself! I tell you
I existed in _her_ being more than in my own. She was the soul of all
I thought, and felt, and did; the primal vivifying principle! She has
murdered me! I breathe it is true, and the blood is in my veins and
circulates; but every thing else about me is death--hopes! wishes!
interests! there is no pulse, no respiration there! I should not be
sorry were there none any where else! Feel my hand," added he,
reaching his hand across the table, without removing his handkerchief
from his eyes; for the sense of his desolation had utterly unmanned
him, and his tears continued to flow. "Feel my hand. Does it not burn.
A hearty fever, now would be a friend," continued he, "and I think I
have done my best to merit a call from such a visitor. The whole of
the night before last I slept out in the open air. Guess where I took
my bed. In the green lane--the spot where I parted last from
Rosalie!"--He felt a tear drop upon the hand which he had
extended--the tear was followed by the pressure of a lip. He uncovered
his eyes, and turning them in wonderment to look upon his
friend--beheld Rosalie sitting opposite to him!

For a moment or two he questioned the evidence of his senses--but soon
was he convinced that it was indeed reality; for Rosalie, quitting her
seat, approached him, and breathing his name with an accent that
infused ecstasy into his soul, threw herself into his arms, that
doubtingly opened to receive her.

       *       *       *       *       *

Looking over her father's papers, Rosalie had found a more recent
will, in which her union with Theodore had been fully sanctioned, and
he himself constituted her guardian until it should take place. She
was aware that his success in London had been doubtful; the generous
girl determined that he should no longer be subjected to incertitude
and disappointment; and she playfully wrote the letter which was a
source of such distraction to her lover. From his answer she saw that
he had totally misinterpreted her: she resolved in person to disabuse
him of the error; and by offering to become his wife, at once to give
him the most convincing proof of her sincerity and constancy. She
arrived in London. His friend, who had known her from her infancy,
received her as his daughter; and he and his wife listened with
delight to the unfolding of her plans and intentions, which she freely
confided to them. Late they sat up for Theodore that night, and when
all hopes of his coming home were abandoned, Rosalie became the
occupant of his bed. The next night, in a state of this most
distressing anxiety, in consequence of his continued absence, she had
just retired to her apartment, when a knock at the street door made
her bound from her couch, upon which she had at that moment thrown
herself, and presently she heard her lover's voice at the foot of the
stair. Scarcely knowing what she did, she attired herself, descended,
opened the parlor door unperceived by Theodore, and took the place of
their friendly host, who, the moment he saw her, beckoned her, and
resigning his chair to her, withdrew.

The next evening a select party were assembled in the curate's little
drawing-room, and Theodore and Rosalie were there. The lady of the
house motioned the latter to approach her, she rose and was crossing
Theodore, when he caught her by the hand, and drew her upon his knee.

"Theodore!" exclaimed the fair one, coloring.

"My wife," was his reply, while he imprinted a kiss upon her lips.

They had been married that morning.




THE PATRIARCH.

  "Gently on him, had gentle Nature laid
   The weight of years.--All passions that disturb
   Had passed away."--_Southey_.


Soon after my entrance upon clerical duties, in the state of North
Carolina, I was informed of an isolated settlement, at a considerable
distance from the place of my residence. Its original elements were
emigrants from New England; a father, and his five sons, who, with
their wives and little children, had about thirty years before become
sojourners in the heart of one of the deepest Carolinian solitudes.
They purchased a tract of wild, swamp-encircled land. This they
subjected to cultivation, and by unremitting industry, rendered
adequate to their subsistence and comfort. The sons, and the sons'
sons, had in their turn become the fathers of families; so, that the
population of this singular spot comprised five generations. They were
described as constituting a peaceful and virtuous community, with a
government purely patriarchal. Secluded from the privileges of public
worship, it was said that a sense of religion, influencing the heart
and conduct, had been preserved by statedly assembling on the sabbath,
and reading the scriptures, with the Liturgy of the Church of England.
The pious ancestor of the colony, whose years now surpassed
four-score, had, at their removal to this hermitage, established his
eldest son in the office of lay-reader. This simple ministration,
aided by holy example, had so shared the blessing of heaven, that all
the members of this miniature commonwealth held fast the faith and
hope of the gospel.

I was desirous of visiting this peculiar people, and of ascertaining
whether such precious fruits might derive nutriment from so simple a
root. A journey into that section of the country afforded me an
opportunity. I resolved to be the witness of their Sunday devotions,
and with the earliest dawn of that consecrated day, I left the house
of a friend, where I had lodged, and who furnished the requisite
directions for my solitary and circuitous route.

The brightness and heat of summer began to glow oppressively, ere I
turned from the haunts of men, and plunged into the recesses of the
forest. Towering amidst shades which almost excluded the light of
heaven, rose the majestic pines, the glory and the wealth of North
Carolina. Some, like the palms, those princes of the East, reared a
proud column of fifty feet, ere the branches shot forth their
heavenward cone. With their dark verdure, mingled the pale and
beautiful efflorescence of the wild poplar, like the light interlacing
of sculpture, in some ancient awe-inspiring temple, while thousands of
birds from those dark cool arches, poured their anthems of praise to
the Divine Architect.

The sun was high in the heavens when I arrived at the morass, the
bulwark thrown by Nature around this little city of the desert.
Alighting, I led my horse over the rude bridges of logs, which
surmounted the pools and ravines, until our footing rested upon firm
earth. Soon, an expanse of arable land became visible, and wreaths of
smoke came lightly curling through the trees, as if to welcome the
stranger. Then, a cluster of cottages cheered the eye. They were so
contiguous, that the blast of a horn, or even the call of a shrill
voice, might convene all their inhabitants. To the central and the
largest building, I directed my steps. Approaching the open window, I
heard a distinct manly voice, pronouncing the solemn invocation,--"By
thine agony, and bloody sweat,--by thy cross and {29} passion,--by thy
precious death and burial,--by thy glorious resurrection and
ascension,--and by the coming of the Holy Ghost." The response arose,
fully and devoutly, in the deep accents of manhood, and the softer
tones of the mother and her children.

Standing motionless, that I might not disturb the worshippers, I had a
fair view of the lay-reader. He was a man of six feet in height,
muscular and well proportioned, with a head beautifully symmetrical,
from whose crown time had begun to shred the luxuriance of its raven
locks. Unconscious of the presence of a stranger, he supposed that no
eye regarded him, save that of his God. Kneeling around him, were his
"brethren according to the flesh," a numerous and attentive
congregation. At his right hand was the Patriarch--tall, somewhat
emaciated, yet not bowed with years, his white hair combed smoothly
over his temples, and slightly curling on his neck. Gathered near him,
were his children, and his children's children. His blood was in the
veins of almost every worshipper. Mingling with forms that evinced the
ravages of time and toil, were the bright locks of youth, and the rosy
brow of childhood, bowed low in supplication. Even the infant, with
hushed lip, regarded a scene where was no wandering glance.
Involuntarily, my heart said,--_"Shall not this be a family in
Heaven?"_ In the closing aspirations, "O Lamb of God! that takest away
the sins of the world, have mercy upon us!"--the voice of the
Patriarch was heard, with strong and affecting emphasis. After a pause
of silent devotion, all arose from their knees, and I entered the
circle.

"I am a minister of the gospel of Jesus Christ. I come to bless you in
the name of the Lord."

The ancient Patriarch, grasping my hand, gazed on me with intense
earnestness. A welcome, such as words have never uttered, was written
on his brow.

"Thirty-and-two years has my dwelling been in this forest. Hitherto,
no man of God hath visited us. Praised be his name, who hath put it
into thy heart, to seek out these few sheep in the wilderness.
Secluded as we are, from the privilege of worshipping God in his
temple, we thus assemble every Sabbath, to read his holy Book, and to
pray unto him in the words of our liturgy. Thus have we been preserved
from 'forgetting the Lord who bought us, and lightly esteeming the
Rock of our Salvation.'"

The exercises of that day are indelibly engraven on my memory. Are
they not written in the record of the Most High? Surely a blessing
entered into my own soul, as I beheld the faith, and strengthened the
hope of those true-hearted and devout disciples. Like him, whose
slumbers at Bethel were visited by the white-winged company of heaven,
I was constrained to say,--"Surely the Lord is in this place, and I
knew it not."

At the request of the Patriarch, I administered the ordinance of
baptism. It was received with affecting demonstrations of solemnity
and gratitude. The sacred services were protracted until the setting
of the sun. Still they seemed reluctant to depart. It was to them a
high and rare festival. When about to separate, the venerable
Patriarch introduced me to all his posterity. Each seemed anxious to
press my hand; and even the children expressed, by affectionate
glances, their reverence and love for him who ministered at the altar
of God.

"The Almighty," said the ancient man, "hath smiled on these babes,
born in the desert. I came hither with my sons and their companions,
and their blessed mother, who hath gone to rest. God hath given us
families as a flock. We earn our bread with toil and in patience. For
the intervals of labor we have a school, where our little ones gain
the rudiments of knowledge. Our only books of instruction, are the
bible and prayer-book."

At a signal they rose and sang, when about departing to their separate
abodes,--"Glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace, and good
will towards men." Never, by the pomp of measured melody, was my
spirit so stirred within me, as when that rustic, yet tuneful choir,
surrounding the white-haired father of them all, breathed out in their
forest sanctuary, "Thou, that takest away the sins of the _world_,
have mercy upon _us_."

The following morning, I called on every family, and was delighted
with the domestic order, economy, and concord, that prevailed. Careful
improvement of time, and moderated desires, seemed uniformly to
produce among them, the fruits of a blameless life and conversation.
They conducted me to their school. Its teacher was a grand-daughter of
the lay-reader. She possessed a sweet countenance, and gentle manners,
and with characteristic simplicity, employed herself at the
spinning-wheel, when not absorbed in the labors of instruction. Most
of her pupils read intelligibly, and replied with readiness to
questions from Scripture History. Writing and arithmetic were well
exemplified by the elder ones; but those works of science, with which
our libraries are so lavishly supplied, had not found their way to
this retreat. But among the learners was visible, what does not always
distinguish better endowed seminaries; docility, subordination, and
profound attention to every precept and illustration. Habits of
application and a desire for knowledge were infused into all. So
trained up were they in industry, that even the boys, in the intervals
of their lessons, were busily engaged in the knitting of stockings for
winter. To the simple monitions which I addressed to them, they
reverently listened; and ere they received the parting blessing, rose,
and repeated a few passages from the inspired volume, and lifted up
their accordant voices, chanting, "blessed be the Lord God of Israel,
for he hath visited and redeemed his people."

Whatever I beheld in this singular spot, served to awaken curiosity,
or to interest feeling. All my inquiries were satisfied with the
utmost frankness. Evidently, there was nothing which required
concealment. The heartless theories of fashion, with their subterfuges
and vices, had not penetrated to this hermetically sealed abode. The
Patriarch, at his entrance upon his territory, had divided it into six
equal portions, reserving one for himself, and bestowing another on
each of his five sons. As the children of the colony advanced to
maturity, they, with scarcely an exception, contracted marriages among
each other, striking root, like the branches of the banian, around
their parent tree. The domicile of every family was originally a rude
cabin of logs, serving simply the purpose of shelter. In front of
this, a house of larger dimensions was commenced, and so constructed,
that the ancient abode might become the kitchen, when the whole was
completed. To the occupation of building they attended as they were
able to command time and materials. "We keep it," said one of the
colonists, "for _handy-work_, when there is no farming, or
turpentine-gathering, or tar-making." Several abodes were at that
time, in different stages of progress, marking the links of gradation
between the rude cottage, and what they styled the "framed house."
When finished, though devoid of architectural elegance, they exhibited
capabilities of comfort, equal to the sober expectations of a
primitive people. A field for corn, and a garden abounding with
vegetables, were appendages to each habitation. Cows grazed quietly
around, and sheep dotted like snow-flakes, the distant green pastures.
The softer sex participated in the business of horticulture, and when
necessary, in the labors of harvest, thus obtaining that vigor and
muscular energy which distinguish the peasantry of Europe, from their
effeminate sisters of the nobility and gentry. Each household produced
or manufactured within its own domain, most of the materials which
were essential to its comfort; and for such articles as their
plantations could not supply, or their ingenuity construct, the
pitch-pine was their medium of purchase. When the season arrived for
collecting its hidden treasures, an aperture was made in its bark, and
a box inserted, into which the turpentine continually oozed. Care was
required to preserve this orifice free from the induration of
glutinous matter. Thus, it must be frequently reopened, or carried
gradually upward on the trunk of the {30} tree; sometimes, to such a
height, that a small knife affixed to the extremity of a long pole, is
used for that purpose. Large trees sustain several boxes at the same
time, though it is required that the continuity of bark be preserved,
or the tree, thus shedding its life-blood at the will of man, must
perish. Though the laborers in this department are exceedingly
industrious and vigilant, there will still be a considerable deposit
adhering to the body of the tree. These portions, called "turpentine
facings," are carefully separated, and laid in a cone-like form, until
they attain the size of a formidable mound. This is covered with
earth, and when the cool season commences, is ignited; and the liquid
tar, flowing into a reservoir prepared for it, readily obtains a
market among the dealers in naval stores.

Shall I be forgiven for such minuteness of detail? So strongly did
this simple and interesting people excite my affectionate solicitude,
that not even their slightest concerns seemed unworthy of attention.
By merchants of the distant town, who were in habits of traffic with
them, I was afterwards informed that they were distinguished for
integrity and uprightness, and that the simple affirmation of these
"Bible and Liturgy men," as they were styled, possessed the sacredness
of an oath. The lay-reader remarked to me, that he had never known
among his people, a single instance of either intemperance or
profanity.

"Our young men have no temptations, and the old set an uniformly sober
example. Still, I cannot but think our freedom from vice is chiefly
owing to a sense of religious obligation, cherished by God's blessing
upon our humble worship."

"Are there no quarrels or strifes among you?"

"For what should we contend? We have no prospect of wealth, nor motive
of ambition. We are too busy to dispute about words. Are not these the
sources of most of the 'wars and fightings' among mankind? Beside, we
are all of one blood. Seldom does any variance arise, which the force
of brotherhood may not quell. Strict obedience is early taught in
families. Children who learn thoroughly the Bible-lesson to obey and
honor their parents, are not apt to be contentious in society, or
irreverent to their Father in Heaven. Laws so simple would be
inefficient in a mixed and turbulent community. Neither could they be
effectual here, without the aid of that gospel which speaketh peace,
and prayer for his assistance, who 'turneth the hearts of the
disobedient to the wisdom of the just.'"

Is it surprising that I should take my leave, with an overflowing
heart, of the pious Patriarch and his posterity?--that I should
earnestly desire another opportunity of visiting their isolated
domain?

Soon after this period, a circumstance took place, which they numbered
among the most interesting eras of their history. A small chapel was
erected in the village nearest to their settlement. Though at the
distance of many miles, they anticipated its completion with delight.
At its consecration by the late Bishop Ravenscroft, as many of the
colonists as found it possible to leave home, determined to be
present. Few of the younger ones had ever entered a building set apart
solely for the worship of God; and the days were anxiously counted,
until they should receive permission to tread his courts.

The appointed period arrived. Just before the commencement of the
sacred services of dedication, a procession of singular aspect was
seen to wind along amid interposing shades. It consisted of persons of
both sexes, and of every age, clad in a primitive style, and advancing
with solemn order. I recognized my hermit friends, and hastened onward
to meet them. Scarcely could the ancient Jews, when from distant
regions they made pilgrimage to their glorious hill of Zion, have
testified more touching emotion, than these guileless worshippers, in
passing the threshold of this humble temple to Jehovah. When the sweet
tones of a small organ, mingling with the voices of a select choir,
gave "glory to the Father, to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost, as it
was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end,"
the young children of the forest started from their seats in wondering
joy, while the changing color, or quivering lip of the elders, evinced
that the hallowed music awoke the cherished echoes of memory.

But with what breathless attention did they hang on every word of
Bishop Ravenscroft, as with his own peculiar combination of zeal and
tenderness, he illustrated the inspired passage which he had chosen,
or with a sudden rush of strong and stormy eloquence broke up the
fountains of the soul! Listening and weeping, they gathered up the
manna, which an audience satiated with the bread of heaven, and
prodigal of angels' food, might have suffered to perish. With the
hoary Patriarch, a throng of his descendants, who had been duly
prepared for that holy vow and profession, knelt around the altar, in
commemoration of their crucified Redeemer.

At the close of the communion service, when about to depart to his
home, the white-haired man drew near to the Bishop. Gratitude for the
high privileges in which he had participated; reverence for the father
in God, whom he had that day for the first time beheld; conviction
that his aged eyes could but a little longer look on the things of
time; consciousness that he might scarcely expect again to stand amid
these his children, to "behold the fair beauty of the Lord, and to
inquire in his temple," overwhelmed his spirit. Pressing the hand of
the Bishop, and raising his eyes heavenward, he said,--"Lord! now
lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen thy
salvation."

Bishop Ravenscroft fixed on him one of those piercing glances which
seemed to read the soul; and then tears, like large rain-drops stood
upon his cheeks. Recovering from his emotion, he pronounced, with
affectionate dignity, the benediction, "the Lord bless thee and keep
thee; the Lord make his face to shine upon thee, and be gracious unto
thee; the Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee
peace."

The Patriarch, bowing down a head, heavy with the snows of more than
fourscore winters, breathed a thanksgiving to God, and turned
homeward, followed by all his kindred. Summer had glided away ere it
was in my power again to visit the "lodge in the wilderness." As I was
taking in the autumn twilight my lonely walk for meditation, a boy of
rustic appearance, approaching with hasty steps, accosted me.

"Our white-haired father, the father of us all, lies stretched upon
his bed. He takes no bread or water, and he asks for you. Man of God,
will you come to him?"

Scarcely had I signified assent, ere he vanished. With the light of
the early morning, I commenced my journey. Autumn had infused
chillness into the atmosphere, and somewhat of tender melancholy into
the heart. Nature seems to regard with sadness the passing away of the
glories of summer, and to robe herself as if for humiliation.

As the sun increased in power, more of cheerfulness overspread the
landscape. The pines were busily disseminating their winged seeds.
Like insects, with a floating motion, they spread around for miles.
Large droves of swine made their repast upon this half ethereal food.
How mindful is Nature of even her humblest pensioners!

As I approached the cluster of cottages, which now assumed the
appearance of a village, the eldest son advanced to meet me. His head
declined like one struggling with a grief which he would fain subdue.
Taking my hand in both of his, he raised it to his lips. Neither of us
spoke a word. It was written clearly on his countenance, "Come
quickly, ere he die."

Together we entered the apartment of the good Patriarch. One glance
convinced me that he was not long to be of our company. His posterity
were gathered around him in sorrow;

  "For drooping,--sickening,--dying, they began,
   Whom they ador'd as _God_, to mourn as _man_."

{31} He was fearfully emaciated, but as I spake of the Saviour, who
"went not up to joy, until he first suffered pain," his brow again
lighted with the calmness of one, whose "way to eternal joy was to
suffer with Christ, whose door to eternal life gladly to die with
him."

Greatly comforted by prayer, he desired that the holy communion might
be once more administered to him, and his children. There was a
separation around his bed. Those who had been accustomed to partake
with him, drew near, and knelt around the dying. Fixing his eye on the
others, he said, with an energy of tone which we thought had forsaken
him,--_"Will ye thus be divided, at the last day?"_ A burst of wailing
grief was the reply.

Never will that scene be effaced from my remembrance: the expressive
features, and thrilling responses of the Patriarch, into whose
expiring body the soul returned with power, that it might leave this
last testimony of faith and hope to those whom he loved, are among the
unfading imagery of my existence. The spirit seemed to rekindle more
and more, in its last lingerings around the threshold of time. In a
tone, whose clearness and emphasis surprised us, the departing saint
breathed forth a blessing on those who surrounded him, "in the name of
that God, whose peace passeth all understanding."

There was an interval, during which he seemed to slumber. Whispers of
hope were heard around his couch, that he might wake and be refreshed.
At length, his eyes slowly unclosed. They were glazed and deeply
sunken in their sockets. Their glance was long and kind upon those who
hung over his pillow. His lips moved, but not audibly. Bowing my ear
more closely, I found that he was speaking of Him who is the
"resurrection and the life." A slight shuddering passed over his
frame, and he was at rest, for ever.

A voice of weeping arose from among the children, who had been
summoned to the bed of death. Ere I had attempted consolation, the
lay-reader with an unfaltering tone pronounced, "the Lord gave, and
the Lord hath taken away: _blessed be the name of the Lord._"

Deep silence ensued. It seemed as if every heart was installing him
who spake, in the place of the father and the governor who had
departed. It was a spontaneous acknowledgment of the right of
primogeniture, which no politician could condemn. He stood among them,
in the simple majesty of his birthright, a ruler and priest to guide
his people in the way everlasting. It was as if the mantle of an
arisen prophet had descended upon him, as if those ashen lips had
broken the seal of death to utter "behold my servant whom I have
chosen." Every eye fixed upon him its expression of fealty and love.
Gradually the families retired to their respective habitations. Each
individual paused at the pillow of the Patriarch, to take a silent
farewell; and some of the little ones climbed up to kiss the marble
face.

I was left alone with the lay-reader, and with the dead. The
enthusiasm of the scene had fled, and the feelings of a son triumphed.
Past years rushed like a tide over his memory. The distant, but
undimmed impressions of infancy and childhood,--the planting of that
once wild waste,--the changes of those years which had sprinkled his
temples with gray hairs,--all, with their sorrows and their joys, came
back, associated with the lifeless image of his beloved sire. In the
bitterness of bereavement, he covered his face, and wept. That iron
frame which had borne the hardening of more than half a century,
shook, like the breast of an infant, when it sobbed out its sorrows. I
waited until the first shock of grief had subsided. Then, passing my
arm gently within his, I repeated, "I heard a voice from heaven
saying,--Write, from henceforth, blessed are the dead, who die in the
Lord." Instantly raising himself upright, he responded in a voice
whose deep inflections sank into my soul, "Even so, saith the spirit,
for they rest from their labors, and their works do follow them."

I remained to attend the funeral obsequies of the Patriarch. In the
heart of their territory was a shady dell, sacred to the dead. It was
surrounded by a neat enclosure, and planted with trees. The drooping
branches of a willow, swept the grave of the mother of the colony.
Near her, slumbered her youngest son. Several other mounds swelled
around them, most of which, by their small size, told of the smitten
flowers of infancy. To this goodly company, we bore him, who had been
revered as the father and exemplar of all. With solemn steps, his
descendants, two and two, followed the corpse. I heard a convulsive
and suppressed breathing, among the more tender of the train; but when
the burial service commenced, all was hushed. And never have I more
fully realised its surpassing pathos and power, than when from the
centre of that deep solitude, on the brink of that waiting grave, it
poured forth its consolation.

"Man, that is born of woman, hath but a short time to live, and is
full of misery. He cometh up and is cut down like a flower. He fleeth
as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay. In the midst of
life, we are in death. Of whom may we seek succor but of thee, Oh
Lord!--who for our sins art justly displeased? Yet, O Lord God most
holy--O God most mighty,--O holy and most merciful Saviour, deliver us
not into the bitter pains of eternal death. Thou knowest, Lord, the
secrets of our hearts, shut not thy most merciful ears to our prayers,
but spare us, O Lord most holy,--O God most mighty,--O holy and
merciful Saviour,--suffer us not, at our last hour, for any pains of
death to fall from thee."

Circumstances compelled me to leave this mourning community
immediately after committing the dust of their pious ancestor to the
earth. They accompanied me to some distance on my journey, and our
parting was with mutual tears. Turning to view them, as their forms
mingled with the dark green of the forest, I heard the faint echo of a
clear voice. It was the lay-reader, speaking of the hope of the
resurrection: "If we believe that Christ died and rose again, even so
them also, that sleep in Jesus, will God bring with him."

Full of thought, I pursued my homeward way. I inquired, is Devotion
never encumbered, or impeded by the splendor that surrounds her? Amid
the lofty cathedral,--the throng of rich-stoled worshippers,--the
melody of the solemn organ,--does that incense never spend itself upon
the earth, that should rise to heaven? On the very beauty and glory of
its ordinances, may not the spirit proudly rest, and go no more forth
to the work of benevolence, nor spread its wing at the call of faith?

Yet surely, _there is a reality in religion_, though man may foolishly
cheat himself with the shadow. Here I have beheld it in simplicity,
disrobed of "all pomp and circumstance," yet with power to soothe the
passions into harmony, to maintain the virtues in daily and vigorous
exercise, and to give victory to the soul, when death vanquishes the
body. So, I took the lesson to my heart, and when it has languished or
grown cold, I have warmed it by the remembrance of the ever-living
faith, of those "few sheep in the wilderness."




MEMORY AND HOPE.

The following beautiful apologue, copied from the New York Mirror, is
from the pen of J. K. Paulding. We hope often to enrich our pages with
his productions. His style is a model of simplicity, vigor and ease,
which we should like to see more generally imitated by our Literary
writers.


Hope is the leading-string of youth--memory the staff of age. Yet for
a long time they were at variance, and scarcely ever associated
together. Memory was almost always grave, nay sad and melancholy. She
delighted in silence and repose, amid rocks and waterfalls; and
whenever she raised her eyes from the ground it was only to look back
over her shoulder. Hope was a smiling, dancing, rosy boy, with
sparkling eyes, and it was impossible to look upon him without being
inspired by his gay and sprightly buoyancy. Wherever he went he
diffused {32} around him gladness and joy; the eyes of the young
sparkled brighter than ever at his approach; old age as it cast its
dim glances at the blue vault of heaven, seemed inspired with new
vigor; the flowers looked more gay, the grass more green, the birds
sung more cheerily, and all nature seemed to sympathize in his
gladness. Memory was of mortal birth, but Hope partook of immortality.

One day they chanced to meet, and Memory reproached Hope with being a
deceiver. She charged him with deluding mankind with visionary,
impracticable schemes, and exciting expectations that only led to
disappointment and regret; with being the _ignis fatuus_ of youth, and
the scourge of old age. But Hope cast back upon her the charge of
deceit, and maintained that the pictures of the past were as much
exaggerated by Memory, as were the anticipations of Hope. He declared
that she looked at objects at a great distance in the past, he in the
future, and that this distance magnified every thing. "Let us make the
circuit of the world," said he, "and try the experiment." Memory
consented, reluctantly, and they went their way together.

The first person they met was a schoolboy, lounging lazily along, and
stopping every moment to gaze around, as if unwilling to proceed on
his way. By and by he sat down and burst into tears.

"Whither so _fast_, my good lad?" asked Hope, jeeringly.

"I am going to school," replied the lad, "to study, when I had rather
a thousand times be at play; and sit on a bench with a book in my hand
while I long to be sporting in the fields. But never mind, I shall be
a man soon, and then I shall be free as the air." Saying this, he
skipped away merrily, in the hope of soon being a man.

"It is thus you play upon the inexperience of youth," said Memory,
reproachfully.

Passing onward, they met a beautiful girl, pacing slow and melancholy
behind a party of gay young men and maidens, who walked arm in arm
with each other, and were flirting and exchanging all those little
harmless courtesies, which nature prompts on such occasions. They were
all gaily dressed in silks and ribbons; but the little girl had on a
simple frock, a homely apron, and clumsy thick-soled shoes.

"Why don't you join yonder group," asked Hope, "and partake in their
gaiety, my pretty little girl?"

"Alas!" replied she, "they take no notice of me. They call me a child.
But I shall soon be a woman, and then I shall be so happy!" Inspired
by this hope, she quickened her pace, and soon was seen dancing along
merrily with the rest.

In this manner they wended their way, from nation to nation, and clime
to clime, until they had made the circuit of the universe. Wherever
they came, they found the human race, which at this time was all
young--it being not many years since the first creation of
mankind--repining at the present, and looking forward to a riper age
for happiness. All anticipated some future good, and Memory had scarce
any thing to do but cast looks of reproach at her young companion.
"Let us return home," said she, "to that delightful spot where I first
drew my breath. I long to repose among its beautiful bowers; to listen
to the brooks that murmured a thousand times more musically; to the
birds that sung a thousand times sweeter; and to the echoes that were
softer than any I have since heard. Ah! there is nothing on earth so
enchanting as the scenes of my earliest youth."

Hope indulged himself in a sly, significant smile, and they proceeded
on their return home. As they journeyed but slowly, many rears elapsed
ere they approached the spot whence they had departed. It so happened
one day they met an old man, bending under the weight of years, and
walking with trembling steps, leaning on his staff. Memory at once
recognized him as the youth they had seen going to school, on their
first outset in the tour of the world. As they came nearer, the old
man reclined on his staff, and looking at Hope, who, being immortal,
was still a blithe young boy, sighed as if his heart was breaking.

"What aileth thee, old man?" asked the youth.

"What aileth me," he replied, in a feeble, faltering voice--"What
should ail me, but old age. I have outlived my health and strength; I
have survived all that was near and dear; I have seen all I loved, or
that loved me, struck down to the earth like dead leaves in autumn,
and now I stand like an old tree withering alone in the world, without
roots, without branches and without verdure. I have only just enough
of sensation to know that I am miserable, and the recollection of the
happiness of my youthful days, when careless and full of blissful
anticipation, I was a laughing, merry boy, only adds to the miseries I
now endure."

"Behold!" said Memory, "the consequence of thy deceptions," and she
looked reproachfully at her companion.

"Behold!" replied Hope, "the deception practised by thyself. Thou
persuadest him that he was happy in his youth. Dost thou remember the
boy we met when we first set out together, who was weeping on his way
to school, and sighing to be a man?"

Memory cast down her eyes and was silent.

A little way onward, they came to a miserable cottage, at the door of
which was an aged woman, meanly clad, and shaking with palsy. She sat
all alone, her head resting on her bosom, and as the pair approached,
vainly tried to raise it up to look at them.

"Good-morrow, old lady--and all happiness to you," cried Hope, gaily,
and the old woman thought it was a long time since she had heard such
a cheering salutation.

"Happiness!" said she, in a voice that quivered with weakness and
infirmity. "Happiness! I have not known it since I was a little girl,
without care or sorrow. O, I remember those delightful days, when I
thought of nothing but the present moment, nor cared for the future or
the past. When I laughed and played and sung, from morning till night,
and envied no one, or wished to be any other than I was. But those
happy times are past, never to return. O, if I could only once more
return to the days of my childhood!"

The old woman sunk back on her seat, and the tears flowed from her
hollow eyes.

Memory again reproached her companion, but he only asked her if she
recollected the little girl they had met a long time ago, who was so
miserable because she was so young? Memory knew it well enough, and
said not another word.

They now approached their home, and Memory was on tiptoe with the
thought of once more enjoying the unequalled beauties of those scenes
from which she had been so long separated. But, some how or other, it
seemed they were sadly changed. Neither the grass was so green, the
flowers so sweet and lovely, nor did the brooks murmur, the echoes
answer, or the birds sing half so enchantingly, as she remembered them
in long time past.

"Alas!" she exclaimed, "how changed is every thing! I alone am the
same."

"Every thing is the same, and thou alone art changed," answered Hope.
"Thou hast deceived thyself in the past just as much as I deceive
others in the future."

"What is it you are disputing about?" asked an old man, whom they had
not observed before, though he was standing close by them. "I have
lived almost four-score and ten years, and my experience may perhaps
enable me to decide between you."

They told him the occasion of their disagreement, and related the
history of their journey round the earth. The old man smiled, and for
a few moments sat buried in thought. He then said to them:

"I, too, have lived to see all the hopes of my youth turn into
shadows, clouds and darkness, and vanish into nothing. I, too, have
survived my fortune, my friends, my children--the hilarity of youth
and the blessing of health."

"And dost thou not despair?" said Memory.

"No, I have still one hope left me."

"And what is that?"

"The hope of heaven!"

Memory turned towards Hope, threw herself into his arms, which opened
to receive her, and burst into tears, exclaiming--"Forgive me, I have
done thee injustice. Let us never again separate from each other."

"With all my heart," said Hope, and they continued for ever after to
travel together hand and hand, through the world.




The publisher has received the prospectus of the "_Southern Magazine,
or Journal of Literature, Arts and Sciences_," to be published at
Charleston, S. Carolina, and edited by James Haig. This work "will
consist entirely of original matter in prose and verse, embracing all
subjects of general interest, and exclusive of controversial divinity
and party politics, accompanied with criticisms upon the productions
of the day, and notices of the most important passing events." It is
strongly recommended to public patronage by the Literary and
Philosophical Society of South Carolina--and subscriptions to it will
be cheerfully received at the office of the "Southern Literary
Messenger." The South is awakening!


{33}


SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. I.]  RICHMOND, OCTOBER 15, 1834.  [NO. 2.

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




TO THE PUBLIC, AND ESPECIALLY THE PEOPLE OF THE SOUTHERN STATES.


The favorable reception of the first number of the Messenger has been
a source of no small gratification. Letters have been received by the
publisher from various quarters, approving the plan of the
publication, and strongly commendatory of the work. The appeal to the
citizens of the south for support of a substantial kind, was not in
vain. Already enough have come forward as subscribers, to defray the
necessary expense of publication; and contributions to the columns of
the paper have been liberally offered from different quarters. The
publisher doubts not that with his present support, he will be enabled
to furnish a periodical replete with matter of an acceptable kind. The
useful and agreeable--the grave and gay--will be mingled in each
number, so as to give it a pleasing variety, and enable every reader
to find something to his taste. Thus will the paper become a source of
innocent amusement, and at the same time a vehicle of valuable
information.

That such a paper is to be desired in the southern states no one will
controvert, and all must be sensible that an increase of public
patronage will furnish the most effectual means of having what is
wanted. An enlarged subscription list would put it in the power of the
publisher to cater in the literary world on a more liberal scale; and
the extended circulation of the paper, which would be a consequence of
that subscription, would furnish a yet stronger inducement to many to
make valuable contributions.

The publisher also makes his grateful acknowledgements for the
friendly and liberal support received from various gentlemen residing
in the states north of the Potomac. Many in that quarter, of literary
and professional distinction, have kindly extended their patronage.

Already the number of contributions received, has greatly exceeded the
most sanguine expectations of the publisher. Still he would earnestly
invite the gifted pens of the country to repeat their favors, and
unite in extending the INFLUENCE OF LITERATURE.




LETTER FROM MR. WIRT TO A LAW STUDENT.


The countrymen of WILLIAM WIRT hold his memory in respect, not more
for his mental powers than for his pure morality. Every thing which
comes to light in regard to him, tends to show that his character has
not been too highly appreciated. The letter which occupies a portion
of this number, and which is now for the first time published,
exhibits him in a way strongly calculated to arrest attention. A young
gentleman who is about to leave the walls of a university, and looks
to the law as his profession, who is not related to or connected with
Mr. Wirt, nor even acquainted with him, and knows him only as an
ornament to his profession and his country, is induced by the high
estimate which he has formed of his character, and the great
confidence that might be reposed in any advice that he would give, to
ask at his hands some instruction as to the course of study best to be
pursued. Mr. Wirt, with constant occupation even at ordinary times,
is, at the period when this letter is received, busily employed in
preparing for the supreme court of the confederacy, then shortly to
commence its session. Yet notwithstanding the extent of his
engagements, he hastily prepares a long letter replete with advice,
and of a nature to excite the student to reach, if possible, the very
pinnacle of his profession. What can be better calculated to increase
our esteem for those who have attained the highest distinction
themselves, than to see them submit to personal trouble and
inconvenience, for the purpose of encouraging the young to come
forward and cope with them? It would seem as if there were something
in the profession of the law which tends to produce such liberality of
feeling. We find strong evidence of this, if we look to the course of
the two men who are generally regarded as at the head of the Virginia
bar. How utterly destitute are they of that close and narrow feeling
which, in other pursuits of life, not unfrequently leads the
successful man to depress others that his own advantages may with
greater certainty be retained.

A few remarks will now be made upon the contents of the letter. The
student, says Mr. Wirt, must cultivate most assiduously the habits of
reading, observing, above all of thinking: must make himself a master
in every branch of the science that belongs to the profession; acquire
a mastery of his own language, and when he comes to the bar speak to
the purpose and to the point. He is not merely to make himself a great
lawyer. General science must not be overlooked. History and politics,
statistics and political economy, are all to receive a share of
attention.

Much of this advice may well be followed by minds of every
description, but some portion of it seems better fitted for an
intellect of the highest order than for the great mass of those who
come to the bar. Lord _Mansfield_ could be a statesman and a jurist,
an orator of persuasive eloquence and acute reasoning, and a judge
"whose opinions may be studied as models." And Sir _William Jones_ has
shown that it was possible for the same individual to be a most
extensive linguist, an historian of great research, a person of
information upon matters the most varied, an author in poetry as well
as prose, and a writer of equal elegance upon legal and miscellaneous
subjects.

But these were men whose extraordinary endowments have caused the
world to admire their strength of understanding and their great
attainments. Mr. Wirt seems to think it best to open a field the whole
extent of which could only be reached by such minds as these, and
excite others to occupy as large a portion of it as practicable, by
inculcating the belief that "to unceasing diligence there is scarcely
any thing impossible."

That much may be effected by labor and perseverance, no one will
controvert. Mr. Butler is an example. He states, in his reminiscences,
that he was enabled to accomplish what he did, by never allowing
himself to be unemployed for a moment; rising early; dividing his time
systematically; and abstaining in a great degree from company and
other amusements. Yet while {34} the student is exhorted thus to
persevere, some caution may be requisite lest his time be lost amid
the variety of subjects that are laid before him in the extensive
course which Mr. Wirt has prescribed.

Generally speaking, the student of law will fail to attain the highest
point in his profession, unless the principal portion of his time be
given to that profession. While travelling the road to professional
distinction, he may, without greatly impeding his course, for the sake
of variety, occasionally wander to the right or to the left, provided
he will speedily return to his proper track. But if he open to himself
a variety of paths, walking alternately in them, and spending in one
as much time as in another, he will find that he can never travel far
in any. In _England_ the lawyer commonly devotes himself with great
constancy to his profession, and suffers his attention to be diverted
from it by nothing else. In our country, and especially in the
southern states, more politicians than lawyers are to be found at the
bar.--Hence the English lawyers are generally, as lawyers, more able
and more learned than those of our country. There, as well as here,
the lawyer who devotes a large portion of his life to politics, will
become less fit for his peculiar vocation.

Lord _Brougham_ is mentioned by Mr. Wirt, but he constitutes no
exception to this remark. He was, it is true, at the same time an
extensive practitioner at the bar, and a leading member of the House
of Commons. He kept pace with the literature of the day, and
contributed largely to the periodical press. The wonder was how he
could do all this and go into society so much as he did; how _he_
could do it, when so many able men found the profession of the law as
much as they could master. But his fellow practitioners could, to some
extent, solve the problem. The truth was, that Lord _Brougham_ was
more remarkable as an ingenious advocate than as an able lawyer, and
made a much better leader of the opposition than he has since made a
Lord Chancellor. There are many abler lawyers now presiding at his
bar, and the decrees of his master of the rolls are more respected
than his own.

In our country every one must, to some extent, be informed on the
subject of politics, that he may be enabled to discharge his duty as a
citizen; and history and general literature should certainly receive
from all a due share of attention. But if the student of law remember
what has oft been said of his profession, that the studies of even
twenty years will leave much behind that is yet to be grappled with
and mastered, he will perceive the necessity, if he desire to become a
profound jurist, of making all general studies ancillary and
subordinate to that which is his especial object. If he would know to
what extent his attention may be divided, he may take Mr. Wirt himself
as an example. In him extensive legal attainments were happily blended
with general knowledge; powers of argument and eloquence were well
combined; and in the forcible speaker was seen the accomplished
gentleman. His good taste and sense of propriety would never allow him
to descend to that low personality which has now become so common a
fault among the debaters of the day.

A word to the gentleman who forwarded the letter. His reasons for
transmitting it are not inserted, because it is believed that no
relative or friend of Mr. Wirt can possibly object to the publication
of _such_ a letter.

C.


BALTIMORE, DECEMBER 20, 1833.

_My dear sir:_

Your letter, dated "University of ----, December 12," was received on
yesterday morning--and although it finds me extremely busy in
preparing for the Supreme Court of the United States, I am so much
pleased with its spirit, that I cannot reconcile it to myself to let
it pass unanswered. If I were ever so well qualified to advise you, to
which I do not pretend, but little good could be done by a single
letter, and I have not time for more. Knowing nothing of the
peculiarities of your mental character, I can give no advice adapted
to your peculiar case. I am persuaded that education may be so
directed by a sagacious and skilful teacher, as to prune and repress
those faculties of the pupil which are too prone to luxuriance, and to
train and invigorate those which are disproportionately weak or slow;
so as to create a just balance among the powers, and enable the mind
to act with the highest effect of which it is capable. But it requires
a previous acquaintance with the student, to ascertain the natural
condition of his various powers, in order to know which requires the
spur and which the rein. In some minds, imagination overpowers and
smothers all the other faculties: in others, reason, like a sturdy
oak, throws all the rest into a sickly shade. Some men have a morbid
passion for the study of poetry--others, of mathematics, &c. &c. All
this may be corrected by discipline, so far as it may be judicious to
correct it. But the physician must understand the disease, and become
acquainted with all the idiosyncracies of the patient, before he can
prescribe. I have no advantage of this kind with regard to you; and to
prescribe by conjecture, would require me to conjecture every possible
case that _may_ be yours, and to prescribe for each, which would call
for a ponderous volume, instead of a letter. I believe that in all
sound minds, the germ of all the faculties exists, and may, by skilful
management, be wooed into expansion: but they exist, naturally, in
different degrees of health and strength, and as this matter is
generally left to the impulses of nature in each individual, the
healthiest and strongest germs get the start--give impulse and
direction to the efforts of each mind--stamp its character and shape
its destiny. As education, therefore, now stands among us, each man
must be his own preceptor in this respect, and by turning in his eyes
upon himself, and descrying the comparative action of his own powers,
discover which of them requires more tone--which, if any, less. We
must take care, however, not to make an erroneous estimate of the
relative value of the faculties, and thus commit the sad mistake of
cultivating the showy at the expense of the solid. With these
preliminary remarks, by way of explaining why I cannot be more
particular in regard to your case, permit me, instead of chalking out
a course of study by furnishing you with lists of books and the order
in which they should be read, (and no list of books and course of
study would be equally proper for all minds,) to close this letter
with a few general remarks.

If your _spirit_ be as stout and pure as your letter indicates, you
require little advice beyond that which you will find within the walls
of your University. A brave and pure spirit is more than "_half the
battle,_" not only in preparing for life, but in all its conflicts.
_Take {35} it for granted, that there is no excellence without great
labor._ No mere aspirations for eminence, however ardent, will do the
business. Wishing, and sighing, and imagining, and dreaming of
greatness, will never make you great. If you would get to the
mountain's top on which the temple of fame stands, it will not do _to
stand still_, looking, admiring, and wishing you were there. You must
gird up your loins, and go to work with all the indomitable energy of
Hannibal scaling the Alps. Laborious study, and diligent observation
of the world, are both indispensable to the attainment of eminence. By
the former, you must make yourself master of all that is known of
science and letters; by the latter, you must know _man_, at large, and
particularly the character and genius of your own countrymen. You must
cultivate assiduously the habits of _reading_, _thinking_, and
_observing_. Understand your own language grammatically, critically,
thoroughly: learn its origin, or rather its various origins, which you
may learn from Johnson's and Webster's prefaces to their large
dictionaries. Learn all that is delicate and beautiful, as well as
strong, in the language, and master all its stores of opulence. You
will find a rich mine of instruction in the splendid language of
Burke. His diction is frequently magnificent; sometimes too gorgeous,
I think, for a chaste and correct taste; but he will show you all the
wealth of your language. You must, by ardent study and practice,
acquire for yourself a _mastery_ of the language, and be able both to
speak and to write it, promptly, easily, elegantly, and with that
variety of style which different subjects, different hearers, and
different readers are continually requiring. You must have such a
command of it as to be able to adapt yourself, with intuitive
quickness and ease, to every situation in which you may chance to be
placed--and you will find no great difficulty in this, if you have the
_copia verborum_ and a correct taste. With this study of the language
you must take care to unite the habits already mentioned--the diligent
observation of all that is passing around you; and _active_, _close_
and _useful thinking_. If you have access to Franklin's works, read
them carefully, particularly his third volume, and you will know what
I mean by _the habits of observing and thinking_. We cannot all be
_Franklins_, it is true; but, by imitating his mental habits and
unwearied industry, we may reach an eminence we should never otherwise
attain. Nor would he have been _the Franklin_ he was, if he had
permitted himself to be discouraged by the reflection that we cannot
all be _Newtons_. It is our business to make the most of our own
talents and opportunities, and instead of discouraging ourselves by
comparisons and imaginary impossibilities, to believe all things
possible--as indeed almost all things are, to a spirit bravely and
firmly resolved. Franklin was a fine model of _a practical man_ as
contradistinguished from a _visionary theorist_, as men of genius are
very apt to be. He was great in that greatest of all good qualities,
_sound, strong, common sense_. A mere book-worm is a miserable
driveller; and a mere genius, a thing of gossamer fit only for the
winds to sport with. Direct your intellectual efforts, principally, to
the cultivation of the strong, masculine qualities of the mind. Learn
(I repeat it) _to think_--_to think deeply, comprehensibly,
powerfully_--and learn the simple, nervous language which is
appropriate to that kind of thinking. Read the legal and political
arguments of Chief Justice Marshall, and those of Alexander Hamilton,
which are coming out. Read them, _study them_; and observe with what
an omnipotent sweep of thought they range over the whole field of
every subject they take in hand--and _that_ with a scythe so ample,
and so keen, that not a straw is left standing behind them. Brace
yourself up to these great efforts. Strike for this giant character of
mind, and leave prettiness and frivolity for triflers. There is
nothing in your letter that suggests the necessity of this admonition;
I make it merely with reference to that tendency to efflorescence
which I have occasionally heard charged to southern genius. It is
perfectly consistent with these herculean habits of thinking, to be a
laborious student, and to know all that books can teach. This
extensive acquisition is necessary, not only to teach you how far
science has advanced in every direction, and where the _terra
incognita_ begins, into which genius is to direct its future
discoveries, but to teach you also the strength and the weakness of
the human intellect--how far it is permitted us to go, and where the
penetration of man is forced, by its own impotence and the nature of
the subject, to give up the pursuit;--and when you have mastered all
the past conquests of science, you will understand what Socrates meant
by saying, that he knew only enough to be sure that _he knew
nothing--nothing, compared with that illimitable tract that lies
beyond the reach of our faculties_. You must never be satisfied with
the surface of things: probe them to the bottom, and let nothing go
'till you understand it as thoroughly as your powers will enable you.
Seize the moment of excited curiosity on any subject to solve your
doubts; for if you let it pass, the desire may never return, and you
may remain in ignorance. The habits which I have been recommending are
not merely for college, but for life. Franklin's habits of constant
and deep excogitation clung to him to his latest hour. Form these
habits now: learn all that may be learned at your University, and
bring all your acquisitions and your habits to the study of the law,
which you say is to be your profession;--and when you come to this
study, come resolved to master it--not to play in its shallows, but to
sound all its depths. There is no knowing what a mind greatly and
firmly resolved, may achieve in this department of science, as well as
every other. Resolve to be the first lawyer of your age, in the depth,
extent, variety and accuracy of your legal learning. Master the
science of pleading--master Coke upon Littleton--and Coke's and
Plowden's Reports--master Fearne on Contingent Remainders and
Executory Devises, 'till you can sport and play familiarly with its
most subtle distinctions. Lay your foundation deep, and broad, and
strong, and you will find the superstructure comparatively light work.
It is not by shrinking from the difficult parts of the science, but by
courting them, grappling with them, and overcoming them, that a man
rises to professional greatness. There is a great deal of law learning
that is dry, dark, cold, revolting--but it is an old feudal castle, in
perfect preservation, which the legal architect, who aspires to the
first honors of his profession, will delight to explore, and learn all
the uses to which its various parts used to be put: and he will the
better understand, enjoy and relish the progressive improvements of
the science in modern times. {36} You must be a master in every branch
of the science that belongs to your profession--the law of nature and
of nations, the civil law, the law merchant, the maritime law, &c. the
chart and outline of all which you will see in Blackstone's
Commentaries. Thus covered with the panoply of professional learning,
a master of the pleadings, practice and cases, and at the same time a
_great constitutional and philosophic lawyer_, you must keep way,
also, with the march of general science. Do you think this requiring
too much? Look at Brougham, and see what man can do if well armed and
well resolved. With a load of _professional duties_ that would, _of
themselves_, have been appalling to the most of _our_ countrymen, he
_stood, nevertheless, at the head of his party in the House of
Commons_, and, _at the same time, set in motion and superintended
various primary schools and various periodical works, the most
instructive and useful that ever issued from the British press, to
which he furnished, with his own pen, some of the most masterly
contributions_, and yet found time _not only to keep pace_ with the
progress of the _arts and sciences_, but _to keep at the head of those
whose peculiar and exclusive occupations these arts and sciences
were_. _There_ is a model of _industry and usefulness_ worthy of all
your emulation. You must, indeed, be a great lawyer; but it will not
do to be a mere lawyer--more especially as you are very properly
turning your mind, also, to the political service of your country, and
to the study and practice of eloquence. You must, therefore, be a
political lawyer and historian; thoroughly versed in the constitution
and laws of your country, and fully acquainted with _all its
statistics_, and the history of all the leading measures which have
distinguished the several administrations. You must study the debates
in congress, and observe what have been the actual effects upon the
country of the various measures that have been most strenuously
contested in their origin. You must be a master of the science of
political economy, and especially of _financiering_, of which so few
of our young countrymen know any thing. The habit of observing all
that is passing, and thinking closely and deeply upon them, demands
pre-eminently an attention to the political course of your country.
But it is time to close this letter. You ask for instructions adapted
to improvement in eloquence. This is a subject for a treatise, not for
a letter. Cicero, however, has summed up the whole art in a few words:
it is--"_apte--distincte--ornate dicere_"--to speak _to the
purpose_--to speak _clearly and distinctly_--to speak
_gracefully_:--to be able _to speak to the purpose_, you must
understand your subject and all that belongs to it:--and then your
_thoughts and method_ must be _clear in themselves_ and _clearly and
distinctly enunciated_:--and lastly, your voice, style, delivery and
gesture, must be _graceful and delightfully impressive_. In relation
to this subject, I would strenuously advise you to two things:
_Compose much, and often, and carefully, with reference to this same
rule of apte, distincte, ornate;_ and let your _conversation_ have
reference to the same objects. I do not mean that you should be
_elaborate and formal_ in your ordinary conversation. Let it be
_perfectly simple and natural_, but _always, in good time_, (to speak
as the musician) and well enunciated.

With regard to the style of eloquence that you shall adopt, that must
depend very much on your own taste and genius. You are not disposed, I
presume, to be an humble imitator of any man? If you are, you may bid
farewell to the hope of eminence in this walk. None are mere imitators
to whom nature has given original powers. The ape alone is content
with mere imitation. If nature has bestowed such a portion of the
spirit of oratory as can advance you to a high rank in this walk, your
manner _will be_ your own. In what style of eloquence you are best
fitted to excel, you, yourself, if destined to excellence, are the
best judge. I can only tell you that the _florid and Asiatic style_ is
not the taste of the age. The _strong_, and even the _rugged and
abrupt_, are far more successful. Bold propositions, boldly and
briefly expressed--pithy sentences--nervous common sense--strong
phrases--the _felicitè audax_ both in language and conception--well
compacted periods--sudden and strong masses of light--an apt adage in
English or Latin--a keen sarcasm--a merciless personality--a mortal
thrust--these are the beauties and deformities that now make a speaker
the most interesting. A gentleman and a christian will conform to the
reigning taste so far only as his principles and habits of _decorum_
will permit. The florid and Asiatic was never a good style either for
a European or an American taste. We require that a man should _speak
to the purpose_ and _come to the point_--that he should _instruct and
convince_. To do this, his mind must move with great strength and
power: reason should be manifestly his master faculty--argument should
predominate throughout; but these great points secured, wit and fancy
may cast their lights around his path, provided the wit be courteous
as well as brilliant, and the fancy chaste and modest. But they must
be kept well in the back ground, for they are dangerous allies; and a
man had better be without them, than to show them in front, or to show
them too often.

But I am wearying you, my dear sir, as well as myself. If these few
imperfect hints, on subjects so extended and diversified, can be of
any service to you, I shall be gratified. They may, at least, convince
you that your letter has interested me in your behalf, and that I
shall be happy to hear of your future fame and prosperity. I offer you
my respects, and tender the compliments of the season.

WM. WIRT.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MISFORTUNE AND GENIUS: A TALE FOUNDED ON FACT.

                              "You have seen
  Sunshine and rain at once: her smiles and tears
  Were like a better day: Those happy smiles
  That play'd on her ripe lip, seem'd not to know
  What guests were in her eyes; which parted thence
  As pearls from diamonds dropp'd."--_King Lear_.


In a late excursion through the western districts of Virginia, having
been detained at the picturesque village of F----, I took a seat in
the stage coach, intending to visit some of the neighboring springs.
The usually delightful temperature and clear sky of the mountain
summer, had been suddenly changed into a cold misty atmosphere; and as
I stept into the coach, the curtains of which had been let down for
greater comfort, I found a solitary female passenger sitting in one
corner of the carriage, and apparently absorbed in deep contemplation.
She was plainly but genteely {37} dressed, in a suit of mourning; and
there was something in her whole appearance, which would have
immediately struck the eye of the most careless observer. Her face,
and such parts of her head as were unconcealed by her bonnet, seemed
to me, at a single glance, to present a fine study for the disciples
of Lavater and Spurzheim--or at least to furnish a model which a
painter would have loved to transfer to his canvass. Her features were
not what are usually termed beautiful; that is, there was not that
exquisite symmetry in them, nor that brilliant contrast between the
delicate white skin and raven hair, or between the coral lip and the
lustrous dark eye, which with some constitute the perfection of female
beauty; but there was something beyond and superior to all
these:--There was a fine intellectual expression which could not be
mistaken. I do not even recollect the color of her eyes: I only
remember that those "windows of the soul" revealed a whole volume of
thought and feeling--and that there was cast over her countenance an
inexpressible veil of sadness, which instantly seized upon my
sympathies. As the stage drove off, the crack of the coachman's whip,
and the lumbering of the wheels, seemed to rouse her from her reverie,
and I remarked a deeper tinge of melancholy pass over her features. It
was to her like the sound of a funeral knell! She was about to bid
adieu, perhaps forever, to the scenes of her infancy--to scenes which
were endeared by the remembrance of departed joys, and even
consecrated by bitter inconsolable sorrows!

After the customary salutation, I determined to engage my interesting
fellow-traveller in conversation; and I at once perceived by the
modest blush which suffused her cheek, and by the timid responses she
made to my inquiries, that she was conscious of appearing in the
somewhat embarrassing situation of an unattended and unprotected
female. I studied therefore to put her mind at ease, by a delicate
pledge of my protection as far as my journey extended. Words of
kindness and respect seemed to fall upon her ear, as if she had been
unused to them. Her countenance, which had sunk in gloom, was lighted
up by a mild expression of tranquillity. I saw that I had somewhat won
upon her confidence, and I determined to improve the advantage, by
affording her an opportunity of narrating her story--a story which I
was curious to know, and which I had already half learned in her
care-worn visage, her garments of woe, and her apparently forlorn and
unbefriended condition.

Such are the mysterious sympathies of our nature, that whilst the
sorrowing heart experiences a transient relief in pouring its griefs
into another's ear, there is a no less melancholy pleasure in
listening to the tale of misfortune, and participating in the misery
of its victim. My companion did not hesitate, in her own peculiar and
artless manner, to relate her story. It was brief, simple and
affecting.

Maria (for that was her name,) was now in her sixteenth year, and was
one of several children, born not to affluence, but to comparative
independence. A doating grandmother adopted her, when not two years
old, with the free consent of her parents. They had other offspring to
provide for; and their residence was not so remote, but that
occasional visits might preserve unbroken the ties of filial and
parental love. The venerable grandmother devoted her humble means to
the maintenance and education of her charge. Her aged bosom rejoiced
in beholding herself, as it were, perpetuated in this blooming scion
from her own stock. She spared neither pains nor expense, consistent
with her limited fortune, in preparing her young descendant for a life
of usefulness, piety and virtue. In truth, her dutiful grandchild was
so "garnered up in her heart," that she became the only worldly hope
of her declining years. Maria was her earthly solace--the tie which
bound her to life when all its charms had faded--the being who made it
desirable to linger yet a little longer on the confines of the grave.
But how fleeting and unsubstantial is human hope! Scarcely a fortnight
had elapsed since this venerated lady had been called to realize
another state of being. When Maria touched upon this part of her
narrative, I could perceive the agony of her soul. I could see the
tearful and uplifted eye as she exclaimed, "Yes, sir! it has pleased
Providence to deprive me of my only earthly benefactress!"

I was troubled at the misery I had occasioned, and I hastened, if
possible, to administer such consolation as seemed to me proper. "But
you have parents," I replied, "who will take you to their home, and
gladly receive you in their arms?" Little did I think that the wound
which I thus attempted to heal, would bleed afresh at my remark. The
afflicted girl appeared to be deprived, for a moment, of utterance.
Her heart seemed to swell almost to bursting, with the strength and
intensity of her feelings. "My friend," she at length replied, in a
tone of comparative calmness, "for by that name permit me to call you,
even on so short an acquaintance,--you have touched a theme upon which
I would gladly have avoided explanation. The interest you have already
shown, however, in my unhappy story, entitles you to still more of my
confidence. You shall know the whole of my cruel fortune. Though my
father and mother are both still living, they are no longer parents to
me. My father _might have been_ all which a friendless and unprotected
daughter could desire; but alas! for years and years past, he has lost
the 'moral image' which God originally stamped upon his nature. The
DEMON OF INTEMPERANCE has long--long possessed him. His feelings and
affections are no longer those of an intelligent and rational
creature. He scarcely knows me as his offspring; but turns from me
with sullen indifference, if not disgust. My mother!"----

At the mention of that hallowed name, the fair narrator seemed to be
almost choked by the violence of her emotions. She stopped an instant
as if to respire more freely.

"My mother," she continued, "cannot extend to me her arm. She is
herself broken-hearted and friendless; she is wasting away under the
chastening rod of Providence!"----

"Heavens!" I inwardly exclaimed, "what havoc--what torture have I not
inflicted upon this innocent bosom! Why did I officiously intermeddle
in things which did not concern me--things too, which I could only
know by tearing open the yet unhealed wounds of an anguished heart." I
was at the point of offering some atonement for the mischief I had
done. I saw the whole picture of wretchedness as it was presented to
Maria's mind. I even shared, or thought that I shared, in the sorrows
which overwhelmed her. My imagination conjured up before me the
churlish and miserable {38} wretch who was then wallowing in the stye
of brutal sensuality--and in whose bosom all holy and natural
affection had been drowned by the fatal Circean cup. I beheld his pale
and neglected partner, writhing under that immedicable sickness of the
heart--not of hope deferred, but of dark, absolute despair. I turned
to the object before me. I saw how those affections which clung around
her beloved protectress, as the tendrils of the vine cling around the
aged tree, were in one evil hour withered forever. She, an unprotected
destitute orphan--worse than an orphan--thrown upon the wide, cold and
unfeeling world--perhaps seeking an asylum in the house of some half
welcoming and distant relative. What a throng of perplexing--might I
not say, distracting reflections, at that moment rushed upon me! I
endeavored to change the subject, but at first without success. I
experienced some relief, however, by being assured, that the relative
to whose house she was now hastening, had offered his aid and
protection, in the spirit of kindness and sincerity.

The most wonderful part of my story is yet to be told. When Maria was
sufficiently composed, I resolved to divert the conversation into more
agreeable channels. I was struck with the delicacy and propriety of
her speech--with the simple, correct, and even elegant language which
she used. Another and a quite unexpected source of admiration was yet
in reserve for me. I touched upon the topic of her education--upon the
books she had learned--the seminaries she had attended--and the
teachers by whom she was instructed. Even here methought I might be
officious and imprudent. What could be expected from a girl of
sixteen--from one who had been born to humble fortune--from one who
had had no one at home except an unlettered grandmother, to stir up
within her the noble spirit of emulation, and to fan the divine sparks
of genius and knowledge. Might she not suppose that I intended to
deride the ignorance of youth, and expose the deficiency of her
acquirements! Not so! At the bare mention of her books and
instructers, I saw for the first time, the clouds which had gathered
around her brow begin to disperse. There was evidently something like
a smile which played upon her features. It looked like the rainbow of
peace, which denoted that the storm of passion was passing away. Oh,
how eloquently did she discourse upon the beauties and delights of
learning! Next to the star of Bethlehem, which gilded her sorrowing
path, and which for two years had attracted her devotional
spirit,--knowledge was the luminary which she worshipped with more
than Persian idolatry. The reader shall judge of my surprise and
admiration, when he is informed, that this artless girl of
sixteen--this youthful prodigy--had already amassed a richer
intellectual treasure, than often falls to the lot of men of superior
minds, even at the age of maturity. The great masters of Roman and
classical antiquity she had read in their original tongue--the
Georgics and Æneid of Virgil--the Commentaries of Cæsar--Selections
from Horace--and the matchless orations of Tully, were as familiar to
her, as household words. She was also conversant with the French, and
thoroughly grounded in her own vernacular. Besides the usual elements
of mathematics, she had even encountered the forbidding subtleties of
algebra; and although mistress of the pleasing study of geography,
there was nothing which had so filled her mind with delight as the
sublime researches of astronomy. She loved to contemplate the harmony
and beauty of the planetary system,--and to soar still further on the
wings of thought, into that vast and illimitable firmament where each
twinkling luminary is itself the centre of a similar system. She had
watched too the fiery and eccentric track of the comet, "brandishing
its crystal tresses in the sky;" and from all the wonderful movements
and harmonious action of the heavenly bodies, she had realized the
impressive sentiment of Young, that

  "An undevout astronomer is mad."

From the marvellous works of creation as revealed in that most sublime
of all human sciences, her soul had been transported to the Creator
himself, whom she worshipped in adoring humility.

But why enumerate--why speak of her varied and almost numberless
acquirements? There was scarcely a branch of learning with which she
did not manifest at least some acquaintance. Even the popular and
somewhat pleasing science of phrenology had not escaped her attention.
In the theories and conclusions of its ardent disciples however, she
was reluctant to concur. The moral and intellectual character did not,
in her opinion, depend on the position of the brain, or the
conformation of the skull. It squinted at the hateful doctrine of
materialism; at least she thought so, and until better satisfied, she
would not believe. Though closely engaged for years in her regular
scholastic studies, this extraordinary female had found leisure to
stray occasionally into the paths of polite and elegant literature.
She had culled from the most illustrious of the British bards, some of
their choicest and sweetest flowers; and the beautiful fictions of
Scott were faithfully stored in her memory.

Deeply interested as I felt in this young and highly gifted girl, the
hour of separation was at hand. The journey before her was
comparatively long and tedious; mine would speedily terminate. When
about to bid her adieu, I fancied that I saw regret painted in her
countenance. Her solitude would bring back some of those gloomy
reflections, which society and conversation had in some measure
dissipated. I handed her a literary work which I had with me, to
beguile the loneliness and misery of her journey. She accepted it with
eagerness and gratitude. A new current of joy sprung up in her bosom.
Commending her to the protection of heaven, I pressed her hand, and
left my seat in the coach.

My sensations, when the vehicle swiftly departed, were of a mixed
character. There was a strange combination of pleasure and pain. Poor
Maria, I thought, we may never again meet in this world of sorrow; but
if ever a pure aspiration was breathed for thy happiness, it is that
which I now offer. I know that there is something within me which
borders on romance; and perhaps many will suppose that my imagination
has thrown over this adventure an illusive coloring. It may be so; but
even after an interval of composed reflection, I have not been able to
discover any thing in the foregoing sketch which does not
substantially conform to truth. I have often moralized on Maria's
story, and in my blind distrust of the dealings of an all wise
Providence, have wished that human blessings could be sometimes more
equally distributed. I have thought of {39} the hundreds and thousands
of the gay, simple, fluttering insects, dignified with the name of
fashionable belles,--born and reared in the lap of luxury,--reposing
in moral and intellectual sloth, and quaffing the delicious but fatal
poison of adulation,--how inferior, how immeasurably inferior, most,
if not all of them were, to this poor, neglected, deserted orphan. I
have thought how hard was that decree, by which the light, trifling
and glittering things of creation should be buoyed up to the surface
by their own levity--whilst modest merit and suffering virtue were
doomed to sink into obscurity, and perhaps into wretchedness. On the
other hand, I have loved to look at the sunny smiles which Hope, in
spite of us, will sprinkle over the chequered landscape of life. It is
impossible! I have exclaimed, that one so young, yet so
unfortunate--so highly improved by moral and mental culture--so worthy
of admiration and esteem, should live and die unknown and unregretted.
She surely was not

  --------"born to blush unseen,
  And waste her sweetness in the desert air"--

at least such is my hope, and such is doubtless the prayer of every
generous reader.

H.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXAMPLE IS BETTER THAN PRECEPT.


I never read Jeremy Bentham's 'Book of Fallacies:' it is known to me
only through the Edinburgh Review. I am uncertain whether it _gibbets_
the above saying, or not; but no fallacy of them all better deserves
to be hung up on high, for the admonition of mankind. There is none
more mischievous, in the best filled pack of the largest wholesale
proverb-pedler.

"_Example is better than precept!_"--is the constant plea, the
invariable subterfuge, of those who do not want to follow good
counsel. Be the counsel ever so sage--be the propriety and expediency
of following it ever so manifest--if it perchance do not square to a T
with the adviser's own practice, he is twitted with this sapient
apothegm; and the advised party wends his way of folly as completely
self-satisfied, as if he had demonstrated it to be the way of wisdom
by an argument clearly pertinent, and mathematically unanswerable. Yet
how is his argument more to the purpose--how is he more rational--than
if he should refuse to take a road pointed out by a sign-board,
because the board itself did not run along before him? May I not
correctly show to others a way, which it is not convenient or
agreeable for me to travel myself?

I could fill a book with the instances I have known, of people who
have deluded themselves to their own hurt, by relying upon this same
proverb.

For years, I have been a little given to drinking: not to excess, 'tis
true--but more than is good for me. A sprightly younker, whose thirst
appeared likely to become inordinate, being counselled by me to
abstain altogether from strong waters, as the only sure resource of
those afflicted with that propensity--told me, "_example was better
than precept,_" and refused to heed the one, because he could not have
the other also. He has since died a sot. The last three years of his
existence were, to his wife, years of shame, terror, and misery, from
which widowhood and the poor-house were a welcome refuge. His children
are schooled and maintained by the parish.

My appetite is better than ordinary. It is, in truth, too much
indulged, and not a few head-aches and nightmares have been the
consequence. Venturing once, on the score of my woful experience, to
admonish a young friend whom I saw entering the habit in which I was
confirmed, he confuted me with the accustomed logical
reply--"_example,_" and so forth. Seven years afterwards saw him
tottering on the grave's brink, with an incurable _dyspepsia_, the
fruit of gluttony, and of gluttony's usual attendant, indolence.

When a boy, I was a famous _climber_. Perched in a cherry tree one
day, I saw a lad, clumsier than I was, going far out upon a slender
branch. I cautioned him that it would break. "Didn't I see you on it
just now?" said he: "and there you are now, further out on a smaller
limb! _Example's better_"--but before he could end the saying, his
bough snapped, and he fell twenty feet, breaking a leg and dislocating
a shoulder by the fall.

Another time, as I and a smaller boy were hunting, he walked over a
creek upon a log, which he saw was just able to bear his weight,
through rottenness. "You had better not venture," said he to me. But I
said, I had always heard, _example was better than precept_, and
following him, was soused by the breaking of the log, in six feet
water. Being a good swimmer, I escaped with a ducking, (it was near
Christmas,) and with wetting my gun, lock, priming, and all: so that
it cost me a full hour to refit for sport.

It is not, however, commonly, either _immediate_ or _bodily_ harm that
we incur by means of this Jack-o'lantern proverb. Our faith in it is
not sufficient to lead us into instant and obvious danger: it is in
general the opiate with which we lull ourselves, only when the evil we
are warned against is of the _moral_ kind, or likely to occur at a
remote period.

In my youth, I read novels to a pernicious excess. They enfeebled my
memory; unfixed my power of attention and my habits of thought;
blunted my zest for history; dimmed my perception of reasoning; gave
me the most illusory ideas of human life and character; and filled my
brain with fantastic visions. A passion for learning, and the timely
counsels of a sensible friend, subsequently won me so far from this
career of dissipation, that I surmounted in some degree its evil
effects, and acquired a moderate stock of solid knowledge: but to my
dying day I shall feel its cloying, _unhinging_, debilitating
influence upon my mental constitution. Still, even latterly, I have
continued to indulge myself with the best novels, as they appeared. My
weakness in this respect unluckily became known to a young girl, who
seemed to be exactly treading in my footsteps; and whom I earnestly
warned of the dangers besetting that path. "Now, cousin L., how can
you talk so, when I have seen you _devouring_ the _Antiquary_, and
_Guy Mannering_, and _Patronage_, and I don't know how many besides!
You need not preach to me: _example is better than precept._"
_Therefore_--for the reasoning seemed to her as conclusive as
Euclids--_therefore_ she went on, with undistinguishing voracity,
through all the spawn of the novel press: and there is not now a
sadder instance of the effects of novel-reading. After rejecting with
{40} disdain three suitors every way her equals, (and in real merit
her superiors,) because they were so unlike her favorite novel
heroes--did not woo on their knees or in blank verse--and had 'such
shocking, vulgar names'--she, at three and twenty, married a coxcomb,
formed precisely after the model upon which her 'mind's eye' had so
long dwelt. He was gaudy, flippant, and specious; knew a dozen of
Moore's Melodies by rote; could softly discourse of _the heart_ and
its _affections_, as if he really possessed the one, and had actually
felt the other; and, most irresistible of all, his name was EDWIN
MORTIMER FITZGERALD. The result may be imagined. The society of such a
being could not long please. Their conversation was a routine of
insipid frivolity and angry disputes. With no definite principles of
economy or of morals, he wasted his fortune and wrecked his health
over the bottle and at cards--excitements, the usual resource of a
weak, ill-cultivated understanding. She is now a widow, scantily
endowed, at the age of twenty-seven. Her mind, too much engrossed by
her darling pursuit to have learned, even in the impressive school of
adversity, is nearly a blank as to all useful knowledge: imagination,
paramount there over every other faculty, is prolific of innumerable
fooleries; she can do no work beyond crimping a ruff or making a
frill: and her nerves, _shattered_ by tea, late hours, and sentimental
emotion at fictitious scenes, threaten a disordered intellect and a
premature grave.

To this impertinent adage, about _example_ and _precept_, is it
chiefly owing that I am at this moment a bachelor, aged fifty. I used
it to parry the repeated instances made me by a friendly senior
bachelor, to be "up and a doing," in the journey towards matrimony. As
the proverb commonly silenced him, it appeared to me at last, as it
does to most people, a satisfactory answer; it was the lullaby, with
which I hushed into repose every transient qualm that his
expostulations excited. My friend at length, in reasonable time, took
me at my word, and added example to precept: he married, well and
happily. But one obstacle or other, real or imaginary, had by this
time confirmed me in my inactivity. Business occupied my time:
chimerical visions of female excellence, in spite of my better reason,
haunted me from the regions of romance, and made me hard to be
pleased, even by merits which I was obliged to confess were superior
to my own: courtship, by being long in view yet long deferred, came at
length to appear clothed in embarrassment and terror: a failure,
resulting (as vanity whispered,) purely from the awkwardness produced
by embarrassment and terror, finally crushed all matrimonial
aspirations: and, as it is now absurd to hope for a _love-match_, (a
genuine novel-reader can brook no other) I am e'en trying to resign
myself to the doom of perpetual celibacy.

'Twere needless to multiply examples. These suffice to shew, not only
how absurd in reasoning, but how hurtful often in practice it is, to
consider advice as at all the _less good_, for not being enforced by
the giver's example. That proverb has done as much harm in the world
as the doctrine of the Pope's infallibility, or of the divine right of
kings; or as the silly saying, "_stuff a cold, and starve a fever;_"
or, as (by its perversion) that unfortunate one, "_spare the rod, and
spoil the child._"

Yet, after all, the maxim I have been exposing is not _untrue_.
_Example_ IS better than _precept_: DOES more effectually shew _the
right way_. But it is _fallacious_, and _mischievous_, by being
misapplied. Instead of being regarded merely as a rebuke to the
adviser, it is absurdly taken by the _advised_ as a justication to
himself in persisting in error. In most cases it is not even a _just_
rebuke to the _adviser_: because ten to one there is _some
dissimilarity of situation or of circumstances_, which makes it not
expedient or proper for him to do what he nevertheless _properly_
recommends to another. While I shew you your road--and shew it with
perfect correctness--my own duty or pleasure may call me another way,
or may bid me remain where I am. But the adage is _never_ an apology
for the advised party's neglect of advice: and whensoever he attempts
to use it as such, his plea, though abstractly true, is
impertinent--is nothing to the purpose.

M.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE POWER OF FAITH.

  "Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, in the
  "days of Herod the King, behold there came wise men from the
  "east to Jerusalem, saying, Where is he that is born king of the
  "Jews? for we have seen his star in the east and have come to
  "worship him."


  Pleasure! thou cheat of a world's dim night,
  What shadows pass over thy disk of light!
  To follow thy flitting and quivering flame,
  Is to die in the depths of despair and shame;
  'Tis to perish afar on a lone wild moor,
  Or the wreck of a ship on a hopeless shore.
  Come listen, ye gay! I will tell of a star
  Whose beaming is brighter and steadier far;
  It rose in the East, and the wise men came
  To see if its light were indeed the same
  Which their old books said would be seen to rest
  On Bethlehem's plains, in its silver vest,
  To point to the spot where a Saviour lay,
  Who would gather his flock, all gone astray;
  Would frighten the wolf from his helpless fold,
  And loosen the grasp of his demon hold;
  And lead them away to his pastures green,
  Where all is so verdant and fadeless seen,
  Where the river of life is a ceaseless stream,
  And the light of his love is the sweetest beam
  That ever shone out on benighted eyes,
  And brighter the face of those lovely skies,
  Than ever was seen in the softest sleep
  When the senses are hushed in calmness deep;
  And spirits are thought, with their gentle breath,
  To breathe on the lids of a seeming death,
  And whisper such things in the ear of wo,
  As the waking sinner must never know.
  Oh, what doth he ask in return for this,
  The light of his love, and such draughts of bliss?
  What doth he ask for the boon thus given?--
  Faith in the blood of the Son of Heaven.

  A cry was heard in Rama!--and so wild--
  'Twas Rachel weeping for her murder'd child:--
  She would not be consoled--her youngest pride
  Was torn in terror from her sheltering side;
  At one dread blow her infant joy was gone
  To glut the rage of Herod's heart of stone;
  What drave the tyrant in his wrathful mood,
  To bathe her lovely innocents in blood?
  Why stoop'd the savage from his kingly throne, {41}
  To fill Judea with a mother's moan?--
  Weak wretch! he idly sought in his alarm,
  To stay the purpose of Jehovah's arm;
  The creature, crawling on his kindred dust,
  Would stay the bolt, descending on his lust;
  The crafty counsel of his finite mind
  Would thwart the God, who rides upon the wind;
  Yea, "rides upon a Cherub," and doth fly,
  Scatt'ring his lightnings through the lurid sky.
  Vain hope! the purpose of his heart, foreknown,
  Ere yet the falcon swoops, the prey is flown;
  On Egypt's all unconscious breast is laid
  Another babe, like him whom erst the maid
  Daughter of Pharaoh on the wave espied
  In bark of bulrush, floating o'er the tide
  Where 'twas her wont her virgin limbs to lave,
  And snatched in pity from a watery grave;
  True to the chord that wakes in woman's heart,
  True to the pulse which bids her promptly start
  To shield defenceless childhood in her arms,
  And hush the plaining of its young alarms.

  Infant adored! I dare not here essay
  To paint the lustre of thy glorious way:--
  Let earth attend, while holy tongue recount
  Thy hallow'd lessons from the Olive Mount,
  While Heaven proclaims its messenger of love
  On Jordan's banks descending as a dove,
  While grateful multitudes in plaudits vie,
  And Zion shouts hosannah to the High!
  O'er famed Gethsemane, I must not tread.
  Sad o'er its memory let tears be shed;
  From bloody Calvary, the soul recoils
  From impious murderers, sharing in thy spoils;
  From thy dread agony, and bosom wrung,
  A world in awful darkness, sably hung,
  When earth was shook, the vail was rent in twain
  And yawning graves gave forth their dead again.

  From theme too great, too sad, I turn away,
  From strain too lofty for a feeble lay--
  They sought to quench in blood thy hallow'd light,
  To stay, the foolish ones! thy stayless flight;
  They did indeed thy breast of meekness wring,
  Which would have gathered them beneath its wing;
  Infuriate Jacob trampled on thy cross,
  Thy loved ones mourned in bitterness, thy loss,
  When suddenly is heard the earthquake shock,
  The sepulchre repels its closing rock,
  The grave is tenantless!--the body gone,
  The trembling guards in speechless terror thrown;
  Th' attending angel comes with lightning brow
  And raiment whiter than the dazzling snow,
  Comes to attest with his eternal breath,
  Our God triumphant over sin and death.

  Here let me pause and fix my ardent gaze--
  Faith is my star, whose ever-during rays
  Can guide my steps through life's surrounding gloom
  And cheer the paths which lie beyond the tomb;
  How was I lost in earth's bewildering vale
  When first I turned and saw that silver sail
  Above my dim horizon, breaking slow,
  When all of peace for me seem'd gone below;
  My world was sad and comfortless and drear
  Or cross'd by lights that glance and disappear;
  Look back, my soul, on scenes which long have passed,
  Think on the thousand phantoms I have chased;
  Count o'er the bubbles whose delusive dyes
  Have danced in emptiness before mine eyes;
  How were they followed,--won--and heedless clasp'd
  How fled their hues! evanished as I grasp'd!--
  That last and loveliest one, whose rainbow light
  Will break at times on memory so bright,
  How did it fleet with all its fairy fires,
  Fanned by the breath of young and soft desires!
  Caught by its tinsel shine, deceptive shed,
  I flew, with throbbing heart and dizzied head,
  A giddy round, where all beneath were flowers,
  Where sped, with "flying feet," the laughing hours:
  Dissolved the charm--dispelled the brilliant dream--
  Why changed to baleful shadow did it seem?
  What roused the madman from his trance, and left
  His heart a waste--of love--of joy bereft?
  What woke the foolish one?--unmanned his heart?
  Death, mid the treach'rous scene, did sudden start,
  And o'er my light of love his breath expires,
  It pales--it fades--extinguish'd are its fires!

  But now, how blest the change! there is a power
  Can foil e'en death--can rob his only hour
  Of half its sting--can even deck with charms
  The cold embrace of his sepulchral arms:
  'Tis but the transient sinful passport this,
  To "joys unspeakable and full of bliss;"
  'Tis but a short,--convulsive,--fitful thrill,--
  A momentary pang,--a sudden chill;--
  When free, the disembodied spirit flies
  Where, incorruptible, it never dies;
  To scenes the Patmos prophet, glowing paints,
  Where near the jasper seat adore the saints,
  Where bow of emerald circles round a throne
  In glory brighter than the sardine stone!
  Yet hold!--nor thus as if in scorn my soul
  Still break from earth and spurn its dull control;
  Why wilt thou bound away through paths of ether,
  Swift as "young roes upon thy mountains, Bether?"
  Turn--turn to earth, the blinded vision fails,--
  We must not look beyond those sapphire veils,
  Which mercy spreads in beauty o'er the skies,
  To spare the weakness of unhallow'd eyes;
  Oh, check the thought which soars, presumptuous man!
  Nor dare the heights that thou must never scan.

  But though shut out from that all radiant goal
  While "this corruptible" enchains the soul,
  He whom a gracious God hath given to see
  Yon light which burst on darkened Galilee,
  Will find a charm in that clear steady ray
  Which sweetens life and sanctifies decay;
  All changed the face of this dark prison, earth,
  It seems to spring as from a second birth;
  Chaos is gone,--as first it fled the sight
  Of Him who spake, and sudden there was light!
  Sweet flowers now spring upon the pris'ners path,
  Where once but thorns beset the child of wrath;
  A balm for wounds that once could rack the frame,
  Such monitory thoughts the fondest wish to tame.
  Such hope to cheer and stay the sinking breast,
  A prize so noble,--and so calm a rest! {42}
  Such alter'd views!--new heavens!--and other skies!
  Some veil before was bound upon his eyes,
  Thus sudden loosed, as if angelic hands,
  Invisible, unbound his fettering bands.
  Where now the cold and soul revolting gloom
  That hung its shadows o'er the yawning tomb?
  Where gone the grief that with o'erwhelming load
  Press'd down the heart and crush'd it on its road?
  Lost in the hope of those prospective joys
  Where sorrow enters not, nor death annoys.

S.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE SWEET SPRINGS OF VIRGINIA, AND THE VALLEY WHICH CONTAINS THEM.

BY W. BYRD POWELL, M.D.


Mr. Jefferson has said, and we admit it, that a sight of the Natural
Bridge is worth a trip across the Atlantic. But as this does not
preclude the possibility of greater curiosities existing, we are
allowed the privilege of expressing the belief, that the Sweet
Springs, inclusive of the entire valley which contains them, present
to a philosophical mind, a scene of incalculably greater interest. The
bridge, by one mental effort, is comprehended, and speculation put at
rest. Not so with this valley; but like the bridge, the first
impressions produced by it create amazement, but as soon as this state
of feeling is displaced by further observation, a train of thought
succeeds, of unceasing interest, upon the character and variety of the
causes which could have produced such a pleasing variety of effects.

In the first place, the several springs, bubbling forth immense
volumes of water, highly charged with lime, carbonic acid gas, free
caloric, and in some instances iron, are objects of peculiar interest
to the philosopher, and so they will remain, more especially, until
more facts in relation to them are discovered, and the laws of
chemical affinity are better understood.

In the second place, the great fertility of the valley, even to a
common observer, will be remarked as a matter of very uncommon
occurrence.

In the third place, those elevations which cross the Valley, five in
number, popularly known as the Beaver Dams, are marvellous matters,
transcending even the Natural Bridge; and that they were constructed
by beavers, cannot admit of a doubt. But then the mind is lost in
amazement at the probable number of the animals that inhabited the
valley, and the immensity of their labor.

The valley is bounded by high hills, perhaps mountains, and the one
that terminates its lower extremity consists of slate, and is
separated from the lateral ones by a stream of small magnitude above
its junction with the valley branch, which is made up measurably of
the mineral waters. The lateral mountains, at their lower extremity
are slate; at the other, sandstone; and in the middle, limestone.

From the upper spring, or the one now in use, to the junction of its
branch with the mountain stream above treated of, is three miles, and
the fall in that distance was originally about one hundred and fifty
feet. Then there was between these lateral hills no valley or flat
land--this has been produced by the Beaver Dams which divided the
original declination into five perpendicular _falls_, measuring each
from twenty to thirty-eight feet--thus producing out of one mountain
gutter, five beautiful tables of the richest soil in the world. And
this too, simply by retaining the _debris_ from the surrounding hills,
as it was annually washed in, and also the lime from the mineral
waters, which, since the production of the fountains has been
constantly depositing. It is furthermore evident that no one of these
dams was the work of one season, but of many, just as the necessity
for elevation was produced by the filling up of the artificial basin.

As a description of one of those dams will serve for all, we will take
the largest, and the one which bounds the lower extremity of the
valley.

This dam constitutes one bank of the stream which receives the valley
waters, and is about thirty-eight feet high, and half a mile in
length; the elevation, however, gradually diminishes from the centre
to the extremities. The mineral waters of the valley contain, as we
have intimated, an immense quantity of lime, which is deposited with
astonishing rapidity in the state of a simple carbonate, (especially
in those places where the water has much motion,) producing those
mineral forms called _stalactites_ and _stalagmites_. With this
knowledge it is easy to comprehend how these imperishable monuments of
beaver labor and economy were produced.--For instance, these animals,
according to their manner of building, felled trees across the mouth
of the branch, and filled smaller interstices with brush, which would
cause motion in the water and serve as nuclei for its mineral
depositions. Consequently, in this dam may be seen immense
incrustations of logs, brush, roots and moss. In many instances, the
ligneous matter, not being able to resist the decomposing effects of
time and moisture, is entirely removed, leaving petrous tubes,
resembling, in the larger specimens, cannon barrels. These calcareous
deposites not only cemented the timber together, but secured the
entire work against the smallest percolation, prevented the escape of
mountain _debris_, and rendered permanent a labor, which under other
circumstances, would little more than have survived the duration of
the timber, or the life of the industrious artificer.

The outside of the dam is stalactical in its whole length, which
resulted from the beaver's keeping its summit level, and thus causing
the water to flow over every point of it. This circumstance, in
connexion with the stream that washes its outer base, has caused large
and over hanging projections of the stalactical deposites, and
cavernous excavations; attached to the roofs of which is to be seen a
great variety of small and beautiful spars. At the point over which
the water at present is precipitated, the dam, is a bold and
interesting spectacle. Add to this a large descending column of white
spray, into which the water is converted by obstacles opposing its
march over the dam, and the scene is rendered truly sublime.

The soil of the several basins seems to rest on stalagmite, and the
channel of the branch is worn out of it.

In many places, far above the present level of the basins or dams, may
be seen large rocks of this stalagmite: thus proving incontestibly,
that this water occupied a position, two hundred feet at least above
what it did at the time the beavers commenced their labor, and before
the deep excavation was effected between the mountains.

{43} Finally, we deem it proper to make a few more remarks upon the
first topic we introduced,--namely, the waters themselves. As to the
agents concerned, and the play of affinities between them, it is
useless for us to hazard an opinion, more especially as we have not
made ourselves analytically acquainted with them. Let it suffice to
point out the several springs, and those sensible properties and
qualities which will necessarily be observed by every visiter; and
first of the spring now in use.

As soon as this beautiful fountain is brought within the compass of
vision, attention will be arrested by the constant and copious escape
of fixed air, and the boldness of the stream. As soon as it is
introduced to the mouth, its sweetish taste and warmth are
discovered--and then its stimulating effect upon the system will be
perceived; and finally, if the visiter will walk below the spring,
five or six rods, he will discover the stalagmitic rocks of limestone
which have been formed by successive depositions from this water.

The next spring below, is popularly called the Red Spring. It is
characterized by a red deposite, which we regard as the carbonate of
iron, by a strong sweetish calybiate taste, by its warmth, by the
boldness of the stream, and by the absence of any fixed air escaping.

The two springs below this, resemble the first in every respect, so
far as the unaided senses can discover. We feel called upon to add,
that no one should venture a free use, as a drink, of the Red Spring
water, unadvised by an intelligent physician. It is a powerful water,
and can never prove an indifferent agent in any constitution.

And finally, we beg leave to advise every visiter, whose soul is
warmed by a scientific love of natural phenomena, not to leave the
ground till he shall have seen the major part, at least, of what we
have feebly attempted to describe.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

RECOLLECTIONS OF "CHOTANK."

  _Olim meminisse juvabit._--VIRGIL.


Blessed, yea thrice blessed, be the hills and flats, the "forests" and
swamps of Old Chotank! Prosperous, yea doubly prosperous be their
generous cultivators--worthy descendants of worthy sires--VIRGINIANS
all over, in heart and feeling, soul and body. From the Paspatansy
swells to the Neck levels, may they have peace and happiness in "all
their borders."

How often do I turn over memory's volume and linger upon the page
which tells of my first visits to "Chotank"--so full of almost
unalloyed pleasure. The recollection steals upon the mind like soft
strains of music over the senses, giving the same chastened
satisfaction.

Can I ever forget the happy days and nights there spent: The ardent
fox hunt with whoop and hallo and winding horn: And would even
TEMPERANCE blush to look, after the fatigues of the chase, at the old
family bowl of mint julep, with its tuft of green peering above the
inspiring liquid--an emerald isle in a sea of amber--the dewy drops,
cool and sparkling, standing out upon its sides--all, all balmy and
inviting? And then, the morning over and the noon passed, the business
of the day accomplished, the social board is spread, loaded with flesh
and fowl and the products of the garden and the orchard! Come let us
regale the now lively senses and satisfy the excited appetite! What
care we for ragouts and fricassee's, and olla podrida's, and all the
foreign flummery that fashion and folly have brought into use? The
juicy ham, the rich surloin, the fat saddle, make the _substantials_
of a VIRGINIA dinner, and "lily-livered" he, who would want a better.
But when friends and strangers come--and welcome are they always!
nature's watery store house is at hand, and windy must be the day
indeed, when the Potomac cannot furnish a dish of chowder or crabs, to
be added to the feast. How I have luxuriated at a Chotank dinner! Nor
let pleasures of the table in this intellectual age be despised?
Goddess of Hospitality forbid it! And well may I address thee in the
_feminine_ gender, thou dispenser of heartfelt mirth! 'Tis WOMAN'S
smile enlivens the feast--'tis WOMAN'S handy care that has so well
provided it--'tis WOMAN'S kind encouragement that adds a charm to all
you see around you.

And now let us loll in the cool portico, shaded with the Lombardy
poplar--the proper tree, let them say what they will, to surround a
gentleman's mansion--so tall and stately, and therefore so
appropriate. How delightful is the breeze on this height! See the
white sails of the vessels, through the trees on the bank of the
river, spread out to catch it, and how gracefully and even
majestically they glide along. You can trace them up and down as far
as the eye can reach, following their quiet courses. The beautiful
slopes of the fields in Maryland, cultivated to the water's edge, fill
up a picture surpassingly beautiful--not grand, but beautiful; for
what can please more than the calm sunshine shed upon upland and
lowland, with the glad waters glistening in its rays, and just enough
of man's works on both "flood and field" to give life and motion to
the scene! Surrounded with such a prospect as this, let the old folks
discuss their crops, talk of their wheat and corn, and prognosticate
the changes of the weather--or, as times now go, settle first the
affairs of the county, then of the state, and lastly of the nation,
while we steal away to the parlor.

DAUGHTERS OF VIRGINIA! always fair, always lovely, how much fairer and
lovelier than ever, do you appear in your own homes, surrounded by
your fathers, your brothers and your kinsmen. How it has delighted me
to watch the overflowings of your innocent hearts, to enjoy your
winning smiles--to listen to the music of your voices! I see in you no
hypocrisy and deceit, the moral contagious diseases caught by
intercourse with corrupt society--I find no "town-bred" arts, mocking
the modesty of nature--I discover no cunning devices to attract that
attention which merit alone ought to command. May this be written of
you always! May the land which produces noble, generous sons, ever
have for its boast and pride, THE MOST VIRTUOUS DAUGHTERS.

And now having seen the young men _fairly_ "paired," if not matched,
let us leave them with a blessing, and look after our more aged
friends.

Politics have run high since we left them, but the "cool of the
evening" is cooling the blood, and "a drink" settles the controversy.
Friends and neighbors cannot afford to quarrel even about what
concerns themselves, much less about things so far off as at
Washington. With Virginia gentlemen there is always a courtesy and
kindness even in heated argument which precludes the possibility of
offence.

{44} Ah! did I not see a sly wink? And is there not a touch of the
elbow, and then a low whisper, and by and by a buzz--and then an open
proposal for a sociable game at CARDS. Presently, presently, good
friends, we will have our tea and biscuit, and then for loo or whist!

Let not starched propriety look prim, nor prudery shake her head, nor
jealous caution hold up her finger. Our fathers did the same before
us, and "be we wiser or better than they?" Call in the "womankind," as
Oldbuck of Monkbarns ungallantly styled the better part of creation,
and let us have fair friends and foes to join us round the table. Trim
the lights, roll from your purses just enough of silver to give an
interest to our play. Avaunt! spirits of gaming and avarice from this
circle--and here's at you till weariness or inclination calls us to
seek

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

And thus ends a day in Chotank: A day!--yes many, many days. In these
"our latter times," and this "our age of improvement," all this may be
thought wrong! Perhaps it is so. I will not dispute with stern
morality and strict philosophy. Their counsels are doubtless more
worthy to be followed than the maxim which

  "Holds it one of the wisest things
   To drive dull care away."

But for "my single self" I can say that after a day spent in Chotank I
never had reason to exclaim, following the fashion of the Roman
Emperor, "_Diem Perdidi!_"

But Chotank, like many other parts of the Old Dominion, is not now in
its "high and palmy state." Some fifteen or twenty years ago it
obtained that celebrity which makes it famous now. The ancient seats
of generous hospitality are still there, but their _former_
possessors, so free of heart, so liberal, and blessed withal with the
means of being free and liberal, where are _they_? "And echo alone
answers, where are they." Their sons can only hope to keep alive the
old spirit by the exercise of more prudence and economy than their
fathers possessed. Otherwise here too, as alas! in some cases is too
true, the families that once and now own the soil, are destined to be
rudely pushed from their places by grasping money lenders! Altered as
the times are however, and changed as is the condition of many of the
inhabitants, the life that I have attempted faintly to sketch, is the
life yet led by the merry Chotankers. With the remembrance of the
"olden time" strongly impressed on their minds, and tradition to
strengthen the ideas formed by their own recollections, they _will_
have their fun and their frolics--their barbecues and their fish frys.
There are fewer "roystering blades" than there used to be, and much
less drinking than formerly--but the court house now and then brings
up a round dozen of "good men and true," who will not disgrace their
ancestors: men who will make the "welkin ring" again with uprorarious
mirth, and part as they met in all that high flow of spirits which
results from good eating and drinking, and freedom, at least for the
present, from care.

Let us, however, close. There is that in the place and the people of
whom I am writing to induce me to continue: but enough for this
"Recollection." If the eye of a Chotanker should meet this page and
read what is written, he will know without looking at the signature
that he has met with a FRIEND to him and 'all his neighborhood.'

_Alexandria, D. C., Sept. 13, 1834._ E. S.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

IMPORTANT LAW CASE IN A SISTER STATE, INVOLVING QUESTIONS OF SCIENCE.

[Communicated by P. A. Browne, Esq. of Philadelphia.]


On the Easterly side of the beautiful river Schuylkill, about seven
miles north of the city of Philadelphia, stands the flourishing town
of MANYUNK. Only a few years ago there was not a house to be seen
there, and nothing disturbed the stillness of nature but the singing
of the birds, the lowing of the herds, and the gentle ripling of the
river as its waters glided towards the ocean; but now it has become
the habitation of thousands of human beings, the seat of numerous
manufactories, and a striking example of the rapid improvements in
American industry and the arts. The whole of this change has been
wrought by improving the navigation of the Schuylkill: by raising the
Fairmount and other dams, sufficient water has been provided, not only
for all the purposes of canaling and watering the city of
Philadelphia, but the company, incorporated by law for that purpose,
have found at their disposal an immense water power, which they sell
and rent to the best advantage.

Among the number of enterprising citizens who availed themselves of
these advantages was Mr. Mark Richards, a gentleman advantageously
known and esteemed in the mercantile as well as the manufacturing
world.

On the 1st of February, 1830, the Schuylkill navigation company made a
deed to John Moore, in which it was recited that on the 3d day of
November, 1827, Mark Richards had agreed with the company for the
purchase of a lot of ground at Manyunk therein described; that on the
25th of January, 1828, he, the said Mark, had agreed to purchase of
the company 100 _inches of water power_ at flat-rock canal, at the
annual rent of $6 per inch; and on the 13th of March, 1828, 200 inches
of water power at the same rate, which water power was to be granted
on the _usual conditions_, and subject to the former grants by the
company of water power. That on the 4th of June, 1830, Richards and
wife had granted the said lot and "_the aforesaid water power of 300
inches of water_" to Moore. It further recited that Richards had
requested the grant of the company to be made to Moore, he Richards
having paid the whole rent, amounting to $1840 per annum up to that
time. Then follows the grant of the lot, together with the privilege
of drawing from the canal through the forebay, at all times thereafter
forever, "SO MUCH WATER AS CAN PASS through two metalic apertures, one
of 50, and the other of 250 square inches, under a head of three
feet." To have and to hold "the quantity of 300 SQUARE INCHES OF
WATER," in manner aforesaid. Moore covenanted at his expense to erect
and support the two metalic apertures, one of 50, and the other of 250
_square inches_, through which the said 300 _inches_ of _water_, under
a three feet head, "_is to pass_." The company reserving to themselves
the right to enter upon the premises for the purpose of examining "the
_size_ of the apertures."

Mr. Moore having ascertained that by applying two plain simple metalic
apertures of the given sizes, he was not able to draw the same
quantity in square inches of water, but only 65 and 2/3d per cent. of
the amount, he therefore applied the adjutages described by {45}
Professor Venturi; and for these applications, which were alleged to
be a breach of the contract, an action was instituted in the Supreme
Court of Pennsylvania.

It will be perceived that this case involved not only important
principles of law, but interesting inquiries in hydrodynamics, to aid
in the discussion of which, large draughts were made upon the
scientific attainments of the accomplished bar of Philadelphia. For
the plaintiff were engaged John Sergeant and Horace Binney, Esquires;
but the absence of the latter gentleman at Congress, occasioned the
retaining of C. Chauncey, Esquire; for the defendants were Joseph R.
Ingersol and Peter A. Browne, Esquires.

The cause occupied several days, during which time the court house was
continually crowded with an intelligent audience.

The questions were, first, whether the granter was confined to the use
of _simple_ apertures of the dimensions mentioned in the deed, when it
was apparent from the opinions of men of science, and from the
experiments made before the jury, that through such openings it was
not possible for him to draw more than 65 and 2/3d per cent. of the
water contracted for, (it being a law of nature that when a fluid is
drawn from a simple aperture or opening, the stream or vein is
contracted so as to form the figure of a cone;) or whether the grantee
was entitled, at all events, to his 300 inches of water, and had a
right to affix adjutages to overcome this law of nature, and restore
things to the state they were supposed to be in by the parties, if,
when they contracted, they were ignorant of this principle. Second.
The defendant having contracted for as much water as "_can pass_"
through metalic apertures of given sizes, whether he was entitled,
provided he did not increase the size of the openings, nor increase
the head, so to adjust the adjutages as to draw _more_ water than 300
square inches; for it was proved by another set of experiments that,
by reason of the adjutages at the defendant's mill, he had contrived,
not only to overcome the _vena contracta_ or contracted vein, but to
draw off more water than would have passed through a plain opening if
the vena contracta did not exist.

When a vessel is filled with a homogeneous fluid, and it is in
equilibrium, all the particles of the fluid are pressed equally in all
directions. This law was known to Archimedes, and its knowledge
enabled him to detect the fraud committed by the gold smith upon
Hiero, King of Syracuse. The first regular work upon Hisdrodynamics
was written by Sextus Julius Frentinus, inspector of the public
fountains at Rome under the Emperors Nerva and Trajan. He laid down
the law, that water which flows in a given time, from a given orifice,
does not depend _merely_ upon the magnitude of the orifice, but upon
the _head_ or height of the fluid in the vessel. From that period
until the 17th century none of the principles upon which this cause
depends, were much studied, nor the doctrine of fluids much known. At
length Gallileo the astronomer, by his discovery of the uniform
acceleration of gravity, paved the way for a rapid improvement in
hydrodynamics. Gallileo was acquainted with the fact that water could
not be made to rise more than a certain height in a common pump; but
he was entirely unacquainted with the reason. His pupil, Torricelli,
and his friend, Viviani, discovered that it was owing to the pressure
of the external air, and thus the problem was solved. Mariotte, who
introduced experimental philosophy into France, was the first who
announced that fluids suffer a retardation from the friction of their
particles against the sides of tubes; and he shewed that this was the
case even though the tubes were made of the _smoothest glass_. From
his works, which were published after his death, in 1684, it appears
that though he was thus acquainted with the principle upon which it is
explained, he was unacquainted with the _vena contracta_. About that
time this subject began to be much more studied in Italy. Dominic
Guglielmini, a celebrated engineer, in 1697, published a very learned
work upon the friction and resistance of fluids; and from that period
to this the learned of all nations have admitted, that this resistance
and retardation of fluids, owing to their friction, did take place in
a moving fluid. This work, as connected with the motion of rivers and
water in open canals, is one of deep interest in natural philosophy;
and it is one, which in this age of improvements, should not be
neglected in this country. Sir Isaac Newton, whose capacious mind
grasped at every kind of knowledge, struggled hard to detect the
reason of this resistance. In his 2nd book of his "Principia,"
propositions 51, 52 and 53, he lays down certain hypotheses, from
which it results, that the filaments (as he calls them,) of a fluid,
in a pipe, will be kept back by their adhesion to the sides of the
tube, and that the next filaments will be kept back, though in a less
degree, by their adhesion to the first filaments, and so on, until the
velocity of the fluid will be greatest at the centre. Now if we apply
this principle to the discharge of a fluid through a plain aperture,
we will perceive that the parts of the water next to the sides of the
opening, being liable to the greatest friction, will be the most
retarded; and that those in the centre, being liable to the least
friction, will be most in advance; and that the friction decreasing
gradually from the extremities to the centre, the water will be always
flowing in the form of a cone, with the smallest end in advance. This
is the exact form of the vena contracta or contracted vein!

When the pipes are very small, this attraction of the sides of the
pipes to the fluid operates so as to suspend the whole mass, when it
is called capillary attraction. This appears to be the extent to which
Newton was acquainted with the laws that govern the vena contracta, at
the time he published the first edition of his Principia; but in his
second edition, published in 1714, he discloses the doctrine of the
contracted vein with his usual intelligence.

Every body is acquainted with the splendid experiments of the Abbe
Bossut, which were published successively in 1771, 1786 and 1796, and
any one desirous of examining this interesting subject will consult
them at large.

Poleni first discovered, that by applying an additional cylindrical
pipe to the orifice, of the same diameter, the _expenditure_ of the
fluid was increased. This discovery was followed up, first, by Mr.
Vince; secondly, by Doctor Matthew Young; and lastly, by Venturi. This
last named gentleman published his work on hydraulics in 1798; it was
immediately translated and published in Nicholson's Journal of Natural
Philosophy, where all the different adjutages, including the one used
by the defendant in this action, are accurately {46} drawn and
described. They are also noticed, though not in as ample a manner, in
Gregory's Mechanics, pages 438, 445 and 447.

From all which it was contended, that every one making a contract,
must be _presumed_ to be acquainted with the principles of the vena
contracta, and of the methods used to overcome it, and that this party
had a right to use these adjutages without incurring the risk of a
suit.

[We understand that the suit, the foregoing interesting sketch of
which has been obligingly furnished by one of the counsel, is still,
in the language of the lawyers, _sub judice_; the jury having found a
verdict subject to the opinion of the court. We are promised a full
report of the trial and decision, for a subsequent number.]--ED.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MR. WHITE,--The following sketch was given me by one of those mail
stage story-tellers, who abound on our roads, and enliven the drowsy
passengers by their narratives. It is founded on fact, and may not be
unacceptable to such of your readers as are fond of the delineation of
human character in all its variety of phases.

NUGATOR.


SALLY SINGLETON.

  Who thundering comes on blackest steed,
  With slacken'd bit and hoof of speed?--_Byron_.


A horseman passed us at full speed, whose wild and haggard look
arrested the attention of my friend. In the name of all that is
singular, said he, who can that be, and whither is he posting with
such rapidity? His garb seems of the last century, and his grizzled
locks stream on the wind like those of some ancient bard.

That man, replied I, is a lover, and is hurrying away to pay his
devoirs to his mistress, who married another, and has been dead for
many years.

Indeed! you surprize me, he rejoined. He has, it is true, the "_lean
look_" of Shakspeare's lover; the "_blue eye and sunken_;" the
"_unquestionable spirit_," and "every thing about him demonstrates a
careless desolation"--yet I should have imagined, that the snows of so
many winters had extinguished all the fires of that frosty carcase;
but tell me who he is, and what is his story.

His name is Wilson; and that of the lady whom he loved, was Sally
Singleton. I would that I had the graphic power of Scott to sketch a
tale of so much interest. If Sir Walter has immortalized an old man,
mounted on his white pony, and going in quest of the tombstomes, how
much is it to be regretted that the same master hand cannot be
employed to perpetuate the memory of yonder eccentric being, whose
love lives on, after the lapse of twenty years, in spite of the
marriage and death of his mistress--in spite of the evidence of his
own senses, and notwithstanding every human effort to dispel his
delusion. Regularly every morning, for the last twenty years, no
matter what the state of the weather, (alike to him the hail, the
rain, and the sunshine,) has he mounted his horse, and travelled a
distance of ten miles, to see his beloved Sally Singleton. His custom
is, to ride directly up to the window of her former apartment, and in
a courteous manner, to bow to his mistress in token of his continued
attachment. Having performed this act of gallantry, he waves with his
hand a fond adieu, and immediately gallops back with a triumphant air,
as if perfectly satisfied with having set his enemies at defiance.
"The course of true love never did run smooth," and in this case,
whether "_misgrafted in respect of years_," or "_different in blood_,"
or "_standing on the choice of friends_," is not exactly known; but
the lady was wedded to another, and died soon after. Her lover would
never believe in her marriage or her death. His mind unhinged by the
severity of his disappointment, seems to have retained nothing but the
single image of her he loved, shut up in that apartment; and he
resolved to brave every difficulty, to testify his unchanging
devotion. Obstacles were purposely built across his path--the bridges
were broken down--the idle boys would gather around him, and assail
him in their cruel folly--guns even, were fired at him,--all in vain!
The elements could not quench the fervor of his love--obstacles were
overleaped--he swam the rivers--the boys were disregarded--balls could
not harm him. He held a charmed life; like young Lochinvar,

  "He staid not for brake,
   And he stop'd not for stone;"

but dashed onward to his beloved window, and then, contented with this
public attestation of his unalterable love, returned with a look of
triumphant satisfaction, to his joyless home. As a last effort to
remove the veil from his eyes, a suit was instituted, in which he was
made a party, and proof of the lady's marriage and death was purposely
introduced to undeceive him. He listened with cold incredulity to the
witnesses; smiled derisively at that part of their testimony which
regarded her marriage and death; and the next morning was seen mounted
as usual, and bowing beneath the window of his adored Sally Singleton.




  From the Petersburg Intelligencer.

EXTRACT FROM A NOVEL

THAT NEVER WILL BE PUBLISHED.


We had all assembled round the cheerful fire, that cracked and blazed
in the wide old-fashioned hearth. The labor of the day was over. My
father, snugly placed in his great easy chair, with his spectacles on
his nose, had been for some time studying the last long winded and
very patriotic speech of our representative in Congress, until his
senses, gradually yielding to its soothing eloquence, had sunk into a
calm slumber.--My mother sat in the corner knitting with all her
might, and every now and then expressing her wonder (for she always
wondered) how Patsy Woods could marry such a lazy, poor,
good-for-nothing fellow as Henry Pate. Sister was leaning with both
elbows on the table, devouring, as she termed it, the last most
exquisite romance. Puss was squatted on Mother's cricket, licking her
paws with indefatigable industry; and old Carlo, the pointer, lay
grunting on the hearth rug, sadly incommoded by the heat of the fire,
but much too lazy to remove from before it. And where was I? Oh! there
was another corner to the fire place. In its extremest nook sat cousin
Caroline, and next to her,--always next to her when I could get there,
was I. Now this was what I call a right comfortable family party; and
not the least comfortable of that party was myself. {47} Cousin
Caroline; dear, dear cousin! Many a year has rolled over me since the
scene I describe; many a cold blast of the world's breath has blown on
my heart and chilled, one by one, the spring flowers of hope that grew
there; but the blossoms of love thy image nurtured, were gathered into
a garland to hang on thy tomb, and the tears of memory have preserved
its freshness. Cousin Caroline!--she was the loveliest creature on
whom beauty ever set its seal. Reader, my feeling towards her was not
what is called love; at least, not what I have since felt for another.
My judgment of her excellence was not biassed by passion. She was most
beautiful. I cannot describe her.

  "Who has not proved how feebly words essay,
   To fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray."

It were vain to talk of her "hyacinthine curls," her "ruby lips," her
"pearly teeth," her "gazelle eye." These, and all the etceteras of
description, define not beauty. It belongs to the pencil and not to
the pen, to give us a faint idea of its living richness. But had your
eyes glanced round a crowded room, crowded with beauty too, they would
have rested in amazement there; amazement, that one so lovely should
be on earth, and breathe among the creatures of common clay. Alas! it
could not be so long. No, I did not love her in manhood's sense of
love; for, at the time I speak of, I was but fourteen, and Caroline
was in her eighteenth year; but I loved her as all created things that
could love, loved her; from the highest to the lowest, she was the
darling of the household. The servants, indoor and outdoor, young and
old, and the crossest of the old, loved her. None so crabbed her smile
would not soften; none so stern her mildness would not subdue. Oh,
what a creature she was. I never saw Caroline angry, though I have
seen her repel, with dignity, intrusion or impertinence. I never saw
her cross. But this theme will lead me too far; and, perhaps the
reader thinks I might sum up my estimate of her qualities in one
word--perfection. Not so; but as near to it as the Creator ever
suffered his creature to attain. Well, we were sitting round the fire
in the manner I have described. Caroline was amusing me with a
description of the pleasures of the town, for she had just returned
from a visit to a relation residing in the city of ----, when the
sound was heard of a carriage coming up the avenue. What a bustle!
Father bounced up, dropping the paper and his spectacles; Mother
stopped wondering about Patsy Woods, to wonder still more who this
could be. Pussy remained quiet, but Carlo prevailed upon himself to
stretch and yawn, and totter to the door, to satisfy his curiosity.
Sister looked up. Caroline looked down; and then sister looked at her
very archly, though I could not tell why, and said, "go brother Harry,
ask the gentleman in."

"Why do you know who it is, my dear, that is coming to see us at this
late hour?" said my father. It was but eight o'clock; but remember we
were in the country. I went out of the room, and did not hear the
answer. I was met at the hall door by a gentleman, whom I ushered in.
My father accosted him, and was very proud and very happy to see Col.
H----d. He was then introduced to the members of the family; "and this
lady I think you are already acquainted with," continued my father, as
he presented cousin Caroline, who had hung back. The Colonel
smiled,--Caroline blushed, but she smiled too. What is all this about,
thought I. "Come, sir, be seated," quoth my father. The Colonel bowed,
thanked him, and placed himself forthwith in my chair, right beside
Caroline. Now it is true Caroline had two sides, and her left side was
as dear to me as her right; but then that side was next to the wall,
and she sat so near to it that there was no edging a chair in without
incommoding her. So I was fain to look out for other quarters, and
found them next to my mother, whence I looked the colonel right in the
face. He was not a handsome man, but a very noble looking one. He was
rather above the common height, somewhat thin, but his carriage very
erect. His complexion was dark, but ruddy dark, the hue of health and
manliness; his forehead broad; so much so as to make the lower part of
his visage appear contracted, and rather long. The expression of his
features when at rest, was stern, and even haughty; perhaps from the
habit of command, for his _had_ been a soldier's life, and his title
was won on the battle field; but when in conversation, there was an
air of great good nature over his whole countenance, and his smile was
very winning. Cousin Caroline thought it so.

"The road to your farm is rather intricate, my good sir," said the
colonel, as he took his seat, "and though I had a pretty good chart of
the country, (here he looked at Caroline and smiled one of those
winning smiles, but Caroline did not, or would not see him,) I was so
stupid as to miss the way, for when I reached the cross roads, instead
of taking the right I directed the servant to the left, and moved on
some time in the wrong direction without meeting a human being of whom
to make inquiry. At length I had the good fortune to encounter a
gentleman on horseback, who corrected my error, adding the
satisfactory assurance, that I had gone at least four miles in the
opposite direction to that which I desired to go; so that, though I
set out betimes, it was thus late before I reached here."

"Well, I wonder!" cried my mother.

"Then colonel you must be sadly in want of refreshment," said my
father. "My dear"--

"Not at all so, my dear sir. I beg you will give yourselves no trouble
on my account. I assure you"--

"Sit still, colonel, I beg of you," interrupted my father, as the
former rose to urge his remonstrance.--"Sit still, sir; trouble
indeed; we'll have supper directly, and I don't care if I nibble a
little myself."

So the colonel gave up the contest, but when he reseated himself, he
perceived Caroline was gone; she had slipped out of the room with my
mother. The colonel had a very nice supper that night, and he did it
justice. Who prepared it, think you? my mother? No, for she returned
to the room in two minutes after she left it. I knew who prepared it,
and so did the colonel, or he made a shrewd guess; for, when Caroline
returned, he gave her a look that spoke volumes of thankfulness, and
of such exquisite fondness that it made the blood mount to her very
forehead.

A week passed away, and colonel H----d remained a constant guest at my
father's; and though I could not but like and admire him, his conduct
was a source of great annoyance to me, for no sooner did Caroline make
her appearance in the breakfast room in the morning {48} than he
posted himself next to her; and then they took such long walks
together, and would spend so many hours in riding about the country,
and they never asked me to accompany them, so that Caroline had as
well have been in town again, for the opportunity I had of conversing
with her. The result of all this is, of course, plain to the reader;
and it was soon formally announced that on the third day of the
succeeding month Caroline was to become the bride of the wealthy and
gallant Colonel H----d, and accompany him forthwith to his distant
home, for his residence was in the state of Georgia. I wept bitter
tears, and sobbed as if my heart would break as I laid all lonely in
my bed that night on which this latter piece of intelligence had been
communicated by my father, until sleep, the comforter of the wretched,
extended to me the bliss of oblivion. "Blessings on the man who
invented sleep," says friend Sancho--blessings, aye blessings indeed,
on all bountiful nature who, while she gives rest to the wearied body
bestows consolation on the grieving heart, lulls into gentle calm the
storm of the passions, plucks from power its ability and even its wish
to oppress, and hushes in poverty the sense of its weakness and its
degradation. My fate has not been more adverse than that of the
generality of men, but "take it all in all," the happiest portion of
my existence has been spent in sleep. Why did I weep? The being whom I
loved best on earth was about to be wedded to the worthy object of her
choice,--a choice that affection sanctioned and reason might well
approve; and even to my young observation it was apparent that while
she gave, she was enjoying happiness. There was pleasure in the
beaming of her sparkling eyes, there was joy in the dimples of her
rosy smile. The very earth on which she trod seemed springing to her
step, and the air she breathed to be pure and balmy. Could she be
happy and I feel miserable? and that misery growing too, out of the
very source of her happiness. Yes; even so unmixed, so absorbing was
my selfishness. _My_ selfishness! the selfishness of humanity; for
even as the rest of my fellow men so was, and so am I. I thought of
the many hours of delight I had enjoyed in her presence, of the
thousand daily kindnesses I had experienced at her hand. She alone was
wont to partake of my youthful joys, to sympathize with my boyish
griefs; it was her praise that urged me to exertion, the fear of her
censure that restrained me from mischief. And all this was to pass
away, and to pass with her presence too. Never more was my heart to
drink in the sweet light of her eyes; never more would her soft voice
breathe its music in my ear. I felt that I dwelt no longer in her
thoughts; I believed my very image would soon perish from her memory.
Such were the bitter thoughts that weighed down my mind.

I go on spinning out this portion of my tale, no doubt very tediously,
and my readers will perhaps despair of my ever arriving at the end;
but patience, I shall get there by and by. "Bear with me yet a little
while." It is that I shrink from what I have undertaken to narrate,
that I wander into digression; for whatever effect it may have on
others, whose only interest in it will arise from momentary
excitement, on me the fearful casualty I shall describe, has imposed
"the grief of years." Many a pang has my heart experienced in my
pilgrimage through this weary world, and some grievous enough to
sustain; time and occupation, however, have afforded their accustomed
remedy, and scars only are left to mark where the wounds have been.
But this, though inflicted in boyhood's springy days, is festering
now; aye now, when the very autumn of manhood is passed, and the
winter of age is congealing the sources of feeling and of life.

The wedding day was drawing nigh. One little week remained of the
appointed time; and a joyous man, no doubt, was colonel H----d, as
hour after hour winged its flight, and each diminished the space that
lay betwixt him and his assured felicity. Poor weak creatures that we
are, whose brief history is but a record of hope and disappointment,
ever deceived by the mirage of happiness that glitters afar in the
desert of life, and recedes from before us as we pursue, till outworn,
we sink into death with our thirst unslaked, our desires ungratified.
One little week remained. What matters the brevity of time when a
moment is fraught with power to destroy. Behold the gallant ship with
tightened cordage and outspread sails, dashing from her prow the
glittering spray as she dances on the leaping wave to the music of the
breeze; cheerful faces crowd her deck, for she is homeward bound from
a distant land; and now her port is almost reached, a hidden rock has
pierced her side, the eternal sea rolls over the sunken wreck. The
warrior has charged and broken the foe; the shout of victory rings in
his ears, and fancy twines the laurel round his brow; but treachery
lurks in his armed array, and the clarion of conquest sounds the note
of defeat. The mighty city with its thousand domes, its marble
palaces, and its crowded marts, over which ages have urged their
onward flight, and still it grew in wealth and strength, has felt the
earthquake's shock. Black mouldering ruins and a sullen sulphurous
lake are left to mark the spot where once its "splendors shone." And
the heart, the human heart, with its high aspirations, and its
treacherous whisperings of unmixed joys, its blindness of trust in
coming events, its strange forgetfulness of the hours gone by, its
sunny morning of boundless hope, its stormy night of dark despair.

My father's house was situated on an elevated spot, commanding an
extensive view of the broad Potomac; from its front to the bank of the
river, a distance of some hundred yards, the ground descended in a
gentle slope terminating in a sheer precipice, and down, down "a
fearful depth below," rolled on the rapid waters. The bank was
composed of vast masses of rock, between the crevices of which pushed
forth gnarled and jagged trees of various kinds, shooting their
moss-covered branches in every direction, and hugged in strict and
stifling embrace by huge vines, that looked like the monster boas, of
a preadamate world. The summit was lined with a dense growth of
underwood, that hid from the passer by the awful chasm upon whose very
margin he might be unconciously standing. As the main road (which ran
parallel to the course of the river) laid upwards of a mile from the
rear of the dwelling house, and was, besides being generally in very
bad order, very uninteresting in its character, we were in the habit
of using for the purpose of visiting some of our neighbors, a path
that ran along and was dangerously near to the verge of the precipice,
but which had been travelled so long and so often without accident,
that we {49} had ceased to think of even the possibility of any
occurring. It was a bright sunshiny morning, the blue sky studded with
those massy rolling clouds whose purple shades give such strong relief
to the fleecy white, and cheat the fancy into portraying a thousand
resemblances; ancient castles with frowning battlements, mighty ships
resting beneath their crowded canvass, bright fairy isles, where a
poet's soul would delight to wander, dark yawning caverns, in whose
undreamt of depths the pent up spirits of the damned might be
"imagined howling." Pardon, pardon! but sea and sky have always set me
raving. It was at the breakfast table that I informed my father I
would ride over to aunt Diana's and see if they were all well.--"The
weather is so fine, and I have not seen our good aunt for some time. I
will ride with you; that is, if you'll let me, cousin Harry," said
Caroline, as if it were not a delight to me to have her company. The
colonel, too, proposed to join us, and we went to get ourselves in
readiness. We were soon on the road, and away we cantered, full of
health and youth and spirits. The breeze came fresh and soft from the
surface of the waters, and played among Caroline's curls and revelled
on her cheek, as if to gather the odors of the rose, where its
beauteous hue was so richly spread. We paid our visit, partook of aunt
Diana's good things, and set off on our return, amid her protestations
against our hurry. Caroline was riding on a nice little mare that had
been bred on the farm, and had always been the pet of the family; as
gentle and as playful as a lamb, but at the same time full of spirit.
We had arrived at a part of the road where the precipice (now on our
right hand) was highest. I was in front, Caroline next to and behind
me; a hare crossed my path: "take care my boy," cried Colonel H----d,
"that, you know, is said to be a bad omen." Scarcely had he spoken
when my horse started, and wheeled short round; the mare partook of
his fright, swerved half to the left, and reared bolt upright. "Slack
your rein and seize the mane, Caroline," I screamed in agony. It was
too late; the mare struggled, and fell backwards. Oh, God! A shriek, a
rushing sound

       *       *       *       *       *

I entered the chamber where innocence and beauty had been wont to
repose; around me were the trappings of the grave; the cold white
curtains with their black crape knots, the shrouded mirror, the
scattered herbs--and stretched upon the bed motionless, lay a
form--the form of her whose living excellence was unsurpassed. My
father came in; he took my hand, led me to the bed, and gently removed
the sheet from the marble face. Oh, death, thou art indeed a
conqueror!




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SONNET,

WRITTEN ON THE BLUE RIDGE IN VIRGINIA.


  Gigantic sov'reign of this mountain-chain,
  Proud Otter Peak! as gazing on thee now
  I mark the sun its parting splendor throw
  Athwart thy summit hoar--I sigh with pain
  To think thus soon I needs must turn again
  And seek man's bustling haunts! What if my brow
  No longer wear the signs of sorrow's plough,
  Doth not my heart its traces still retain,
  And I still hate the crowd?--Yes! it is so,
  And scenes alone such as surround me here--
  These deep'ning shades--thy torrents loud and clear--
  Yon half-hid cot--the cattle's plaintive low--
  The raven's cry, and the soft whispering breeze,
  Have now the pow'r this aching breast to please.

* * *




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

STANZAS,

WRITTEN AT THE WHITE SULPHUR SPRINGS OF VIRGINIA.


  With spirits like the slacken'd strings
  Of some neglected instrument--
  Or rather like the wearied wings
  Of a lone bird by travel spent;
  Ah! how should I expect to find
  Midst scenes of constant revelry,
  A solace for a troubled mind,
  A cure for my despondency?--

  There was a time when mirth's glad tone
  And pleasure's smile had charms for me--
  But disappointment had not strown
  My pathway then with misery:
  Health then was mine--and friends sincere--
  Requited love--and prospects bright--
  Nor dreamt I that a day so clear
  Could ever set in such a night!

* * *




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO ---- ---- OF THE U. S. NAVY.


  Tell me--for thou hast stood on classic ground,
  If there the waters flow more bright and clear,
  And if the trees with thicker foliage crowned,
  Are lovelier far than those which blossom here?

  Say is it true, in green unfading bowers,
  That there the wild bird sings her sweetest lay?
  And that a light, more beautiful than ours,
  Lends richer glories to expiring day?

  Wooed by Italian airs, does woman's cheek
  With purer color glow, than in our land?
  Or does her eye more eloquently speak,
  Or with a softer grace her form expand?

  Does music there, with power to us unknown,
  Breathe o'er the heart a far diviner spell?
  And with a sweeter, more entrancing tone,
  The thrilling strains of love and glory swell?

  Tell me if thou in thought didst dearer prize
  Thy home, than all that Italy could give?
  Didst thou regret that her resplendent skies
  Should smile on men as slaves content to live?

  Didst thou, when straying in her cities fair,
  Or in her groves of bloom, regret that here
  No perfumes mingle with the passing air?
  And was thine own, thy native land, less dear?

  Or didst thou turn where proudly in the breeze
  America's star-spangled flag was flying?
  The flag that o'er thee waved on the high seas;
  With conscious heart exultingly replying,

  "No slothful land of dreaming ease is ours,
  Her soil is only trodden by the free--
  Less rich in music, poetry, and flowers,
  Still, still she is the land of all for me!"

E. A. S.

_Lombardy, Va._


{50}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MUSINGS II--_By the Author of Vyvyan_.

  The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets
  Ebbing and flowing.--------_Rogers_.

    I loved her from my boyhood--she to me
    Was as a fairy city of the heart,
    Rising like water columns from the sea.
             _Childe Harold_, Canto IV. Stanza xviii.


    There is, far in a foreign clime,
      Alas! no longer free--
    A city famed in olden time
      As queen of all the sea;
    Still fair but fallen from her prime--
      For such is destiny.

  There motley masque and princely ball
  Make gay the merry carnival,
  And all the night some serenade
  Steals sweetly from the calm Lagune,
  While many a dark eyed loving maid
  Is wooed in secret neath the moon.

  And swiftly o'er the noiseless tide
  Gondolas dark, like spectres, glide
  Neath archways deep and bridges fair,
  Temples and marble palaces,
  Adorned with jutting balconies,
  And dim arcades of beauty rare.

  There's naught that meets the wondering eye,
  From the wave that kisses the landing stair
  To the sculptured range in the azure sky,[1]
  But wears a wild unearthly air,
  And every voice that echoes among
  Those phantomlike halls, breathes the spell of song.

  The rudest Barcarolli's cry,
  Heard faint and far o'er Adria's waves,
  Might cheat the listener of a sigh--
  So sad the farewell which it leaves,
  When sinking on the ear it dies
  Along the borders of the skies.

  Oh! Venice! Venice! couldst thou be
  Still wond'rous fair and even as free!
  How peerless were thy regal halls!--
  How glorious were thy seagirt walls!--
  But foreign banners flaunt thy tide,
  And chains have tamed thy lion's pride.

  Thy flag is furled upon the sea,
  Thy sceptre shivered on the land,
  And many a spirit mourns for thee
  Beyond the Lido's barren strand:
  Better thy towers were sunk below
  The level of Old Ocean's flow.

  Fair city of the fairest clime,
    Sad change hath come o'er thee--
  The spirit voice of olden time
    Is wailing o'er thy sea;
  And matin bell and vesper chime
    Seem knelling for the free
  Who reared thy standard o'er the wave
  And spurned the chains that now enslave.

[Footnote 1: The tops of many of the buildings are ornamented with a
range of statues.]




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE GENIUS OF COLUMBIA TO HER NATIVE MUSE.


    A parent's eye, sweet mountain maid,
  Hath seen thee rise in Sylvan shade;
  And patient, lent attentive ear
  Thy first, wild minstrelsy to hear:
    And thou hast breathed some artless lays,
    That well deserve the meed of praise;
    For, nursed by spirits bold and free,
    Thy notes should breathe of Liberty.
  Yet some who scan thy numbers wild,
  Inquire if thou art Fancy's child,
  Or some impostor, duly taught
  To weave with skill the borrow'd thought.
  Then list, my child! Experience sage
  May well direct thy guileless age.

    Breathe not thy notes with spirit tame,
  Nor pilfer, from an honor'd name,
  The praise that crowns the sons of fame.
  Be not by imitation taught,
  To blend with thine, the vagrant thought,
  From Britain's polish'd minstrels caught.
  Full oft my mountain echoes tell,
  How Byron's genius fram'd a spell,
  Which reason vainly seeks to quell:
  Did not his spirit cast a gloom
  On all who shared his adverse doom,
  E'en from the cradle to the tomb?
  With intellectual treasures bless'd,
  With misanthropic thoughts possess'd,
  Their sway alternate fired his breast.
  He pour'd the lava stream alone,
  In torrents from that burning zone,
  Which girt his bosom's fiery throne.
  Enough! on his untimely bier
  Affection shed no hallow'd tear--
  He claim'd no love--he own'd no fear.

    And she,[1] whose light poetic tread
  Scarce sways the dewdrop newly shed
  Upon the rose-bud's infant head;
  Most meet to be the tender nurse
  Of virtue, wounded by the curse
  Of passion's fierce and lawless verse,
  Whose dulcet strain, with soothing pow'r,
  Can calm the soul in sorrow's hour,
  And scatter many a thornless flow'r:
  The thoughts that breathe in each soft line,
  Seem spirits from a purer shrine
  Than earth can in her realms confine.
  Yet mayst thou not, in mimic lay,
  Such lofty arts of verse essay?
  'Twere but a vain and weak display.
  Be Freedom's bold, unfetter'd child,
  And roam thy native forests wild,
  Where, on thy birth, all nature smil'd;
  Dwell on the mountain's sylvan crest,
  Where fair Hygeia roams confest,
  Bright Fancy's ever honor'd guest:
  Mark the proud streams that onward sweep,
  And to old Ocean's bosom leap--
  Majestic offspring of the deep.
  Their inspiration shall be thine,
  And nature, from that mighty shrine, {51}
  Shall prompt thee with a voice divine!
  When thy free spirit is reveal'd,
  The spells within its depths conceal'd
  Will soon a golden tribute yield.
  In numbers free, by nature taught,
  Breathe forth the wild poetic thought,
  And let thy strains be Fancy fraught.

    Enough! my child! a parent's voice
  Would fain direct thy youthful choice
  To themes, majestic and sublime,
  The fruits of Freedom's favor'd clime.
  Enough! For thee has nature thrown
  O'er the wild stream a curb of stone,
  Whose pendant arch in verdure dress'd,
  Binds the tall mountain's cloven crest.[2]
  For thee the volum'd waters sweep
  Through riven mountains to the deep.[3]
  For thee the mighty cataract pours
  In thunder, through opposing shores;
  And rushing with delirious leap,
  Bursts the full fountains of the deep;
  A billowy phlegethon--whose waves
  Rend the strong walls of Ocean's caves.

C.

[Footnote 1: Mrs. Hemans.]

[Footnote 2: The Natural Bridge.]

[Footnote 3: Harper's Ferry.]




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

DEATH AMONG THE TREES.


    Death walketh in the forest. The tall Pines
  Do woo the lightning-flash,--and thro' their veins
  The fire-cup darting, leaves their blacken'd trunks
  A tablet, where Ambition's sons may read
  Their destiny. The Oak that centuries spar'd,
  Grows grey at last, and like some time-scath'd man
  Stretching out palsied arms, doth feebly cope
  With the destroyer, while its gnarled roots
  Betray their trust. The towering Elm turns pale,
  And faintly strews the sere and yellow leaf,
  While from its dead arms falls the wedded vine.
  The Sycamore uplifts a beacon-brow,
  Denuded of its honors,--while the blast
  That sways the wither'd Willow, rudely asks
  For its lost grace, and for its tissued leaf
  Of silvery hue.

                I knew that blight might check
  The sapling, ere kind nature's hand could weave
  Its first spring-coronal, and that the worm
  Coiling itself amid our garden-plants
  Did make their unborn buds its sepulchre.
  And well I knew, how wild and wrecking winds
  May take the forest-monarchs by the crown,
  And lay them with the lowliest vassal-herb;
  And that the axe, with its sharp ministry,
  Might in one hour, such revolution work,
  That all earth's boasted power could never hope
  To reinstate. And I had seen the flame
  Go crackling up, amid yon verdant boughs,
  And with a tyrant's insolence dissolve
  Their interlacing,--and I felt that man
  For sordid gain, would make the forest's pomp
  Its heaven-rear'd arch, and living tracery
  A funeral pyre. But yet I did not deem
  That pale disease amid those shades would steal
  As to a sickly maiden's cheek, and waste
  The plenitude of those majestic ranks,
  Which in their peerage and nobility,
  Unrivall'd and unchronicled, had reign'd.
  And then I said, if in this world of knells,
  And open graves, there lingereth one, whose dream
  Is of aught permanent below the skies,
  Even let him come, and muse among the trees,
  For they shall be his teachers,--they shall bow
  To their meek lessons his forgetful ear,
  And by the whispering of their faded leaves,
  Soften to his sad heart, the thought of death.

L. H. S.

_Hartford, Con. Sept. 10, 1834_.




ORIGINAL LITERARY NOTICES.


AMIR KHAN, AND OTHER POEMS: the remains of Lucretia Maria Davidson,
who died at Plattsburg, N. Y. August 27, 1825, aged 16 years and 11
months. With a Biographical Sketch, by Samuel F. B. Morse, A. M. _New
York: G. & C. & H. Carvill_--1829.


We believe that this little volume, although published several years
since, has but recently found its way to this side of the Potomac. Our
attention has been attracted towards it by some notice of its contents
in the Richmond Enquirer, whose principal editor we will do him the
justice to say, has always manifested a lively interest in the
productions of American genius. Mr. Ritchie is entitled to the more
praise for his efforts in behalf of domestic literature, not only on
account of his active and absorbing labors as a political writer, but
because, also, we are sorry to add, the subject is one in which
southern taste and intelligence have, for the most part, evinced but
little concern. It is but too common for our leading men, professional
as well as others, to affect something like a sneer at every native
attempt in the walks of polite literature. Their example, we fear, has
imparted a tone to the reading circles generally, and has served to
beget that inordinate appetite for every thing _foreign_ which has
either obtained a fashionable currency abroad--or occasioned some
_excitement_ in that busy, noisy, gossipping class of society, whose
merit is so vastly disproportioned to its influence. We have often
known the sentimental trash and profane ribaldry of some popular
Englishman eagerly sought after, and as eagerly devoured, whilst the
pure and genuine productions of native genius have remained neglected
on the bookseller's shelf, and quietly surrendered to oblivion. That
this does, in some measure, proceed from an unenlightened and
uncultivated public taste, we do not doubt; but it is much more the
fruit of a slavish and inglorious dependence upon accidental
circumstances,--a spiritless, and we might add, a cowardly
apprehension of appearing _singular_--that is, of not chiming in with
the shallow, vain and heartless tittle-tattle of the self-styled _beau
monde_ and _corps elite_ of society. It is not the fault of the
bookseller. The undertaker, who prepares the coffin and shroud, has as
little participation in the death of the person for whom they are
intended. The bookseller is but the caterer of the public palate; and
if that palate is diseased, he is no more answerable for it, than the
milliners and mantuamakers who are busily occupied in deforming the
fairest part of creation, are censurable for the false taste of their
customers.

We did not intend by the foregoing observations, to bespeak any
extraordinary share of public favor {52} towards the poems of Miss
Davidson. What we have said in relation to the neglect of American
talent, was designed to have a general and not particular application.
Notwithstanding we hear that the poems before us have been
extravagantly praised beyond the Atlantic, we are not so intoxicated
by a little foreign flattery as to believe that they are destined to
immortality. Some may console themselves, if they please, for the
whole ocean of obloquy and contempt cast upon us from the British
press, by regarding with favorable eyes this little rivulet of praise
bestowed upon the juvenile efforts of a lovely and interesting girl.
We are not of that number; we shall endeavor to decide upon the work
before us, unbiassed by trans-atlantic opinion--and we shall render
precisely that judgment which we would have done if that opinion had
been pronounced in the usual tone of British arrogance and contumely.

Regarding the volume before us as a literary production merely, and
supposing it to have been the offspring of a matured mind, we do not
think that it possesses any considerable merit. Estimating its
contents, however, as the first lispings of a child of genius,--as
furnishing proofs of the existence of that ethereal spark which, under
favorable circumstances, might have been kindled into a brilliant
flame, we do consider it as altogether extraordinary. We do not say
that these poems are equal to the early productions of Chatterton,
Henry Kirke White, or Dermody, those prodigies of precocious
talent,--but we entertain not a shadow of doubt if Miss Davidson had
lived, that she would have ranked among the highest of her own sex in
poetical excellence. In forming a correct judgment upon the offspring
of her muse, her youth is not alone to be considered. She had also to
contend with those remorseless enemies of mental effort,--poverty,
sorrow, and ill health; and it is, perhaps, a circumstance in her
history not unworthy of notice, that possessing a high degree of
personal beauty, and being on that account the object of much
admiration and attention, she did not suffer herself to be withdrawn
from the purer sources of intellectual enjoyment. Love indeed, seems
to have found no permanent lodgment in her heart. It might have stolen
to the threshold and infused some of its gentle influences, but she
seems to have been resolved to cast off the silken cord before it was
too firmly bound around her. Thus in the piece which bears the title
of _Cupid's Bower_, written in her fifteenth year.

  "Am I in fairy land?--or tell me, pray,
   To what love-lighted bower I've found my way?
   Sure luckless wight was never more beguiled
   In woodland maze, or closely-tangled wild.

   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--or hymeneal ring."

The longest, most elaborate, and perhaps best of her poems, is that
which gives the principal title to the volume. _Amir Khan_ is a simple
oriental tale, written in her sixteenth year, and is worked up with
surprising power of imagery for one so young. The most fastidious and
critical reader could not fail to be struck with its resemblance to
the gorgeous magnificence of Lalla Rookh; a resemblance, to be sure,
which no more implies equality of merit than does the brilliancy of
the mock diamond establish its value with that of the real gem. We
give the opening passage from the poem as a fair specimen of the rest,
and from which the reader may form a correct opinion of the style and
composition.

  "Brightly o'er spire, and dome, and tower,
   The pale moon shone at midnight hour,
   While all beneath her smile of light
   Was resting there in calm delight;
   Evening with robe of stars appears,
   Bright as repentant Peri's tears,
   And o'er her turban's fleecy fold
   Night's crescent streamed its rays of gold,
   While every chrystal cloud of heaven,
   Bowed as it passed the queen of even.
   Beneath--calm Cashmere's lovely vale
   Breathed perfumes to the sighing gale;
   The amaranth and tuberose,
   Convolvulus in deep repose,
   Bent to each breeze which swept their bed,
   Or scarcely kissed the dew and fled;
   The bulbul, with his lay of love;
   Sang mid the stillness of the grove;
   The gulnare blushed a deeper hue,
   And trembling shed a shower of dew,
   Which perfumed e'er it kiss'd the ground,
   Each zephyr's pinion hovering round.
   The lofty plane-tree's haughty brow
   Glitter'd beneath the moon's pale glow;
   And wide the plantain's arms were spread,
   The guardian of its native bed."

We venture to assert that if Thomas Moore had written Amir Khan at the
age of sixteen, there are thousands by whom it would be read and
admired who would hardly condescend to open Miss Davidson's volume;
and that too, without being able to assign any other or better reason
than that Moore is a distinguished and popular British bard, whereas
the other was an obscure country girl, who lived and died in the state
of New York.

The lines to the memory of Henry Kirk White, which were composed at
thirteen, are much superior to many elegiac stanzas written by poets
of some reputation at twenty-five or thirty. Of all her minor pieces
however, those which were written at fifteen seem to us to possess the
greatest merit, if we except the _Coquette_, a very spirited
production in imitation of the Scottish dialect, composed in her
fourteenth year. The following are the two first stanzas:

  "I hae nae sleep, I hae nae rest,
     My Ellen's lost for aye;
   My heart is sair and much distressed,
     I surely soon must die.

   I canna think o' wark at a',
     My eyes still wander far,
   _I see her neck like driven snaw,
     I see her flaxen hair._"

The image of the snowy neck and flaxen hair of the beautiful but
unkind fair one, presented so strongly to the rejected lover, as to
prevent his performing his daily work, strikes us as highly poetical
and true to nature, as we doubt not all genuine lovers will testify.
Burns wrote many, very many verses, which were much superior, but
Burns wrote some also, which were not so good. _Ruth's answer to
Naomi_, must be allowed, we think, to be a good paraphrase of that
most affecting passage of scripture. We must give the whole to the
reader.

  "Entreat me not, I must not hear,
   Mark but this sorrow-beaming tear;
   Thy answer's written deeply now
   On this warm cheek and clouded brow; {53}
   'Tis gleaming o'er this eye of sadness
   Which only near _thee_ sparkles gladness.

   The hearts _most_ dear to us are gone,
   And _thou_ and _I_ are left alone;
   Where'er thou wanderest, I will go,
   I'll follow thee through joy or wo;
   Shouldst thou to other countries fly,
   Where'er thou lodgest, there will I.

   Thy people shall my people be,
   And to thy God, I'll bend the knee;
   Whither thou fliest, will I fly,
   And where thou diest, I will die;
   And the same sod which pillows thee
   Shall freshly, sweetly bloom for me."[1]

[Footnote 1: We subjoin the passage of scripture paraphrased by Miss
Davidson, and also another paraphrase which has been ascribed to the
Hon. R. H. Wilde of Georgia. Our readers can compare and decide
between them.

"And Ruth said, entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from
following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go: and where
thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God
my God. Where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried."

  Nay, do not ask!--entreat not--no!
    O no! I will not leave thy side,
  Whither thou goest--I will go--
    Where thou abidest--I'll abide.

  Through life--in death--my soul to thine
    Shall cleave as fond, as first it clave--
  Thy home--thy people--shall be mine--
    Thy God my God--thy grave my grave.]

We present an extract from a piece called "_Woman's Love_," as a
specimen of Miss Davidson's management of blank verse, a form of
poetic diction which Montgomery thinks the most unmanageable of any.
The fair authoress might not herself have experienced that holy
passion, but she certainly knew how deep and imperishable it is when
once planted in the female bosom.

                              "Love is
  A beautiful feeling in a woman's heart,
  When felt, as only woman love _can_ feel!
  _Pure, as the snow-fall, when its latest shower_
  _Sinks on spring-flowers; deep, as a cave-locked fountain;_
  _And changeless as the cypress' green leaves;_
  _And like them, sad!_--She nourished
  Fond hopes and sweet anxieties, and fed
  A passion unconfessed, till he she loved
  Was wedded to another. Then she grew
  Moody and melancholy; one alone
  Had power to soothe her in her wanderings,
  Her gentle sister;--but that sister died,
  And the unhappy girl was left alone,
  A _maniac_. She would wander far, and shunned
  Her own accustomed dwelling; and her haunt
  Was that dead sister's grave: and that to her
  Was as a home."

We have italicised such of the lines as we think breathe the air and
spirit of genuine poetry. The snow flake has often been used as the
emblem of purity; but the snow flake reposing on beds of vernal
blossoms, is to us original as well as highly poetical. The
"cave-locked fountain" too, with its lone, deep, and quiet waters,
seems to us to express with force that profound and melancholy
sentiment which the writer intended to illustrate.

We shall conclude our selections with the one addressed _to a lady
whose singing resembled that of an absent sister_.

  "Oh! touch the chord yet once again,
     Nor chide me, though I weep the while;
   Believe me, that deep, seraph strain
     Bore with it memory's moonlight smile.

   It murmured of an absent friend;
     The voice, the air, 'twas all her own;
   And hers those wild, sweet notes, which blend
     In one mild, murmuring, touching tone.

   And days and months have darkly passed,
     Since last I listened to her lay;
   And sorrow's cloud its shade hath cast,
     Since then, across my weary way.

   Yet still the strain comes sweet and clear,
     Like seraph-whispers, lightly breathing;
   Hush, busy memory,--sorrow's tear
     Will blight the garland thou art wreathing.

   'Tis sweet, though sad--yes, I will stay,
     I cannot tear myself away.
   I thank thee, lady, for the strain,
     The tempest of my soul is still;
   Then touch the chord yet once again,
     For thou canst calm the storm at will."

We beg the reader to bear it in mind that these are the productions of
a young, inexperienced, and almost uneducated girl, and that they are
not to be tried by the tests which are usually applied to more matured
efforts. In conclusion, we will say in the language of Dr. Morse, her
biographer, "that her defects will be perceived to be those of youth
and inexperience, while in invention, and in that mysterious power of
exciting deep interest, of enchaining the attention, and keeping it
alive to the end of the story; in that adaptation of the measure to
the sentiment, and in the sudden change of measure to suit a sudden
change of sentiment, in wild and romantic description, and in the
congruity of the accompaniments to her characters, all conceived with
great purity and delicacy, she will be allowed to have discovered
uncommon maturity of mind; and her friends to have been warranted in
forming very high expectations of her future distinction."

We are pleased to learn that it is in contemplation by Miss Davidson's
friends, to publish a new and improved edition of her works, with
various additions from her unpublished manuscripts.




THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE; by the author of Pelham, Eugene Aram, &c.
_New York: Published by Harper & Brothers_--1834.


Mr. Bulwer's novels have acquired no inconsiderable degree of
popularity in the circles of fashionable literature. Whether they are
destined to survive the temporary admiration bestowed on them, is at
this time a subject of speculation; but in the next generation, will
become matter of fact. We are among those who think that they will
quietly glide into that oblivious ocean, which is destined to receive
a large proportion of the ever multiplying productions of this
prolific age. We do not say this either, in disparagement of many of
those labors of the mind which even intrinsic excellence cannot save
from perishing. Great and valuable as some of them undoubtedly are,
such is the onward march of intellect, and such the endless creations
which fancy and genius are continually rearing for man's gratification
and improvement,--to say nothing of the almost illimitable progress of
science, that posterity will find no room for the thousandth part of
our present stock of literature. We do not anticipate that {54} Mr.
Bulwer's writings will be among the select few which will outlive the
general wreck; because, unless we are much mistaken, he is one of
those authors who write more for present than permanent fame. This is
emphatically the age of great moral and mental excitability. It is a
period of incessant restlessness and activity; and he who would expect
to command much attention, must seek to gratify the appetite for
novelty and variety, even at the expense of good sense, sound morality
and correct taste. We incline to the opinion that Mr. Bulwer has
forgotten, that society in the aggregate, frequently resembles the
individual man; and that whilst it often experiences paroxysms of
unnatural excitement, there are long lucid intervals of returning
reason and sober simplicity. The volume before us is not calculated,
we think, to leave any lasting impression, either of good or evil.
Whilst it certainly abounds in felicitous language, and contains
passages of fine sentiment, it is grossly defective both in plot and
machinery; and if it were worth while to descend to minute criticism,
it would be easy to point out many examples of false morality as well
as false taste. Mr. Bulwer seems to have been aware, in his preface,
that he was making a bold experiment upon popular favor, and
accordingly he claims the reader's "indulgence for the superstitions
he has incorporated with his tale--for the floridity of his style, and
the redundance of his descriptions." As if somewhat apprehensive,
however, that that indulgence might not possibly be granted, he
assures the public that "various reasons have conspired to make this
the work, above all others that he has written, which has given him
the most delight (though not unmixed with melancholy,) in producing,
and in which his mind, for the time, has been the most completely
absorbed." A popular writer, thus bespeaking the public approbation in
advance, by stamping his last production with his own decided
preference, could not expect to be treated uncourteously by his
readers. In the first sentence of the second chapter too, the author
declares as follows: "I wish only for such readers as give themselves
heart and soul up to me: if they begin to cavil, I have done with
them; their fancy should put itself entirely under my management." Now
whether it proceeded from a spirit of perverseness or not, we cannot
tell; but we resolved when we read this passage, neither to surrender
our heart, fancy or judgment to Mr. Bulwer's guidance. On the
contrary, we determined to read the book and decide on its merits, in
the spirit of perfect impartiality and entire independence. The story
upon which the work is founded--at least that part of it which treats
of mortal affairs, consists of the simplest materials. Trevylyan, a
gentleman of "a wild, resolute and active nature, who had been thrown
upon the world at the age of sixteen, and had passed his youth in
alternate pleasure, travel and solitary study," falls in love with
Gertrude Vane, a young girl, described as "the loveliest person that
ever dawned upon a poet's vision." A fatal disease, "consumption in
its most beautiful shape," had set its seal upon her, and yet
Trevylyan loved with an irresistible passion. With the consent, rather
than by the advice of the faculty and her friends, the young and
interesting invalid, attended by her father and lover, goes upon a
pilgrimage up the beautiful and romantic Rhine. From that pilgrimage
she never returned; but in one of those wild and legendary spots which
impart such interest to that celebrated stream--a spot selected by
herself as her last grassy couch, she breathed out her gentle spirit,
and quietly sunk to her lasting repose. Such is the simple thread upon
which Mr. Bulwer has contrived to weave a variety of German legends
and fairy fictions, having no necessary connection with the main
story, except that the principal episodes were suggested by some
remarkable scenery or some castellated ruin on the banks of the Rhine.
The _underplot_, if it may be so called, or the adventures of
Nymphalin, queen of the fairies, and her Elfin court, is altogether
unworthy of Mr. Bulwer's genius. It is rather a bungling attempt to
revive the exploded machinery of supernatural agency; and we moreover
do not perceive any possible connection or sympathy between these
imaginary beings and the principal personages of the tale. Apart from
other considerations, the actions and conversations of these roving
elves are destitute of all interest and attraction; and nothing in our
eyes appears more preposterous than the introduction of the Lord
Treasurer into Queen Nymphalin's train. We always thought that the
fairies were mischievous spirits--sometimes a little wicked, and often
very benevolent; but never before did we suspect that this ideal
population of the world of fancy, manifested any concern in the dry
subject of finance, or in the _unfairy-like_ establishment of a
regular exchequer. The story of "The Wooing of Master Fox," related
for the amusement of Queen Nymphalin, making every allowance for the
author's design in introducing it, is to our taste unutterably
disgusting and ridiculous.

We have no objection to the occasional use of the fairy superstition
in tales of fancy; no more than we have to the frequent classical
allusions to heathen mythology which distinguish the best writers.
They are pleasing and beautiful illustrations, when happily
introduced. But we do protest against lifting the veil from the world
of imagination, and investing its shadowy beings with the common place
attributes, the vulgar actions and frivolous dialogue of mere mortals.
It is in truth dispelling the illusion in which the spirit of poetry
delights to indulge. It takes away the most powerful charm from the
cool and sequestered grotto, the shady grove or moonlit bower. It
vulgarises the world of romance, and reduces the region of mind to a
level with brute sense, or even coarser matter.

Condemning as we do, in perfect good faith, these exceptionable
portions of Mr. Bulwer's volume, we take pleasure in awarding due
praise to some of the legends and stories introduced into the work,
and which are for the most part related by Trevylyan for the amusement
of Gertrude. Of these, we give the decided preference to "The
Brothers" and "The Maid of Malines." The latter indeed, strikes us as
so finished an illustration of some of the noble qualities of woman
kind, that we have determined to present it entire for the benefit of
our readers.


THE MAID OF MALINES.

It was noonday in the town of Malines, or Mechlin, as the English
usually term it: the Sabbath bell had summoned the inhabitants to
divine worship; and the crowd that had loitered round the Church of
St. Rembauld, had gradually emptied itself within the spacious aisles
of the sacred edifice.

{55} A young man was standing in the street, with his eyes bent on the
ground, and apparently listening for some sound; for, without raising
his looks from the rude pavement, he turned to every corner of it with
an intent and anxious expression of countenance; he held in one hand a
staff, in the other a long slender cord, the end of which trailed on
the ground; every now and then he called, with a plaintive voice,
"Fido, Fido, come back! Why hast thou deserted me?" Fido returned not:
the dog, wearied of confinement, had slipped from the string, and was
at play with his kind in a distant quarter of the town, leaving the
blind man to seek his way as he might to his solitary inn.

By and by a light step passed through the street, and the young
stranger's face brightened--

"Pardon me," said he, turning to the spot where his quick ear had
caught the sound, "and direct me, if you are not by chance much
pressed for a few moment's time, to the hotel _Mortier d'or_."

It was a young woman, whose dress betokened that she belonged to the
middling class of life, whom he thus addressed. "It is some distance
hence, sir," said she, "but if you continue your way straight on for
about a hundred yards, and then take the second turn to your right
hand--"

"Alas!" interrupted the stranger, with a melancholy smile, "your
direction will avail me little; my dog has deserted me, and I am
blind!"

There was something in these words, and in the stranger's voice, which
went irresistibly to the heart of the young woman. "Pray forgive me,"
she said, almost with tears in her eyes, "I did not perceive your--"
misfortune, she was about to say, but she checked herself with an
instinctive delicacy. "Lean upon me, I will conduct you to the door;
nay, sir," observing that he hesitated, "I have time enough to spare,
I assure you."

The stranger placed his hand on the young woman's arm, and though
Lucille was naturally so bashful that even her mother would laughingly
reproach her for the excess of a maiden virtue, she felt not the least
pang of shame, as she found herself thus suddenly walking through the
streets of Malines, alone with a young stranger, whose dress and air
betokened him of a rank superior to her own.

"Your voice is very gentle," said he, after a pause, "and that," he
added, with a slight sigh, "is the criterion by which I only know the
young and the beautiful." Lucille now blushed, and with a slight
mixture of pain in the blush, for she knew well that to beauty she had
no pretension. "Are you a native of this town?" continued he. "Yes,
sir; my father holds a small office in the customs, and my mother and
I eke out his salary by making lace. We are called poor, but we do not
feel it, sir."

"You are fortunate: there is no wealth like the heart's wealth,
content," answered the blind man mournfully.

"And Monsieur," said Lucille, feeling angry with herself that she had
awakened a natural envy in the stranger's mind, and anxious to change
the subject--"and Monsieur, has he been long at Malines?"

"But yesterday. I am passing through the Low Countries on a tour;
perhaps you smile at the tour of a blind man--but it is wearisome even
to the blind to rest always in the same place. I thought during church
time, when the streets were empty, that I might, by the help of my
dog, enjoy safely, at least the air, if not the sight of the town; but
there are some persons, methinks, who cannot even have a dog for a
friend."

The blind man spoke bitterly,--the desertion of his dog had touched
him to the core. Lucille wiped her eyes. "And does Monsieur travel
then alone?" said she; and looking at his face more attentively than
she had yet ventured to do, she saw that he was scarcely above
two-and-twenty. "His father, his _mother_," she added, with an
emphasis on the last word, "are they not with him?"

"I am an orphan," answered the stranger; "and I have neither brother
nor sister."

The desolate condition of the blind man quite melted Lucille; never
had she been so strongly affected. She felt a strange flutter at the
heart--a secret and earnest sympathy, that attracted her at once
towards him. She wished that heaven had suffered her to be his sister.

The contrast between the youth and the form of the stranger, and the
affliction which took hope from the one, and activity from the other,
increased the compassion he excited. His features were remarkably
regular, and had a certain nobleness in their outline; and his frame
was gracefully and firmly knit, though he moved cautiously and with no
cheerful step.

They had now passed into a narrow street leading towards the hotel,
when they heard behind them the clatter of hoofs; and Lucille, looking
hastily back, saw that a troop of the Belgian horse was passing thro'
town.

She drew her charge close by the wall, and trembling with fear for
him, she stationed herself by his side. The troop passed at a full
trot through the street; and at the sound of their clanging arms, and
the ringing hoofs of their heavy chargers, Lucille might have seen,
had she looked at the blind man's face, that its sad features kindled
with enthusiasm, and his head was raised proudly from its wonted and
melancholy bend. "Thank heaven," she said, as the troop had nearly
passed them, "the danger is over!" Not so. One of the last two
soldiers who rode abreast, was unfortunately mounted on a young and
unmanageable horse. The rider's oaths and digging spur only increased
the fire and impatience of the charger; he plunged from side to side
of the narrow street.

"_Gardez vous_," cried the horseman, as he was borne on to the place
where Lucille and the stranger stood against the wall; "are ye
mad--why do you not run?"

"For heaven's sake, for mercy sake, he is blind!" cried Lucille,
clinging to the stranger's side.

"Save yourself, my kind guide!" said the stranger. But Lucille dreamt
not of such desertion. The trooper wrested the horse's head from the
spot where they stood; with a snort, as he felt the spur, the enraged
animal lashed out with its hind legs; and Lucille, unable to save
_both_, threw herself before the blind man, and received the shock
directed against him; her slight and delicate arm fell shattered by
her side--the horseman was borne onward. "Thank God, _you_ are saved!"
was poor Lucille's exclamation; and she fell, overcome with pain and
terror, into the arms which the stranger mechanically opened to
receive her.

"My guide, my friend!" cried he, "you are hurt, you--"

"No, sir," interrupted Lucille, faintly, "I am better, I am well.
_This_ arm, if you please--we are not far from your hotel now."

But the stranger's ear, tutored to every inflection of voice, told him
at once of the pain she suffered; he drew from her by degrees the
confession of the injury she had sustained; but the generous girl did
not tell him it had been incurred solely in his protection. He now
insisted on reversing their duties, and accompanying _her_ to her
home; and Lucille, almost fainting with pain, and hardly able to move,
was forced to consent. But a few steps down the next turning stood the
humble mansion of her father--they reached it--and Lucille scarcely
crossed the threshold, before she sank down, and for some minutes was
insensible to pain. It was left to the stranger to explain, and to
beseech them immediately to send for a surgeon, "the most skilful--the
most practised in town," said he. "See, I am rich, and this is the
least I can do to atone to your generous daughter for not forsaking
even a stranger in peril."

He held out his purse as he spoke, but the father refused the offer;
and it saved the blind man some shame that he could not see the blush
of honest resentment with which so poor a species of remuneration was
put aside.

The young man staid till the surgeon arrived, till the arm was set;
nor did he depart until he had obtained a promise from the mother,
that he should learn the next morning how the sufferer had passed the
night.

The next morning, indeed, he had intended to quit a {56} town that
offers but little temptation to the traveller; but he tarried day
after day, until Lucille herself accompanied her mother to assure him
of her recovery.

You know, or at least I do, dearest Gertrude, that there _is_ such a
thing as love at the first meeting--a secret and unaccountable
affinity between persons (strangers before,) which draws them
irresistibly together. If there were truth in Plato's beautiful
phantasy, that our souls were a portion of the stars, it might be,
that spirits thus attracted to each other, have drawn their original
light from the same orb; and they thus but yearn for a renewal of
their former union. Yet, without recurring to such ideal solutions of
a daily mystery, it was but natural that one in the forlorn and
desolate condition of Eugene St. Amand, should have felt a certain
tenderness for a person who had so generously suffered for his sake.

The darkness to which he was condemned did not shut from his mind's
eye the haunting images of ideal beauty; rather, on the contrary, in
his perpetual and unoccupied solitude, he fed the reveries of an
imagination naturally warm, and a heart eager for sympathy.

He had said rightly that his only test of beauty was in the melody of
voice; and never had a softer or a more thrilling tone than that of
the young maiden touched upon his ear. Her exclamation, so beautifully
denying self, so devoted in its charity, "Thank God, _you_ are saved!"
uttered too, in the moment of her own suffering, rang constantly upon
his soul, and he yielded, without precisely defining their nature, to
vague and delicious sentiments, that his youth had never awakened to
till then. And Lucille--the very accident that had happened to her on
his behalf, only deepened the interest she had already conceived for
one who, in the first flush of youth, was thus cut off from the glad
objects of life, and led to a night of years, desolate and alone.
There is, to your beautiful and kindly sex, a perpetual and gushing
_lovingness to protect_. This makes them the angels of sickness, the
comforters of age, the fosterers of childhood; and this feeling, in
Lucille peculiarly developed, had already inexpressibly linked her
compassionate nature to the lot of the unfortunate traveller. With
ardent affections, and with thoughts beyond her station and her years,
she was not without that modest vanity which made her painfully
susceptible to her own deficiencies in beauty. Instinctively conscious
of how deeply she herself could love, she believed it impossible that
she could ever be so loved in return. This stranger, so superior in
her eyes to all she had yet seen, was the first out of her own
household who had ever addressed her in that voice, which by tones,
not words, speaks that admiration most dear to a woman's heart. To
_him_ she was beautiful, and her lovely mind spoke out undimmed by the
imperfections of her face. Not, indeed, that Lucille was wholly
without personal attraction; her light step and graceful form were
elastic with the freshness of youth, and her mouth and smile had so
gentle and tender an expression, that there were moments when it would
not have been the blind only who would have mistaken her to be
beautiful. Her early childhood had indeed given the promise of
attractions, which the small-pox, that then fearful malady, had
inexorably marred. It had not only seared the smooth skin and the
brilliant hues, but utterly changed even the character of the
features. It so happened that Lucille's family were celebrated for
beauty, and vain of that celebrity; and so bitterly had her parents
deplored the effects of the cruel malady, that poor Lucille had been
early taught to consider them far more grievous than they really were,
and to exaggerate the advantages of that beauty, the loss of which was
considered by her parents so heavy a misfortune. Lucille too, had a
cousin named Julie, who was the wonder of all Malines for her personal
perfections; and as the cousins were much together, the contrast was
too striking not to occasion frequent mortification to Lucille. But
every misfortune has something of a counterpoise; and the
consciousness of personal inferiority, had meekened, without souring,
her temper--had given gentleness to a spirit that otherwise might have
been too high, and humility to a mind that was naturally strong,
impassioned, and energetic.

And yet Lucille had long conquered the one disadvantage she most
dreaded in the want of beauty. Lucille was never known but to be
loved. Wherever came her presence, her bright and soft mind diffused a
certain inexpressible charm; and where she was not, a something was
missing from the scene which not even Julie's beauty could replace.

"I propose," said St. Amand to Madame le Tisseur, Lucille's mother, as
he sat in her little salon,--for he had already contracted that
acquaintance with the family which permitted him to be led to their
house, to return the visits Madame le Tisseur had made him, and his
dog, once more returned a penitent to his master, always conducted his
steps to the humble abode, and stopped instinctively at the door,--"I
propose," said St. Amand, after a pause, and with some embarrassment,
"to stay a little while longer at Malines; the air agrees with me, and
I like the quiet of the place; but you are aware, Madame, that at a
hotel among strangers, I feel my situation somewhat cheerless. I have
been thinking"--St. Amand paused again--"I have been thinking that if
I could persuade some agreeable family to receive me as a lodger, I
would fix myself here for some weeks. I am easily pleased."

"Doubtless there are many in Malines who would be too happy to receive
such a lodger."

"Will you receive me?" said St. Amand, abruptly. "It was of your
family I thought."

"Of us? Monsieur is too flattering, but we have scarcely a room good
enough for you."

"What difference between one room and another can there be to me? That
is the best apartment to my choice in which the human voice sounds
most kindly."

The arrangement was made, and St. Amand came now to reside beneath the
same roof as Lucille. And was she not happy that _he_ wanted so
constant an attendance? was she not happy that she was ever of use?
St. Amand was passionately fond of music: he played himself with a
skill that was only surpassed by the exquisite melody of his voice;
and was not Lucille happy when she sat mute and listening to such
sounds as at Malines were never heard before? Was she not happy in
gazing on a face to whose melancholy aspect her voice instantly
summoned the smile? Was she not happy when the music ceased, and St.
Amand called "Lucille?" Did not her own name uttered by that voice,
seem to her even sweeter than the music? Was she not happy when they
walked out in the still evenings of summer, and her arm thrilled
beneath the light touch of one to whom she was so necessary? Was she
not proud in her happiness, and was there not something like worship
in the gratitude she felt to him, for raising her humble spirit to the
luxury of feeling herself loved?

St. Amand's parents were French; they had resided in the neighborhood
of Amiens, where they had inherited a competent property, to which he
had succeeded about two years previous to the date of my story.

He had been blind from the age of three years. "I know not," said he,
as he related these particulars to Lucille one evening when they were
alone; "I know not what the earth may be like, or the heaven, or the
rivers whose voice at least I can hear, for I have no recollection
beyond that of a confused, but delicious blending of a thousand
glorious colors--a bright and quick sense of joy--A VISIBLE MUSIC. But
it is only since my childhood closed that I have mourned, as I now
unceasingly mourn, for the light of day. My boyhood passed in a quiet
cheerfulness; the least trifle then could please and occupy the
vacancies of my mind; but it was as I took delight in being read
to,--as I listened to the vivid descriptions of poetry,--as I glowed
at the recital of great deeds,--as I was made acquainted by books,
with the energy, the action, the heat, the fervor, the {57} pomp, the
enthusiasm of life, that I gradually opened to the sense of all I was
forever denied. I felt that I existed, not lived; and that, in the
midst of the Universal Liberty, I was sentenced to a prison, from
whose blank walls there was no escape. Still, however, while my
parents lived, I had something of consolation; at least I was not
alone. They died, and a sudden and dread solitude--a vast and empty
dreariness settled upon my dungeon. One old servant only, who had
nursed me from my childhood, who had known me in my short privilege of
light, by whose recollections my mind could grope back its way through
the dark and narrow passages of memory, to faint glimpses of the sun,
was all that remained to me of human sympathies. It did not suffice,
however, to content me with a home where my father and my mother's
kind voice were _not_. A restless impatience, an anxiety to move,
possessed me; and I set out from my home, journeying whither I cared
not, so that at least I could change an air that weighed upon me like
a palpable burthen. I took only this old attendant as my companion; he
too died three months since at Bruxelles, worn out with years. Alas! I
had forgotten that he was old, for I saw not his progress to decay;
and now, save my faithless dog, I was utterly alone, till I came
hither and found _thee_."

Lucille stooped down to caress the dog; she blest the desertion that
had led to a friend who never could desert.

But however much and however gratefully St. Amand loved Lucille, her
power availed not to chase the melancholy from his brow, and to
reconcile him to his forlorn condition.

"Ah, would that I could see thee! Would that I could look upon a face
that my heart vainly endeavors to delineate."

"If thou couldst," sighed Lucille, "thou wouldst cease to love me."

"Impossible!" cried St. Amand, passionately; "however the world may
find thee, _thou_ wouldst become my standard of beauty, and I should
judge not of thee by others, but of others by thee."

He loved to hear Lucille read to him; and mostly he loved the
descriptions of war, of travel, of wild adventure, and yet they
occasioned him the most pain. Often she paused from the page as she
heard him sigh, and felt that she would even have renounced the bliss
of being loved by him, if she could have restored to him that
blessing, the desire for which haunted him as a spectre.

Lucille's family were Catholic, and, like most in their station, they
possessed the superstitions, as well as the devotion of the faith.
Sometimes they amused themselves of an evening by the various legends
and imaginary miracles of their calendar: and once, as they were thus
conversing with two or three of their neighbors, "The Tomb of the
Three Kings of Cologne" became the main topic of their wandering
recitals. However strong was the sense of Lucille, she was, as you
will readily conceive, naturally influenced by the belief of those
with whom she had been brought up from her cradle, and she listened to
tale after tale of the miracles wrought at the consecrated tomb, as
earnestly and undoubtingly as the rest.

And the Kings of the East were no ordinary saints; to the relics of
the Three Magi, who followed the Star of Bethlehem, and were the first
potentates of the earth who adored its Saviour, well might the pious
Catholic suppose that a peculiar power and a healing sanctity would
belong. Each of the circle (St. Amand, who had been more than usually
silent, and even gloomy during the day, had retired to his apartment,
for there were some moments, when in the sadness of his thoughts, he
sought that solitude which he so impatiently fled from at
others)--each of the circle had some story to relate equally veracious
and indisputable, of an infirmity cured, or a prayer accorded, or a
sin atoned for at the foot of the holy tomb. One story peculiarly
affected Lucille; the narrator, a venerable old man with gray locks,
solemnly declared himself a witness of its truth.

A woman at Anvers had given birth to a son, the offspring of an
illicit connexion, who came into the world deaf and dumb. The
unfortunate mother believed the calamity a punishment for her own sin.
"Ah, would," said she, "that the affliction had fallen only upon me!
Wretch that I am, my innocent child is punished for my offence!" This
idea haunted her night and day: she pined and could not be comforted.
As the child grew up, and wound himself more and more round her heart,
its caresses added new pangs to her remorse; and at length (continued
the narrator) hearing perpetually of the holy fame of the Tomb of
Cologne, she resolved upon a pilgrimage barefoot to the shrine. "God
is merciful," said she, "and he who called Magdaline his sister, may
take the mother's curse from the child." She then went to Cologne; she
poured her tears, her penitence, and her prayers, at the sacred tomb.
When she returned to her native town, what was her dismay as she
approached her cottage to behold it a heap of ruins!--its blackened
rafters and yawning casements betokened the ravages of fire. The poor
woman sunk upon the ground utterly overpowered. Had her son perished?
At that moment she heard the cry of a child's voice, and, lo! her
child rushed to her arms, and called her "mother!"

He had been saved from the fire which had broken out seven days
before; but in the terror he had suffered, the string that tied his
tongue had been loosened; he had uttered articulate sounds of
distress; the curse was removed, and one word at least the kind
neighbors had already taught him, to welcome his mother's return. What
cared she now that her substance was gone, that her roof was ashes;
she bowed in grateful submission to so mild a stroke; her prayer had
been heard, and the sin of the mother was visited no longer on the
child.

I have said, dear Gertrude, that this story made a deep impression
upon Lucille. A misfortune so nearly akin to that of St. Amand,
removed by the prayer of another, filled her with devoted thoughts,
and a beautiful hope. "Is not the tomb still standing?" thought she;
"is not God still in heaven? He who heard the guilty, may he not hear
the guiltless? Is he not the God of love? Are not the affections the
offerings that please him best? and what though the child's mediator
was his mother, can even a mother love her child more tenderly than I
love Eugene? But if, Lucille, thy prayer be granted, if he recover his
sight, _thy_ charm is gone, he will love thee no longer. No matter! be
it so; I shall at least have made him happy!"

Such were the thoughts that filled the mind of Lucille; she cherished
them till they settled into resolution, and she secretly vowed to
perform her pilgrimage of love. She told neither St. Amand nor her
parents of her intention; she knew the obstacles such an annunciation
would create. Fortunately, she had an aunt settled at Bruxelles, to
whom she had been accustomed, once in every year, to pay a month's
visit, and at that time she generally took with her the work of a
twelve-month's industry, which found a readier sale at Bruxelles than
Malines. Lucille and St. Amand were already betrothed; their wedding
was shortly to take place; and the custom of the country leading
parents, however poor, to nourish the honorable ambition of giving
some dowry with their daughters, Lucille found it easy to hide the
object of her departure, under the pretence of taking the lace to
Bruxelles, which had been the year's labor of her mother and herself;
it would sell for sufficient at least to defray the preparations for
the wedding.

"Thou art ever right, child," said Madame Le Tisseur; "the richer St.
Amand is, why the less oughtest thou to go a beggar to his house."

In fact, the honest ambition of the good people was excited; their
pride had been hurt by the envy of the town and the current
congratulations on so advantageous a marriage; and they employed
themselves in counting up the fortune they should be able to give to
their only child, and flattering their pardonable vanity with the
notion that there would be no such great {58} disproportion in the
connexion after all. They were right, but not in their own view of the
estimate; the wealth that Lucille brought was what fate could not
lessen,--reverse could not reach,--the ungracious seasons could not
blight its sweet harvest,--imprudence could not dissipate,--fraud
could not steal one grain from its abundant coffers! Like the purse in
the fairy tale, its use was hourly, its treasure inexhaustible!

St. Amand alone was not to be won to her departure; he chafed at the
notion of a dowry: he was not appeased even by Lucille's
representation, that it was only to gratify and not to impoverish her
parents. "And _thou_, too, canst leave me!" he said, in that plaintive
voice which had made his first charm to Lucille's heart. "It is a
second blindness."

"But for a few days; a fortnight at most, dearest Eugene!"

"A fortnight! you do not reckon time as the blind do," said St. Amand,
bitterly.

"But listen, listen, dear Eugene," said Lucille, weeping. The sound of
her sobs restored him to a sense of his ingratitude. Alas, he knew not
how much he had to be grateful for. He held out his arms to her;
"Forgive me," said he. "Those who can see nature know not how terrible
it is to be alone."

"But my mother will not leave you."

"She is not you!"

"And Julie," said Lucille, hesitatingly.

"What is Julie to me?"

"Ah, you are the only one, save my parents, who could think of me in
her presence."

"And why, Lucille?"

"Why! She is more beautiful than a dream."

"Say not so. Would I could see, that I might prove to the world how
much more beautiful thou art. There is no music in _her_ voice."

The evening before Lucille departed, she sat up late with St. Amand
and her mother. They conversed on the future; they made plans; in the
wide sterility of the world, they laid out the garden of household
love, and filled it with flowers, forgetful of the wind that scatters
and the frost that kills. And when, leaning on Lucille's arm, St.
Amand sought his chamber, and they parted at his door, which closed
upon her, she fell down on her knees at the threshold, and poured out
the fulness of her heart in a prayer for his safety, and the
fulfilment of her timid hope.

At daybreak she was consigned to the conveyance that performed the
short journey from Malines to Bruxelles. When she entered the town,
instead of seeking her aunt, she rested at an auberge in the suburbs,
and confiding her little basket of lace to the care of its hostess,
she set out alone, and on foot, upon the errand of her heart's lovely
superstition. And erring though it was, her faith redeemed its
weakness--her affection made it even sacred. And well may we believe,
that the eye which reads all secrets scarce looked reprovingly on that
fanaticism, whose only infirmity was love.

So fearful was she, lest, by rendering the task too easy, she might
impair the effect, that she scarcely allowed herself rest or food.
Sometimes, in the heat of noon, she wandered a little from the
road-side, and under the spreading lime-tree surrendered her mind to
its sweet and bitter thoughts; but ever the restlessness of her
enterprise urged her on, and faint, weary, and with bleeding feet, she
started up and continued her way. At length she reached the ancient
city, where a holier age has scarce worn from the habits and aspects
of men the Roman trace. She prostrated herself at the tomb of the
Magi: she proffered her ardent but humble prayer to Him before whose
son those fleshless heads (yet to faith at least preserved) had,
nearly eighteen centuries ago, bowed in adoration. Twice every day,
for a whole week, she sought the same spot, and poured forth the same
prayer. The last day an old priest, who, hovering in the church, had
observed her constantly at devotion, with that fatherly interest which
the better ministers of the Catholic sect (that sect which has covered
the earth with the mansions of charity) feel for the unhappy,
approached her as she was retiring with moist and downcast eyes, and
saluting her, assumed the privilege of his order, to inquire if there
was aught in which his advice or aid could serve. There was something
in the venerable air of the old man which encouraged Lucille; she
opened her heart to him; she told him all. The good priest was much
moved by her simplicity and earnestness. He questioned her minutely as
to the peculiar species of blindness with which St. Amand was
afflicted; and after musing a little while, he said, "Daughter, God is
great and merciful, we must trust in his power, but we must not forget
that he mostly works by mortal agents. As you pass through Louvain in
your way home, fail not to see there a certain physician, named Le
Kain. He is celebrated through Flanders for the cures he has wrought
among the blind, and his advice is sought by all classes from far and
near. He lives hard by the Hotel de Ville, but any one will inform you
of his residence. Stay, my child, you shall take him a note from me;
he is a benevolent and kindly man, and you shall tell him exactly the
same story (and with the same voice) you have told to me."

So saying the priest made Lucille accompany him to his home, and
forcing her to refresh herself less sparingly than she had yet done
since she had left Malines, he gave her his blessing, and a letter to
Le Kain, which he rightly judged would insure her a patient hearing
from the physician. Well known among all men of science was the name
of the priest, and a word of recommendation from him went farther,
where virtue and wisdom were honored, than the longest letter from the
haughtiest Sieur in Flanders.

With a patient and hopeful spirit, the young pilgrim turned her back
on the Roman Cologne, and now about to rejoin St. Amand, she felt
neither the heat of the sun nor the weariness of the road. It was one
day at noon that she again passed through LOUVAIN, and she soon found
herself by the noble edifice of the HOTEL DE VILLE. Proud rose its
Gothic spires against the sky, and the sun shone bright on its rich
tracery and Gothic casements; the broad open street was crowded with
persons of all classes, and it was with some modest alarm that Lucille
lowered her veil and mingled with the throng. It was easy, as the
priest had said, to find the house of Le Kain; she bade the servant
take the priest's letter to his master, and she was not long kept
waiting before she was admitted to the physician's presence. He was a
spare, tall man, with a bald front, and a calm and friendly
countenance. He was not less touched than the priest had been by the
manner in which she narrated her story, described the affliction of
her betrothed, and the hope that had inspired the pilgrimage she had
just made.

"Well," said he, encouragingly, "we must see our patient. You can
bring him hither to me."

"Ah, sir, I had hoped--" Lucille stopped suddenly.

"What, my young friend?"

"That I might have had the triumph of bringing you to Malines. I know,
sir, what you are about to say; and I know, sir, your time must be
very valuable; but I am not so poor as I seem, and Eugene, that is
Monsieur St. Amand, is very rich, and--and I have at Bruxelles what I
am sure is a large sum; it was to have provided for the wedding, but
it is most heartily at your service, sir."

Le Kain smiled; he was one of those men who love to read the human
heart when its leaves are fair and undefiled; and, in the benevolence
of science, he would have gone a longer journey than from Louvain to
Malines to give sight to the blind, even had St. Amand been a beggar.

"Well, well," said he, "but you forget that Monsieur St. Amand is not
the only one in the world who wants me. I must look at my note-book,
and see if I can be spared for a day or two."

So saying he glanced at his memoranda; every thing {59} smiled on
Lucille: he had no engagements that his partner could not fulfil, for
some days; he consented to accompany Lucille to Malines.

Meanwhile cheerless and dull had passed the time to St. Amand; he was
perpetually asking Madame Le Tisseur what hour it was; it was almost
his only question. There seemed to him no sun in the heavens, no
freshness in the air, and he even forbore his favorite music; the
instrument had lost its sweetness since Lucille was not by to listen.

It was natural that the gossips of Malines should feel some envy at
the marriage Lucille was about to make with one whose competence
report had exaggerated into prodigal wealth, whose birth had been
elevated from the respectable to the noble, and whose handsome person
was clothed, by the interest excited by his misfortune, with the
beauty of Antinous. Even that misfortune, which ought to have levelled
all distinctions, was not sufficient to check the general envy;
perhaps to some of the dames of Malines blindness in a husband was
indeed not the least agreeable of all qualifications! But there was
one in whom this envy rankled with a peculiar sting; it was the
beautiful, the all-conquering Julie. That the humble, the neglected
Lucille should be preferred to her; that Lucille, whose existence was
well-nigh forgot beside Julie's, should become thus suddenly of
importance; that there should be one person in the world, and that
person young, rich, handsome, to whom she was less than nothing, when
weighed in the balance with Lucille, mortified to the quick a vanity
that had never till then received a wound. "It is well," she would
say, with a bitter jest, "that Lucille's lover is blind. To be the one
it is necessary to be the other!"

During Lucille's absence she had been constantly in Madame Le
Tisseur's house--indeed Lucille had prayed her to be so. She had
sought, with an industry that astonished herself, to supply Lucille's
place, and among the strange contradictions of human nature, she had
learned, during her efforts to please, to love the object of those
efforts,--as much at least as she was capable of loving.

She conceived a positive hatred to Lucille; she persisted in imagining
that nothing but the accident of first acquaintance had deprived her
of a conquest with which she persuaded herself her happiness had
become connected. Had St. Amand never loved Lucille, and proposed to
Julie, his misfortune would have made her reject him, despite his
wealth and his youth; but to be Lucille's lover, and a conquest to be
won from Lucille, raised him instantly to an importance not his own.
Safe, however, in his affliction, the arts and beauty of Julie fell
harmless on the fidelity of St. Amand. Nay, he liked her less than
ever, for it seemed an impertinence in any one to counterfeit the
anxiety and watchfulness of Lucille.

"It is time, surely it is time, Madame Le Tisseur, that Lucille should
return. She might have sold all the lace in Malines by this time,"
said St. Amand one day, peevishly.

"Patience, my dear friend; patience, perhaps she may return
to-morrow."

"To-morrow! let me see, it is only six o'clock, only six, you are
sure?"

"Just five, dear Eugene shall I read to you? this is a new book from
Paris, it has made a great noise," said Julie.

"You are very kind, but I will not trouble you."

"It is any thing but trouble."

"In a word, then, I would rather not."

"Oh! that he could see," thought Julie; "would I not punish him for
this!"

"I hear carriage-wheels; who can be passing this way? Surely it is the
voiturier from Bruxelles," said St. Amand, starting up, "it is his
day, his hour, too. No, no, it is a lighter vehicle," and he sank down
listlessly on his seat.

Nearer and nearer rolled the wheels; they turned the corner; they
stopped at the lowly door; and--overcome,--overjoyed, Lucille was
clasped to the bosom of St. Amand.

"Stay," said she, blushing, as she recovered her self-possession, and
turned to Le Kain, "pray pardon me, sir. Dear Eugene, I have brought
with me one who, by God's blessing, may yet restore you to sight."

"We must not be sanguine, my child," said Le Kain; "any thing is
better than disappointment."

To close this part of my story, dear Gertrude, Le Kain examined St.
Amand, and the result of the examination was a confident belief in the
probability of a cure. St. Amand gladly consented to the experiment of
an operation; it succeeded--the blind man saw! Oh! what were Lucille's
feelings, what her emotion, what her joy, when she found the object of
her pilgrimage--of her prayers--fulfilled! That joy was so intense,
that in the eternal alterations of human life she might have foretold
from its excess how bitter the sorrows fated to ensue.

As soon as by degrees the patient's new sense became reconciled to the
light, his first, his only demand was for Lucille. "No, let me not see
her alone, let me see her in the midst of you all, that I may convince
you that the heart never is mistaken in its instincts." With a
fearful, a sinking presentiment, Lucille yielded to the request to
which the impetuous St. Amand would hear indeed no denial. The father,
the mother, Julie, Lucille, Julie's younger sisters assembled in the
little parlor; the door opened, and St. Amand stood hesitating on the
threshold. One look around sufficed to him; his face brightened, he
uttered a cry of joy. "Lucille! Lucille!" he exclaimed, "It is you, I
know it, _you_ only!" He sprang forward, _and fell at the feet of
Julie!_

Flushed, elated, triumphant, Julie bent upon him her sparkling eyes;
_she_ did not undeceive him.

"You are wrong, you mistake," said Madame Le Tisseur, in confusion;
"that is her cousin Julie, this is your Lucille."

St. Amand rose, turned, saw Lucille, and at that moment she wished
herself in her grave. Surprise, mortification, disappointment, almost
dismay, were depicted in his gaze. He had been haunting his
prison-house with dreams, and, now set free, he felt how unlike they
were to the truth. Too new to observation to read the wo, the despair,
the lapse and shrinking of the whole frame, that his look occasioned
Lucille, he yet felt, when the first shock of his surprise was over,
that it was not thus he should thank her who had restored him to
sight. He hastened to redeem his error; ah! how could it be redeemed?

From that hour all Lucille's happiness was at an end; her fairy palace
was shattered in the dust; the magician's wand was broken up; the
Ariel was given to the winds; and the bright enchantment no longer
distinguished the land she lived in from the rest of the barren world.
It was true that St. Amand's words were kind; it is true that he
remembered with the deepest gratitude all she had done in his behalf;
it is true that he forced himself again and again to say, "She is my
betrothed--my benefactress!" and he cursed himself to think that the
feelings he had entertained for her were fled. Where was the passion
of his words? where the ardor of his tone? where that play and light
of countenance which her step, _her_ voice could formerly call forth?
When they were alone he was embarrassed and constrained, and almost
cold; his hand no longer sought hers; his soul no longer missed her if
she was absent a moment from his side. When in their household circle,
he seemed visibly more at ease; but did his eyes fasten upon her who
had opened them to the day? did they not wander at every interval with
a too eloquent admiration to the blushing and radiant face of the
exulting Julie? This was not, you will believe, suddenly perceptible
in one day or one week, but every day it was perceptible more and
more. Yet still--bewitched, ensnared as St. Amand was--he never
perhaps would have been guilty of an infidelity that he strove with
the keenest remorse to wrestle against, had it not been for the fatal
contrast, at the first moment of his gushing enthusiasm, {60} which
Julie had presented to Lucille; but for that he would have formed no
previous idea of real and living beauty to aid the disappointment of
his imaginings and his dreams. He would have seen Lucille young and
graceful, and with eyes beaming affection, contrasted only by the
wrinkled countenance and bended frame of her parents, and she would
have completed her conquest over him before he had discovered that she
was less beautiful than others; nay more--that infidelity never could
have lasted above the first few days, if the vain and heartless object
of it had not exerted every art, all the power and witchery of her
beauty, to cement and continue it. The unfortunate Lucille--so
susceptible to the slightest change in those she loved, so diffident
of herself, so proud too in that diffidence--no longer necessary, no
longer missed, no longer loved--could not bear to endure the galling
comparison of the past and present. She fled uncomplainingly to her
chamber to indulge her tears, and thus, unhappily, absent as her
father generally was during the day, and busied as her mother was
either at work or in household matters, she left Julie a thousand
opportunities to complete the power she had begun to wield over--no,
not the heart!--the _senses_ of St. Amand! Yet, still not suspecting,
in the open generosity of her mind, the whole extent of her
affliction, poor Lucille buoyed herself at times with the hope that
when once married, when once in that intimacy of friendship, the
unspeakable love she felt for him could disclose itself with less
restraint than at present,--she should perhaps regain a heart which
had been so devotedly hers, that she could not think that without a
fault it was irrevocably gone: on that hope she anchored all the
little happiness that remained to her. And still St. Amand pressed
their marriage, but in what different tones! In fact, he wished to
preclude from himself the possibility of a deeper ingratitude than
that which he had incurred already. He vainly thought that the broken
reed of love might be bound up and strengthened by the ties of duty;
and at least he was anxious that his hand, his fortune, his esteem,
his gratitude, should give to Lucille the only recompense it was now
in his power to bestow. Meanwhile, left alone so often with Julie, and
Julie bent on achieving the last triumph over his heart, St. Amand was
gradually preparing a far different reward, a far different return for
her to whom he owed so incalculable a debt.

There was a garden behind the house, in which there was a small arbor,
where often in the summer evenings Eugene and Lucille had sat
together--hours never to return! One day she heard from her own
chamber, where she sat mourning, the sound of St. Amand's flute
swelling gently from that beloved and consecrated bower. She wept as
she heard it, and the memories that the music bore softening and
endearing his image, she began to reproach herself that she had
yielded so often to the impulse of her wounded feelings; that, chilled
by _his_ coldness, she had left him so often to himself, and had not
sufficiently dared to tell him of that affection which, in her modest
self-depreciation, constituted her only pretension to his love.
"Perhaps he is alone now," she thought; "the tune too is one which he
knew that I loved:" and with her heart on her step, she stole from the
house and sought the arbor. She had scarce turned from her chamber
when the flute ceased; as she neared the arbor she heard
voices--Julie's voice in grief, St. Amand's in consolation. A dread
foreboding seized her; her feet clung rooted to the earth.

"Yes, marry her--forget me," said Julie; "in a few days you will be
another's and I, I--forgive me, Eugene, forgive me that I have
disturbed your happiness. I am punished sufficiently--my heart will
break, but it will break loving you"--sobs choked Julie's voice.

"Oh, speak not thus," said St. Amand. "I, _I_ only am to blame; I,
false to both, to both ungrateful. Oh, from the hour that these eyes
opened upon you I drank in a new life; the sun itself to me was less
wonderful than your beauty. But--but--let me forget that hour. What do
I not owe to Lucille? I shall be wretched--I shall deserve to be so;
for shall I not think, Julie, that I have imbittered our life with
your ill-fated love? But all that I can give--my hand--my home--my
plighted faith--must be hers. Nay, Julie, nay--why that look? could I
act otherwise? can I dream otherwise? Whatever the sacrifice, _must_ I
not render it? Ah, what do I owe to Lucille, were it only for the
thought that but for her I might never have seen thee."

Lucille staid to hear no more; with the same soft step as that which
had borne her within hearing of these fatal words, she turned back
once more to her desolate chamber.

That evening, as St. Amand was sitting alone in his apartment, he
heard a gentle knock at the door. "Come in," he said, and Lucille
entered. He started in some confusion, and would have taken her hand,
but she gently repulsed him. She took a seat opposite to him, and
looking down, thus addressed him:--

"My dear Eugene, that is, Monsieur St. Amand, I have something on my
mind that I think it better to speak at once; and if I do not exactly
express what I would wish to say, you must not be offended at Lucille;
it is not an easy matter to put into words what one feels deeply."
Coloring, and suspecting something of the truth, St. Amand would have
broken in upon her here; but she, with a gentle impatience, waved him
to be silent, and continued:--

"You know that when you once loved me, I used to tell you, that you
would cease to do so, could you see how undeserving I was of your
attachment? I did not deceive myself, Eugene; I always felt assured
that such would be the case, that your love for me necessarily rested
on your affliction: but, for all that, I never at least had a dream,
or a desire, but for your happiness; and God knows, that if again, by
walking bare-footed, not to Cologne, but to Rome--to the end of the
world, I could save you from a much less misfortune than that of
blindness, I would cheerfully do it; yes, even though I might foretel
all the while that, on my return, you would speak to me coldly, think
of me lightly, and that the penalty to me would--would be--what it has
been!" Here Lucille wiped a few natural tears from her eyes; St.
Amand, struck to the heart, covered his face with his hands, without
the courage to interrupt her. Lucille continued:--

"That which I foresaw has come to pass: I am no longer to you what I
once was, when you could clothe this poor form and this homely face
with a beauty they did not possess; you would wed me still, it is
true; but I am proud, Eugene, and cannot stoop to gratitude where I
once had love. I am not so unjust as to blame you; the change was
natural, was inevitable. I should have steeled myself more against it;
but I am now resigned; we must part; you love Julie--that too is
natural--and _she_ loves you; ah! what also more probable in the
course of events? Julie loves you, not yet, perhaps, so much as I did,
but then she has not known you as I have, and she, whose whole life
has been triumph, cannot feel the gratitude I felt at fancying myself
loved; but this will come; God grant it! Farewell, then, for ever,
dear Eugene; I leave you when you no longer want me; you are now
independent of Lucille; wherever you go, a thousand hereafter can
supply my place;--farewell!"

She rose, as she said this, to leave the room; but St. Amand seizing
her hand, which she in vain endeavored to withdraw from his clasp,
poured forth incoherently, passionately, his reproaches on himself,
his eloquent persuasions against her resolution.

"I confess," said he, "that I have been allured for a moment; I
confess that Julie's beauty made me less sensible to your stronger,
your holier, oh! far, far holier title to my love! But forgive me,
dearest Lucille; already I return to you, to all I once felt for you;
make me not curse the blessing of sight that I owe to you. You must
not leave me; never can we two part; try me, only try me, and if ever,
hereafter, my heart {61} wander from you, _then_, Lucille, leave me to
my remorse!"

Even at that moment Lucille did not yield; she felt that his prayer
was but the enthusiasm of the hour; she felt that there was a virtue
in her pride; that to leave him was a duty to herself. In vain he
pleaded; in vain were his embraces, his prayers; in vain he reminded
her of their plighted troth, of her aged parents, whose happiness had
become wrapped in her union with him; "How, even were it as you
wrongly believe, how in honor to them can I desert you, can I wed
another?"

"Trust that, trust all to me," answered Lucille; "your honor shall be
my care, none shall blame _you_; only do not let your marriage with
Julie be celebrated here before their eyes; that is all I ask, all
they can expect. God bless you! do not fancy I shall be unhappy, for
whatever happiness the world gives you, shall I not have contributed
to bestow it?--and with that thought, I am above compassion."

She glided from his arms, and left him to a solitude more bitter even
than that of blindness; that very night Lucille sought her mother; to
her she confided all. I pass over the reasons she urged, the arguments
she overcame; she conquered rather than convinced, and leaving to
Madame Le Tisseur the painful task of breaking to her father her
unalterable resolution, she quitted Malines the next morning, and with
a heart too honest to be utterly without comfort, paid that visit to
her aunt which had been so long deferred.

The pride of Lucille's parents prevented them from reproaching St.
Amand. He did not bear, however, their cold and altered looks; he left
their house; and though for several days he would not even see Julie,
yet her beauty and her art gradually resumed their empire over him.
They were married at Courtroi, and, to the joy of the vain Julie,
departed to the gay metropolis of France. But before their departure,
before his marriage, St. Amand endeavored to appease his conscience,
by purchasing for Monsieur Le Tisseur, a much more lucrative and
honorable office than that he now held. Rightly judging that Malines
could no longer be a pleasant residence for them, and much less for
Lucille, the duties of the post were to be fulfilled in another town;
and knowing that Monsieur Le Tisseur's delicacy would revolt at
receiving such a favor from his hands, he kept the nature of his
negociation a close secret, and suffered the honest citizen to believe
that his own merits alone had entitled him to so unexpected a
promotion.

Time went on. This quiet and simple history of humble affections took
its date in a stormy epoch of the world--the dawning Revolution of
France. The family of Lucille had been little more than a year settled
in their new residence, when Dumouriez led his army into the
Netherlands. But how meanwhile had that year passed for Lucille? I
have said that her spirit was naturally high; that, though so tender,
she was not weak; her very pilgrimage to Cologne alone, and at the
timid age of seventeen, proved that there was a strength in her nature
no less than a devotion in her love. The sacrifice she had made
brought its own reward. She believed St. Amand was happy, and she
would not give way to the selfishness of grief; she had still duties
to perform; she could still comfort her parents, and cheer their age;
she could still be all the world to them; she felt this, and was
consoled. Only once during the year had she heard of Julie; she had
been seen by a mutual friend at Paris, gay, brilliant, courted, and
admired; of St. Amand she heard nothing.

My tale, dear Gertrude, does not lead me through the harsh scenes of
war. I do not tell you of the slaughter and the siege, and the blood
that inundated those fair lands, the great battle-field of Europe. The
people of the Netherlands in general were with the cause of Dumouriez,
but the town in which Le Tisseur dwelt offered some faint resistance
to his arms. Le Tisseur himself, despite his age, girded on his sword;
the town was carried, and the fierce and licentious troops of the
conqueror poured, flushed with their easy victory, through its
streets. Le Tisseur's house was filled with drunken and rude troopers;
Lucille herself trembled in the fierce gripe of one of those dissolute
soldiers, more bandit than soldier, whom the subtle Dumouriez had
united to his army, and by whose blood he so often saved that of his
nobler band; her shrieks, her cries were vain, when suddenly the
reeking troopers gave way; "the Captain! brave Captain!" was shouted
forth; the insolent soldier, felled by a powerful arm, sank senseless
at the feet of Lucille; and a glorious form, towering above its
fellows, even through its glittering garb, even in that dreadful hour
remembered at a glance by Lucille, stood at her side; her protector,
her guardian! thus once more she beheld St. Amand!

The house was cleared in an instant, the door barred. Shouts, groans,
wild snatches of exulting song, the clang of arms, the tramp of
horses, the hurrying footsteps, the deep music, sounded loud, and
blended terribly without; Lucille heard them not; she was on that
breast which never should have deserted her.

Effectually to protect his friends, St. Amand took up his quarters at
their house; and for two days he was once more under the same roof as
Lucille. He never recurred voluntarily to Julie; he answered Lucille's
timid inquiry after her health briefly, and with coldness, but he
spoke with all the enthusiasm of a long pent and ardent spirit of the
new profession he had embraced. Glory seemed now to be his only
mistress, and the vivid delusion of the first bright dreams of the
revolution filled his mind, broke from his tongue, and lighted up
those dark eyes which Lucille had redeemed to day.

She saw him depart at the head of his troop; she saw his proud crest
glancing in the sun; she saw that his last glance reverted to her,
where she stood at the door; and as he waved his adieu, she fancied
that there was on his face that look of deep and grateful tenderness
which reminded her of the one bright epoch of her life.

She was right; St. Amand had long since in bitterness repented of a
transient infatuation, had long since discovered the true Florimel
from the false, and felt that, in Julie, Lucille's wrongs were
avenged. But in the hurry and heat of war he plunged that regret--the
keenest of all--which imbodies the bitter words, "TOO LATE!"

Years passed away, and in the resumed tranquillity of Lucille's life
the brilliant apparition of St. Amand appeared as something dreamt of,
not seen. The star of Napoleon had risen above the horizon; the
romance of his early career had commenced; and the campaign of Egypt
had been the herald of those brilliant and meteoric successes which
flashed forth from the gloom of the Revolution of France.

You are aware, dear Gertrude, how many in the French as well as the
English troops returned home from Egypt, blinded with the ophthalmia
of that arid soil. Some of the young men in Lucille's town, who had
joined Napoleon's army, came back, darkened by that fearful
affliction, and Lucille's alms, and Lucille's aid, and Lucille's sweet
voice were ever at hand for those poor sufferers, whose common
misfortune touched so thrilling a cord of her heart.

Her father was now dead, and she had only her mother to cheer amid the
ills of age. As one evening they sat at work together, Madame Le
Tisseur said, after a pause--

"I wish, dear Lucille, thou couldst be persuaded to marry Justin; he
loves thee well, and now that thou art yet young, and hast many years
before thee, thou shouldst remember that when I die thou wilt be
alone."

"Ah cease, dearest mother, I never can marry now, and as for
love--once taught in the bitter school in which I have learned the
knowledge of myself--I cannot be deceived again."

"My Lucille, you do not know yourself; never was {62} woman loved, if
Justin does not love you; and never did lover feel with more real
warmth how worthily he loved."

And this was true; and not of Justin alone, for Lucille's modest
virtues, her kindly temper, and a certain undulating and feminine
grace, which accompanied all her movements, had secured her as many
conquests as if she had been beautiful. She had rejected all offers of
marriage with a shudder; without even the throb of a flattered vanity.
One memory, sadder, was also dearer to her than all things; and
something sacred in its recollections made her deem it even a crime to
think of effacing the past by a new affection.

"I believe," continued Madame Le Tisseur, angrily, "that thou still
thinkest fondly of him from whom only in the world thou couldst have
experienced ingratitude."

"Nay mother," said Lucille, with a blush and a slight sigh, "Eugene is
married to another."

While thus conversing, they heard a gentle and timid knock at the
door--the latch was lifted. "This" said the rough voice of a
commissaire of the town--"this, monsieur, is the house of _Madame Le
Tisseur_, and--_voila mademoiselle!_" A tall figure, with a shade over
his eyes, and wrapped in a long military cloak, stood in the room. A
thrill shot across Lucille's heart. He stretched out his arms;
"Lucille," said that melancholy voice, which had made the music of her
first youth--"where art thou, Lucille; alas! she does not recognize
St. Amand."

Thus was it, indeed. By a singular fatality, the burning suns and the
sharp dust of the plains of Egypt had smitten the young soldier, in
the flush of his career, with a second--and this time, with an
irremediable--blindness! He had returned to France to find his hearth
lonely; Julie was no more--a sudden fever had cut her off in the midst
of youth; and he had sought his way to Lucille's house, to see if one
hope yet remained to him in the world!

And when, days afterward, humbly and sadly he re-urged a former suit,
did Lucille shut her heart to its prayer? Did her pride remember its
wound--did she revert to his desertion--did she say to the whisper of
her yearning love--_"thou hast been before forsaken?"_ That voice and
those darkened eyes pleaded to her with a pathos not to be resisted;
"I am once more necessary to him," was all her thought--"if I reject
him, who will tend him?" In that thought was the motive of her
conduct; in that thought gushed back upon her soul all the springs of
checked, but unconquered, unconquerable love! In that thought she
stood beside him at the altar, and pledged, with a yet holier devotion
than she might have felt of yore, the vow of her imperishable truth.

And Lucille found, in the future, a reward which the common world
could never comprehend. With his blindness returned all the feelings
she had first awakened in St. Amand's solitary heart; again he yearned
for her step--again he missed even a moment's absence from his
side--again her voice chased the shadow from his brow--and in her
presence was a sense of shelter and of sunshine. He no longer sighed
for the blessing he had lost; he reconciled himself to fate, and
entered into that serenity of mood which mostly characterizes the
blind. Perhaps, after we have seen the actual world, and experienced
its hollow pleasures, we can resign ourselves the better to its
exclusion; and as the cloister which repels the ardor of our hope is
sweet to our remembrance, so the darkness loses its terror when
experience has wearied us with the glare and travail of the day. It
was something, too, as they advanced in life, to feel the chains that
bound him to Lucille strengthening daily, and to cherish in his
overflowing heart the sweetness of increasing gratitude; it was
something that he could not see years wrinkle that open brow, or dim
the tenderness of that touching smile; it was something that to him
she was beyond the reach of time, and preserved to the verge of a
grave (which received them both within a few days of each other,) in
all the bloom of her unwithering affection--in all the freshness of a
heart that never could grow old!




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SONG--_By the Author of Vyvyan_.


  On the brow of the mountain
    The grey mists darkle--
  On the wave of the fountain
    Star images sparkle--
  Wild lights o'er the meadow
    Are fitfully gleaming--
  In the hill's dark shadow
    A spirit is dreaming.
  The birds and the flowers
    With closed eyes are sleeping,
  All hushed are the bowers
    Where glow-worms are creeping--
  There's quiet in heaven,
    There's peace to the billow--
  A blessing seems given
    To all--save my pillow.
  Alas! do I wonder
    I too cannot sleep,
  Like the calm waves yonder,
    And dream all as deep?--
  There's beauty beside me,
    A love-heaving breast--
  Ah! my very joys chide me,
    And rob me of rest.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES ON FINDING A BILLET FROM AN EARLY FRIEND AMONG SOME OLD PAPERS.


  I gaze on this discolored sheet
  Which time has tinged with many a stain,
  And sigh to think his course should bring
  To nought, that friendship nursed in vain.
  Here in your well known hand I see
  My name, with terms endearing traced,
  And vows of firm fidelity,
  Which other objects soon effaced.
  Strange does it seem, that in these words
  A dead affection I should find,
  As if some early buried friend
  Resumed his place among his kind.
  Yes--after many a chilling year
  Of coldness and of alter'd feeling,
  This tatter'd messenger is here,
  Worlds of forgotten thought revealing.
  As once my faith was purely thine,
  For thee my blood I would have pour'd
  As freely as the rich red wine
  We pledged around the jovial board.
  It seem'd that thou wert thus to me,
  Loyal and true as thou didst swear:
  I knew not then, as now I know,
  That oaths are but impassion'd air.
  And even now, a doubt that they
  Were falsehoods all, will cross my brain:
  That thought alone I seek to quell,
  That thought alone could give me pain.
  To be forgotten has no sting--
  For friendships every day grow cold;
  But 'tis a wounding thought, that I
  Have purchased dross, and paid in gold.
  Tho' thou hast changed, as worldlings change
  Amid the haunts of sordid men,
  I cannot bid my feelings range--
  But cling to what I deem'd thee _then_.

S.


{63}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE CEMETERY.--_From the Russian_.


  FIRST VOICE.

      How sad, how frightful the abode,
      How dread the silence of the tomb!
      There all surrounding objects speak
      The haunt of terror and of gloom--
  And nought but tempests' horrid howl we hear,
  And bones together rattling on the bier!


  SECOND VOICE.

      How peaceful, tranquil is the tomb!
      How calm, how deep is its repose!
      There flow'rets wild more sweetly bloom,
      There zephyr's breath more softly flows;
  And there the nightingale and turtle-dove
  Their notes pour forth of happiness and love.


  FIRST VOICE.

      Against that dark sepulchral mound,
      Funereal crows their pinions beat;
      There dens of ravenous wolves are found,
      And there the vulture's foul retreat;
  The earth around with greedy claws they tear,
  Whilst serpents hiss and poison all the air.


  SECOND VOICE.

      There, when the shades of evening fall,
      The sportive hares their gambols keep;
      Or, fearless of the huntsman's call,
      Upon the verdant herbage sleep;
  While midst the foliage of the o'erhanging boughs
  The feathered tribe in slumbers soft repose.


  FIRST VOICE.

      Around that dank and humid spot
      A noisome vapor ever clings,
      Exhaled from heaps which there to rot
      Death with untiring labor brings;
  Devoid of leaves the trees their branches spread,
  And every plant seems withering, or dead.


  SECOND VOICE.

      In what soft accents whispers there
      The evening breeze about the tomb,
      Diffusing through the balmy air
      Of countless flowers the rich perfume,
  And speaking of a place of peace and rest,
  Where e'er mid breathing fragrance dwell the blessed!


  FIRST VOICE.

      When to this dismal vale of tears,
      The pilgrim comes with weary pace,
      O'erpowered by appalling fears,
      In vain his steps he would retrace;
  Urged onwards by a hand unseen, unknown,
  He's headlong in the wreck-strewed torrent thrown.


  SECOND VOICE.

      Worn out by life's sad pilgrimage,
      Man here at length his staff lays down--
      Here feels no more the tempest's rage,
      Nor dreads the heav'ns impending frown--
  Reposes from his toil in slumbers deep,
  And sleeps of ages the eternal sleep!




EDITORIAL REMARKS.


We flatter ourselves that our patrons will not be displeased with the
feast which we have set before them in the present number of the
Messenger. We have not commenced with the egg and ended with the
apple, (_ab ovo usque ad malum_,) according to the ancient custom; nor
placed the substantials before the dessert, as in modern
entertainments; but have rather chosen to mingle them without order or
arrangement,--that our guests may partake as their respective tastes
and inclinations may dictate. The scientific reader will be attracted
by the communications of Dr. POWELL, and PETER A. BROWNE, Esq. of
Philadelphia. By the former gentleman, who is now actively engaged in
geological and antiquarian researches in the western country, we are
kindly promised occasional aid; and, to the latter distinguished
individual, we owe our thanks for the warm interest he has evinced in
our infant enterprize.

Of Mr. WIRT'S letter, it would be superfluous to speak, more
especially as it is accompanied by some excellent remarks by a highly
intelligent friend,--himself destined to become an ornament to the
profession of which he speaks.

The general reader cannot fail to be pleased with many, if not all the
communications which are inserted. In the article headed "_Example is
better than Precept_," he will recognize an elegant and vigorous
pen;--and, in the "_Recollections of Chotank_," it will not be
difficult to perceive that the hand employed in describing the
generous customs and proverbial hospitality of that ancient portion of
our state,--is one of uncommon skill in the art and beauty of
composition. The article from the Petersburg Intelligencer, entitled
an "_Extract from a Novel that never will be published_," (but which
we hope _will_ be published)--though not expressly written for the
"Messenger," will be new to most of our readers. If we mistake not,
the writer has furnished strong evidence of talent in a particular
department of literature, which needs only to be cultivated in order
to attain a high degree of success.

The poetical contributions, which are entirely _original_ in the
present number, whilst they do not need our eulogy, we cannot permit
to pass without some special notice at our hands. The "_Power of
Faith_" will not fail to attract the lover of genuine poetry,
especially if his heart be warmed with christian zeal. It is written
by a gentleman whose modesty is as great as his merit; and whose
writings, both in prose and verse, will do honor to his native state.
The sprightly effusion among the prose articles which is headed
"_Sally Singleton_," is from the same hand. Of "_Death among the
Trees_," it would be unnecessary to speak, as it will be readily
recognized and admired, as the production of a distinguished female
writer already known to fame. We take pleasure in placing in the same
company two other charming effusions, by writers of the same gentle
sex, whose assistance in our literary labors we shall always be proud
to receive. We allude to the "_Address of the Genius of Columbia to
her Native Muse_," and the "_Lines to an Officer of the United States
Navy, by E. A. S._" The "_Sonnet, written on the Blue Ridge_," and the
"_Stanzas, composed at the White Sulphur Springs of Virginia_," are
both the productions of the same superior mind. There is not only
decided power, but a most attractive pathos and bewitching melancholy
in the two {64} productions referred to. We hope that the author will
continue to adorn our columns with the offspring of his gifted muse.
The author of "_Lines on a Billet from an Early Friend_," will always
be a welcome guest at our literary table. We know him as a gentleman
of fine taste and varied endowments. The "_Cemetery_" is from the pen
of a young Philadelphian of fine talents. He need not at any time
apprehend exclusion from our columns.

If we have chosen to speak last of the author of "_Musings_," it is
not because he is least in our estimation. On the contrary, we
sincerely esteem him as among the favored few, to whom it is
given,---if they themselves will it,--to reach the highest honors, and
the most enduring rewards, in the empire of poesy. The beautiful and
graceful picture of Venice, presented in our present number,--of
Venice despoiled of her ancient glory--yet still glorious in
ruin,--will command, if we mistake not, general admiration. Successful
as the author always is, in his light and fugitive pieces, he gives
evidence of a power to grasp the highest themes, and to sport with
familiar ease in the least accessible regions of fancy. Why does he
not seize the lyre at once, and pour forth a song which shall add to
his country's honor, and insure for himself a chaplet of renown? Why
does he not at once take rank with the HALLECKS, the BRYANTS and
PERCIVALS, of a colder clime? He is every way qualified to do it.

To our numerous correspondents and contributors, whose favors have not
yet appeared in print,--we owe our acknowledgments, and in some
instances an apology. Our space is exceedingly disproportioned to the
quantity of matter which we have on hand; and, of course, we are
driven to the painful, and rather invidious task of selection. We have
many articles actually in type, which we are necessarily obliged to
exclude from the present number. Among them may be enumerated "_A
Scene in Genoa, by an American Tourist_," the "_Grave Seekers_," and
other fine specimens of poetry. The "_Reporter's Story, or the
Importance of a Syllable_," "_The Cottage in the Glen_,"--the poems
from Louisa and Pittsylvania, and from various other quarters, shall
all receive the earliest possible attention. The high claims of our
correspondents in Mobile and Tuscaloosa in the state of Alabama, shall
also be attended to; and, we hope that others in distant states, will
not deem themselves slighted if not now particularly enumerated.

The "_Eulogy on Lafayette_," transmitted from France, and handed over
to us by a friend, shall appear in the next number.

We have read with pleasure, the love tale composed by an accomplished
young lady in one of the upper counties; and, whilst we do not
hesitate to render a just tribute to the delicacy of sentiment and
glowing fancy which distinguish her pages, candor compels us to urge
one objection, which we fear is insurmountable. The story is wrought
up with materials derived from English character and manners; and, we
have too many thousands of similar fictions issuing from the British
press, to authorize the belief that another of the same class will be
interesting to an American reader. We should like to see our own
writers confine their efforts to native subjects--to throw aside the
trammels of foreign reading, and to select their themes from the
copious materials which every where abound in our own magnificent
country.

For a similar reason, our friend from Caroline must excuse us for
declining to insert his sketches. We have no "_dilapidated castles_,"
nor any "_last heirs of Ardendale_," in our plain republican land.

Neither can we insert in our pages (though we should like to oblige
our Essex correspondent,) any thing which bears the slightest
resemblance to a _fairy tale_. We prefer treading upon earthly ground,
and dealing with mortal personages.

To our highly respected correspondent, who addressed a letter to the
publisher in June last, from Prince Edward, we take this opportunity
to say, that our columns shall be freely open to discussions in behalf
of the interests of education. We conceive that the cause of
literature is intimately connected with it; and we have it in
contemplation to present ere long, to the public, some candid views,
in regard to the policy heretofore pursued in the Councils of our
State, on this interesting subject. We are enemies to every system
founded upon favoritism and monopoly; and we are advocates for the
equal application of those pecuniary resources which the bounty of the
state has dedicated to the cause of education. We have no idea that
the Literary Fund, the common property of us all, ought to be so
managed as to defeat the purposes of its founders; in other words,
that it should be so wrested from the original design of its creation,
as to benefit only two classes of society--the highest and the
lowest,--the extremes of wealth and indigence,--whilst the great mass
of the community are excluded from all advantages to be derived from
it. This system may suit particular individuals, and may subserve
particular ends; but it is at war with the best interests of the
state, and ought to be exposed, so far as the honorable weapons of
truth and justice shall be able to expose it.

The suggestions of our highly intelligent friend from South Carolina,
who we presume is a temporary resident in one of the northern states,
are entitled to much respect and consideration. We quote the following
just sentiments from his letter:

"American literature, although increasing, is still at an immense
distance in rear of that of England, and Germany and France. And why?
It is owing entirely to the _divided attention_ of our literary
characters. However profound and capacious their minds--and however
great their powers of thought, and brilliant and forcible those of
expression, it is impossible for them to succeed, at the same time, in
every department of knowledge. No man can distinguish himself in any
one pursuit, when his mind is applied to a dozen. Let him bend his
faculties upon a single object; and with industry and perseverance, he
will assuredly secure its attainment. Among us, we have no professed
students, whose lives are devoted to the acquisition and development
of learning. All men of talents rush early into the absorbing pursuits
of politics; and together with providing the means of support,
continue in them for life. So long as this is the case, it cannot be
expected of us to present eminent men, in any way calculated to
compete with those of the Old World.

"It would be a useful and an ennobling task for some one, well
qualified to examine the subject in all its bearings, to offer an
expose of the various causes for the low ebb at which our national
literature now stands, and the means by which they might be
subverted."

We should be much gratified if some one of our many intelligent
subscribers would furnish us an essay upon this interesting subject.
None would be more likely to present it, in some of its strongest
lights, than the writer of the letter from which we have quoted.


{65}


SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. I.]  RICHMOND, NOVEMBER 1834.  [NO. 3.

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




The _Publisher and Proprietor_, has made such arrangements for the
management of the _Editorial Department_, as he hopes will be
satisfactory to his patrons. If the circulation of the "Messenger"
continues to increase, he has it in contemplation not only to secure
regular able contributions, but also to embellish some of his monthly
numbers with handsome lithographic drawings and engravings; but the
cost cannot be prudently incurred without an enlargement of his list.
He therefore hopes that such of his friends as feel an interest in the
successful prosecution of this first serious attempt to establish a
literary periodical south of the Potomac, will aid him in extending
its circulation--as the best means of ensuring its continuance and
utility. _If each of his subscribers would only procure an additional
one_, the work would not only be _firmly established_ but greatly
_increased in value_. The Publisher avails himself of this opportunity
to inform the correspondent of the Portland Advertiser that the latter
is mistaken in respect to the place of his nativity. The Publisher did
once reside in the city of Boston, and can freely bear testimony to
the high character, the generous feelings and the noble
accomplishments of its citizens--but he was only a sojourner among
them; having been born, and for the most part reared in the Ancient
Dominion. If he were not a full blooded Tuckahoe Virginian, he would
like to be a Bostonian.

All communications of every kind must be addressed to T. W. White,
_Publisher and Proprietor_.

The issuing of the present number has been delayed in consequence of
the change to a _monthly_ instead of a semi-monthly publication. The
Publisher hopes that the change will be agreeable to his patrons. He
is firmly persuaded of its expediency in various respects.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY

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

No. I.


_Washington City, November, 1834_.

Agreeably to my promise, I send you the sheets containing _Sketches of
the History and present condition of Tripoli, with some account of the
other States of Barbary_ which may perhaps be found worthy of
insertion in the "SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER." They are the fruits of
researches made for my amusement, into the history of those countries,
and to which I was led by information accidentally obtained respecting
the present condition of affairs in Tripoli.

The north of Africa has so long remained in comparative obscurity,
exercising little or no influence in the grand game of national
contests, which forms the subject of our most interesting modern
histories, that works relating to it are few in number, and generally
bear unequivocal marks of the ignorance or prejudice of the writers.
For this reason, it is difficult to obtain a correct statement of
facts, and almost always impossible to arrive at motives; persons
therefore who estimate the propriety of labor, by calculating the
value of its produce, would easily be diverted from such researches,
although they might not object to profit by their results.

I have endeavored to arrange into a regular series, the facts thus
collected, passing lightly over those which are the most generally
known, and introducing occasionally a few observations, which will not
I hope be considered obtrusive. Yet I fear that I shall not succeed in
communicating any interest to the pages of your periodical; the
details of selfish intrigue, murder and treachery, never relieved by
incidents springing from generous motives, which constitute the
history of the north African nations, are, I must confess, more likely
to excite disgust than pleasurable emotions; still they exhibit man as
he is, without the light of civilization, or the restraints of moral
duty; and may serve to attach us still more strongly to those social
and political institutions, without which a similar state of things
might exist among ourselves.

I am, sir, &c. R. G.


The countries lying on the southern shore of the Mediterranean, and
usually denominated the Barbary States, have for many ages been almost
forgotten by the christian world, or only remembered as the abode of
pirates and ruffians. The maritime powers of Europe seem however at
length to have recollected, that at a short distance from them, are
territories of great extent and fertility, capable of producing most
of the articles now obtained, by means of long and dangerous voyages,
from the East and West Indies, and offering every facility for
commercial intercourse, with the countless nations inhabiting the vast
continent of Africa. These territories are, it is true, already
inhabited by people living under acknowledged governments; but a
continued course of misconduct, which experience has shewn to be
incorrigible, has caused them to be regarded as completely out of the
pale of civilization; and if they retain their independence much
longer, it will be rather from jealousy among their powerful neighbors
than from any respect for their claims to nationality.

The French have already set the example, by the conquest of the
principal places on the coast of Algiers, and although they have as
yet penetrated but a short distance into the interior, there can be no
doubt that steady and well directed efforts, such as they are now
pursuing, must eventually secure to them the possession of a large and
valuable tract. The British have indeed protested strongly against the
retention of these conquests, but never, that we have heard, on the
grounds of injustice to the vanquished party.

Tunis, the next in power as in situation to Algiers, would be even a
more important acquisition in a political or commercial point of view,
than Algiers; but it would not probably be reduced without an immense
expenditure of blood and treasure; for its resources are comparatively
great, and its government efficient and well organised. Besides which,
it has not of late afforded any cause for dissatisfaction, having
yielded with a good grace to the necessity of abandoning piracy, and
evinced a disposition to seek for wealth, by the surer means of
industry and commerce.

Tripoli, the other and least important of the States of Barbary, had,
until lately, pursued a course similar to that of Tunis, and its
condition was highly prosperous; it was in fact the first to desist
from piratical cruises, for which the world is indebted in a great
measure to the efforts of the United States, during the years 1803 and
4. But dissensions in the family of the sovereign have at length
produced a civil war, in which the foreign residents suffer as well as
the natives; and thus have motives, at least specious, for foreign
interference, been given to the two powers which divide between them
the empire of the Mediterranean. The French, as usual, took the lead,
by sending a squadron to Tripoli, which in 1828 dictated the terms of
the redress to be made to their citizens; and they have since that
period, by the aid given indirectly to one of the contending parties,
obtained a degree of ascendancy which has excited the jealousy of
Great Britain.

These circumstances induced inquiries into the present condition of
Tripoli, which naturally led to others respecting its past history and
that of the neighboring states; and the results being considered
interesting, have been thrown together in the following form.

       *       *       *       *       *

The north-western part of the African continent is traversed by a
lofty and extensive mountain range, which is known to us by its
classic name of ATLAS. On the northern and western sides, these ridges
extend to the sea, forming by their projections numerous capes and
promontories, which have been the dread of navigators in every age. On
the south, they in many places disappear as abruptly in the great
ocean of sand called _Zahara_, or the Desert, which stretches across
the continent, from the Atlantic to the valley of the Nile, and the
shores of the Mediterranean; the descent is, however, generally
gradual, leaving tracts of productive soil between the steeps and the
desert; these tracts, though not adapted for the growth of grain, are
so highly favorable to the Palm, that they are known by the name of
Bilad-oul-jerrid, or the Country of Dates.

The mountains are highest and most continuous in the west; towards the
east they become gradually lower, and there are many breaks in the
chain, through which the sand makes its way from the desert; at length
they disappear entirely beyond the great bend which the coast of the
Mediterranean makes to the southward near Tripoli; and the sand having
no barrier to check its advances, is rolled by the prevailing
southerly winds to the shores of the sea.

Thus bounded and cut off from other habitable countries by sea and by
sand, the region of the Atlas may be considered as one vast island;
and these circumstances of its situation should ever be borne in mind,
in moral or political speculations concerning it. Hence it was, that
civilization did not gradually overspread it from the east, and that
it could only be colonized by maritime powers; that neither the
Egyptians, the Persians, nor the Macedonians effected its conquest, as
they neither possessed adequate fleets, nor troops accustomed to the
peculiar difficulties and dangers of the desert; and that the Arabs
alone, a people bred among trackless wastes of sand, ventured to
invade it without assistance from the sea. Indeed the little that is
known of the geology of northern Africa, encourages the supposition
that at some past period this country was encircled by water; and
ingenious attempts have been made to prove that it was in reality the
famed island of Atlantis, which was vainly sought by the ancient
navigators in the ocean beyond the Pillars of Hercules.

The climate and soil of these countries are various, as may be
suspected from their situation and the inequalities of their surface.
Of the interior we know but little, and deductions from facts must
supply the place of observation. On some of the mountains the snow
remains during nearly the whole year, while the valleys and plains
have yielded sugar, coffee and other productions, which require
regular and intense heat. Grain is raised abundantly in the west, and
the olives, grapes and figs of Barbary have been celebrated at all
times. Of its general fertility, the immense population which it
formerly supported is a sufficient evidence, while the athletic forms
of the inhabitants prove its salubrity. But few rivers flow from the
interior into the sea, and the largest streams are said to proceed
from the southern sides of the mountains, whence they are discharged
into lakes or dispersed in the sand.

The coasts, as already observed, are precipitous and dangerous,
particularly in autumn, during the prevalence of northerly winds; they
are however free from shoals and other hidden difficulties, and have
many ports which are safe and easy of access, while others might be
rendered so by art. It is likewise certain, that many of the existing
obstacles to the navigation would disappear, if a proper survey were
made, and lighthouses were established where requisite; for the charts
now in use are very defective, and no provisions whatever are made by
the governments of the country; this, however, there is reason to
believe, will ere long be corrected.

The superficial extent of Barbary cannot be as yet calculated; we know
that it has coasts of five or six hundred miles on the Atlantic, and
of about fifteen hundred on the Mediterranean; but the breadth between
the sea and the desert varies considerably, and is no where correctly
laid down. It is probably greatest in the vicinity of the Atlantic and
in Tunis, where it may be one hundred and fifty miles; in Algiers,
Shaler considers it generally to be about sixty miles; but Tripoli is
merely a narrow strip of soil, on the Mediterranean, in many places
traversed by rocky spurs from the mountains, and tracts of sand from
the desert.

The materials for the early history of this country are very
imperfect; we possess no works of ancient native writers, and the
accounts from which all our information must be drawn, appear in the
form of episode, in those of Greek and Roman historians. It seems to
have been originally inhabited by fierce and intractable tribes, of
which those most advanced in civilization, had only reached the
pastoral state. Herodotus gives us the names of many of these tribes,
which it is now useless to enumerate; those of the eastern part were
comprehended by the Greeks under the general name of _Nomades_, or
wanderers, which, unknown among themselves, was afterwards converted
by the Romans into _Numidians_, and became their distinctive national
{67} appellation; the _Mauri_ occupied the western part, and this
term, (in English, _Moors_,) is now applied by Europeans to all the
natives of Barbary.

The enterprising Greeks and Phoenicians did not allow the advantages
offered by northern Africa to be neglected, and they established
colonies on its coast, which attained a high degree of prosperity. The
Greeks made their settlements on the sterile shore now forming the
eastern part of Tripoli, and lying immediately south of Peloponnesus,
where the Mediterranean forms a gulf anciently called the Great
Syrtis. As the surrounding country is by no means productive, these
colonies could only have been supported by trade with the interior of
Africa; and were probably the resort of caravans bringing gold, gums,
spices, ivory and other precious articles, to be exchanged for the
manufactures of Greece and Asia. Such a traffic, we know from the
accounts of late travellers, is still carried on from Tripoli; and the
part of the desert lying south of it is better adapted than any other
for that purpose, on account of the many _oases_, or islands of
cultivable soil, which are scattered through it, offering rest, and a
supply of food and water to the caravans while on their march. By
these means, the Greek cities acquired great wealth, and became the
seats of luxury, refinement and science; and stupendous ruins, the
haunt of the jackal and hyæna, still remain to attest the former
splendor of Cyrene and Apollonia.

The more adventurous Phoenicians made their settlements farther
westward, in the fertile region now composing the states of Algiers,
Tunis and a small part of Tripoli; they flourished even more than
those of the Greeks, and became the principal seats of commerce in the
western Mediterranean. Of many of these colonies, history has
preserved to us the names, and nothing more; one of them, however, far
outshone the rest, and its struggle for supremacy with Rome, forms the
subject of one of the most interesting portions of ancient history. Of
Carthage, perhaps it might be as Sallust conceived, "_melius silere
quam parum dicere_," better to say nothing, than only a little; yet a
few remarks on its political system and the results of that system,
will serve to illustrate the condition of northern Africa during this
early period.

The situation of this celebrated city near the narrow streight which
separates Sicily from Africa, was admirably adapted for commerce with
either division of the Mediterranean; its rivals, Agrigentum and
Syracuse, possessed indeed the same advantages of site; but Carthage,
besides a soil equally fertile, had the superiority in her intercourse
with the central parts of the continent. Of her constitution we know
too little to be able to judge what share her government may have had
in her advancement; there is every probability, however, that wealth
had great influence in her councils, and that its acquisition was at
first the great end of individual and national enterprise. The first
object of her statesmen seems to have been, to extend her dominion
over the territory at home; this was attempted by means of colonies
judiciously placed, which by amalgamation with the native tribes, and
by the example of the advantages to be derived from fixed habits, and
a respect for rights to landed property, were gradually subduing and
civilizing the rude aboriginals; these could not from their habits be
easily extirpated, as they might retire to the mountains, or if there
pressed, find a safe retreat in the _land of dates_ behind; they were
moreover valuable as soldiers, and as carriers across the desert. The
other Phoenician colonies, though many of them were never subject to
Carthage, yet all acknowledged her as the head of their league, and
she relied upon their support, in case of invasion from abroad. But
they too were to be reduced, and gradually incorporated into the
Carthaginian empire; things were rapidly advancing towards this
consummation when Carthage fell.

The other grand object of their policy was the subjection of the whole
country surrounding the western half of the Mediterranean, which was
to be carried on by the quiet and sure means of trading colonies,
established at convenient places on the coast. Thus, was the African
shore to the streights of Gibraltar, that of Spain, the south of Gaul
and the neighboring islands, dotted with colonies from Carthage, each
of which had a territory behind, constantly increasing in extent. To
support these establishments fleets were necessary, which could be
easily manned by a nation having so extensive a trade by sea, while
the native tribes of the interior furnished the hardiest soldiers.

Yet with all this apparent strength, the feet of the Carthaginian
colossus were of clay; the wealth which enabled her to carry on this
system made offices venal, narrowed the minds of her citizens and
debased their character, while it excited the cupidity of her
neighbors. Mercenary troops she could hire, and was sure of their
fidelity while she paid them punctually; and with such, a general who
should succeed in gaining their confidence, might effect immense
results; but a succession of generals capable of doing this was not to
be expected; and a single defeat was likely to be attended by
depression and disorganization. She had, comparatively speaking, but
few citizens in her armies; but few persons who could be urged by
patriotism or interest in the public glory; and without such a class,
no nation can long sustain itself against extraordinary difficulties.
These defects would have ceased in time, when her possessions at home
had been consolidated, and the other cities had been reduced under her
government; but she was not destined to arrive at this point.

The prosperity of the north African nations, did not fail to excite
the jealousy and cupidity of surrounding powers, and accordingly we
find that all the great conquerors of the East formed plans for their
subjection. The Persians after conquering Egypt sent an army which
took and plundered Cyrene, but retired without proceeding farther. But
another project was formed against their independence by a conqueror
the most sagacious and successful who has ever yet appeared. Among the
commentaries left by Alexander of Macedon, as recorded by Diodorus
Siculus, (_Book_ xviii. _Chap._ 1.) was found a project for the
"invasion and subjection of the Carthaginians, and others dwelling on
the coasts of Africa, Spain and the adjacent islands; for which a
thousand ships were to be built, in the ports of Phoenicia, Syria,
Cilicia and Cyprus, larger than those of three tiers of oars; with
directions for carrying a straight and easy road along the shore of
the Mediterranean, from Egypt to the Pillars of Hercules." With such
an armament, and such a leader, it is highly probable that the project
could have been carried into effect; the Grecian colonies already
acknowledged his power, he was {68} therefore secure of finding
friends in the most difficult part of the country, either for naval or
land operations; and the efficiency of his political arrangements in
all other cases, does not permit us to doubt, that he would have
founded in north Africa, a permanent and substantial empire. But this
was not to be; Alexander died in the early summer of life, and of
those who shared his dominions, no one was alone able to carry such a
project into effect, and each was too much engaged in securing his own
part, for any operation to have been conducted in concert.

While the designs of Carthage were advancing towards fulfilment, she
was gradually becoming a military state. Her fleets covered the sea,
often transporting a hundred and fifty thousand combatants, and her
armies of mercenary troops, led on by one of the most persevering and
ingenious leaders of whom we have any account, overran an immense
extent of territory, surmounting natural obstacles of the most
appalling character, and overthrowing enemies celebrated for their
skill and courage. But her commerce suffered, and the expenses of the
war exhausted her treasury. Of the other African cities, many had
declared and acted in favor of her enemies, while others were ready to
desert her when a favorable opportunity should offer. The native
tribes had acquired civilization sufficient to unite them, and to make
them aware of their own importance; their chieftains had become
ambitious, and Rome made offers to them which Carthage could never
have advanced.

In this conjuncture, her long absent and long victorious army was
recalled, to meet the enemy on her own shore; but Hannibal had grown
old, and was routed at Zama; during his absence a generation had
arisen which knew him not, and banishment succeeded his defeat. The
once proud republic had lost all, and consented to a treaty, the
ruinous terms of which she was forced to receive as a boon, and did
not dare infringe. Her navy being destroyed, Spain and her other
conquests soon fell into the hands of the Romans, and at length the
decree went forth "Carthago delenda est." The fate of this renowned
city is well known. Within a century from the day on which Hannibal
sent home the spoils taken at Cannæ, the banished Roman Marius sought
refuge among the desolate ruins of Carthage.

The other Phoenician as well as the Greek colonies, submitted to the
conquerors on favorable terms; the chieftains of the wandering tribes
who had adhered to Rome, were rewarded by the titles of kings; and
enjoying the semblance of sovereignty over territories named by a
majority of the Roman Senate, served to keep each other, and the
cities, in check. In process of time, even this last shew of
independence disappeared, and the region of the Atlas finally became
one Roman province, under the appellation of Africa.

As a part of the Roman dominions, Africa reached its highest state of
civilization; the cultivation of the land was carried to so great an
extent, that it was considered the granary of the Mediterranean, and
the cities on its coast were the depots of a most extensive trade with
the interior of the continent. Carthage arose with additional splendor
from her ruins, and for more than eight hundred years continued to be
the capital of the province. The inhabitants retained their former
characters; those of the coast were ingenious and industrious; fond of
luxury and not celebrated for their good faith or moral character; the
mountaineers kept up their reputation for courage, and we read of few
battles gained by the Roman arms without the assistance of Numidian
archers, or Mauritanian cavalry. Nor were the Africans excluded from
office, for we find three of them successively filling the Imperial
throne. They embraced christianity with the rest of the empire under
Constantine, and churches innumerable marked the fervor of their
devotion. Their religious zeal was farther shown in the bloody
controversy between the orthodox and the Donatists, which desolated
the country during the fifth and sixth centuries of our æra, and
nearly extinguished the light of civilization. The invasion of the
Vandals soon after inflicted another blow upon its prosperity; these
barbarians were however soon reduced to submission by Belisarius, and
Africa continued under the government of the emperors of
Constantinople, until the commencement of the eighth century. At this
period the followers of Mahomet every where successful in the East,
turned their arms towards the setting sun, and traversing the Desert
which separated the Roman province from Egypt, appeared before the
frontier cities, presenting to their astounded inhabitants the
alternative of the Koran or the sword.

Tripoli was the first country in the African province invaded by the
Saracens,[1] and in order that its subsequent history may be better
understood, it will be necessary to make a few observations on its
ancient condition, which could not well have been introduced before.

[Footnote 1: It should here be noticed that the followers of Mahomet
were at first merely termed Arabians, but when their conquests
extended over Syria, Egypt, Mesopotamia, and other adjacent countries,
they were known by the more general name of Saracens, or _people of
the East_, from the Arabic and _Sharak_--meaning _East_. Africa was
and still is called by Asiatics, _El Magrab_, or the West; though in
Barbary the term is strictly confined to the Empire of Morocco. When
Africa had been overrun, and the same conquerors had passed into
Spain, they were termed Moors by Europeans, as coming from the ancient
country of the Mauri, although the generals, and probably the greater
part of the troops, were natives of Arabia.]

In the narrow tract between the Mediterranean and the desert, westward
of the celebrated gulf called the Great Syrtis, and adjoining the
proper territory of their republic, the Carthaginians had at an early
period established several colonies, of which three, Leptis, Oea and
Sabrata acquired great importance as commercial stations under the
Romans, and the district containing them was called Tripolis, or the
Three Cities. Of these Leptis was the most eastern; and extensive
ruins still remain as evidences of its former greatness, in the little
town of Lebda, about seventy miles from Tripoli. Sabrata was at the
western extremity of the district, on the spot now occupied by a
village called Old Tripoli.

Oea was situated between these two, on the western side of a small
bay, formed by the projection of a rocky point of land into the sea. A
triumphal arch dedicated to the emperors Marcus Aurelius, and Lucius
Verus, and considered the finest monument of that kind remaining, with
several other ancient relics, give reason to suppose that it may have
been a splendid city; and it is mentioned as such by Pliny, Strabo,
and some other writers of the latter days of the Roman empire. We
however learn nothing from them respecting its history; and in the
year 647 of the Christian æra, when {69} the Saracens invaded Africa,
Leptis and Sabrata had sunk into comparative insignificance, while Oea
had appropriated to itself the name of the whole district, and was a
large, wealthy and strong city. The seat of government of the Roman,
or rather Greek dominions in Africa, continued to be Carthage, where
resided the emperor's Prefect or lieutenant; Utica, Hippo, and other
ancient places were still flourishing, and several had grown up to
importance, whose names do not appear in the pages of Roman history;
of these the principal were Sufetala, Bugia, and Tingi or Tangiers.

The Saracens appeared before Tripoli in number forty thousand, under
Abdallah, governor of Egypt, and Zobeir a distinguished soldier; but
the strength of its walls baffled the attempts of enemies totally
unacquainted with the art of besieging, and enabled its inhabitants to
remain secure, until an immense army had been collected by the Prefect
for its relief. It at length appeared, and actions daily took place,
in which nothing was decided in favor of either party. Gregory the
Prefect fought with gallantry, attended in the field by his daughter;
yet this example was not sufficient to encourage his troops, although
they far outnumbered their enemies; and as a last effort, he
proclaimed that his daughter's hand with a hundred thousand pieces of
gold, should be the reward for the head of the Saracen general. Thus
excited, the African youths took courage, and Abdallah considering his
own person as too important to be exposed to such dangers, remained
during the ensuing action in his tent; but he was soon shamed from
this retreat by the fiery Zobeir, who insisted upon his replying to
Gregory's proclamation, by promising the lady and a similar reward for
the head of the Prefect.

This promise restored to the Saracens their former courage and vigor,
and in another action Gregory was slain by Zobeir, in his daughter's
presence, and she herself became a prisoner. Thus far we have
materials for the commencement of a romance, but the sequel throws a
doubt over the charms of the lady, or the gallantry of the hero; for
Zobeir received her and her dowry with ascetic coldness, declaring
that "he labored for a recompense far above the charms of beauty or
the riches of this transitory life." The Africans dispirited by these
losses, at length gladly purchased a precarious peace and the retreat
of the Arabs, at the price of a sum equal to about six millions of
dollars.

This act of submission on their part, brought upon them the ire of
their despotic masters at Constantinople, who instead of assisting
them to repair their forces in anticipation of another attack, loaded
them with taxes, as a penalty for their pusillanimity. By such
treatment they were reduced to despair; and when in 668 the Arabs
again crossed the Desert under Bashar, they were hailed as deliverers;
and the great mass of the inhabitants threw off not only the
government, but the religion of their Greek oppressors, and submitted
to those of the Caliph of Damascus. Africa had suffered severely in
the religious wars occasioned by the schism of Donatus; and since
those sectarians had been put down, or rather extirpated, the utmost
tyranny had been exercised in affairs of religion by the haughty and
unrelenting hierarchy. From this circumstance perhaps, their creed
hung but lightly on the lower orders, being associated in their minds
with stripes and fines; otherwise it is difficult to account for so
sudden and extensive a change, of which history no where else offers
an example. Thus favored, the march of the Saracens was a continued
triumph: a reinforcement arrived, and under the command of the
energetic Akbah, nearly the whole country was subdued. Carthage was
besieged, they having by this time learnt the use of engines and the
art of mining; Tripoli, Utica, Sufetala, Bugia and the wealthy
Tangiers were stormed and plundered; and the fierce conqueror rushed
into the Atlantic, crying, "This sea alone arrests my progress."

The christian powers of Europe beheld the conquests of the Mahometans
with dread, and a combination was formed among them for the recovery
of Africa. Expeditions were sent from Constantinople, Sicily and
Spain, which united under the command of John the Patrician, a
renowned Captain, proceeded to the relief of Carthage. Before they
arrived, that city had fallen; they however recovered it, and
instantly gave battle to the enemy, under the walls of Utica. The
christians were totally defeated, and the small remains of their army
took refuge in the ships, and abandoned the country. The Roman power
was every where overthrown; Carthage, retaken by the Arabs, was razed
to the ground; and fifty miles south of it was founded a new city,
called Kairuan, which was long the capital of Africa, the seat of
Mahometan splendor and learning in that quarter.

But the invaders received a new check from a direction whence it was
least to be expected. The sea coast as we have observed, although much
reduced in point of wealth and refinement, by the excesses of the
Vandals and the religious wars, was still a cultivated region,
supporting a numerous population, the descendants of the Greeks,
Phoenicians and Romans. But the mountains and the country behind them
remained in possession of the aboriginal race, who under the name of
Berbers, retained their old pastoral and predatory habits, and were a
constant source of trouble to the foreign rulers of the province.
Among these people appeared a female named Cahina, of extraordinary
courage and address, who persuaded them that she was inspired, and
that an opportunity was offered for regaining possession of the
country. An immense multitude were thus speedily assembled under her
banner, equally daring and enthusiastic with the Saracens, who were
attacked with an impetuosity never before displayed against them in
Africa. Success encouraged the mountaineers, and in an incredibly
short space of time the invaders were driven into Egypt. This being
effected, the prophetess proposed to take away all inducement for
their return, by laying waste the country. Her proposal was readily
assented to by persons who had no property but their tents, flocks and
horses; and dreadful were the consequences of this determination. The
fertile territory was made desolate, and the splendor of civilization,
already much dimmed by the fury of Vandals and religionists, was
entirely obscured. The unfortunate inhabitants of the coast, thus
pressed on all sides, in their despair, invited the Saracens to
return, and aided by them, made head against their savage destroyers.
In the first battle the Berbers were totally routed, and their queen
slain; this bond of union being destroyed, they were soon dispersed,
or reduced to slavery.

{70} The Arab power was now undisputed; in a very short period there
were no more christians to be taxed. The few remaining churches became
mosques; all traces of former manners and institutions disappeared;
and a torrent of Asiatics overflowed the country, establishing in
every part their own customs and language. Of the Arabs many betook
themselves to the Desert, where their descendants still wander,
scarcely distinguishable from their brethren of the Arabian sands. The
others gradually amalgamated with the natives, and at the present day,
the fixed inhabitants of Barbary form one race, differing but little
among themselves in appearance, habits or language, and known to
Europeans by the general name of Moors. The mountains and the borders
of the Desert are still possessed by tribes speaking a language
totally distinct from all others known--nominally professing the
Mahometan religion, but regardless of its precepts--dwelling in tents,
and wandering from pasture to pasture with their flocks and
herds--displaying the same fierce and indomitable character which
distinguished the aboriginals, from whom they are in all probability
descended. The most powerful of these tribes are the Kabyles, who
principally inhabit the territory of Algiers, where by their impetuous
inroads, they present the greatest bar to the establishment of the
French.

Africa was scarcely possessed by the Saracens, ere those restless
conquerors passed over to Spain. Their character seems however to have
been already softened; for we no longer find among the Moorish
invaders of the peninsula, the fierce barbarism of the early followers
of Mahomet; and the kingdoms which they founded in that delightful
land, were celebrated for the industry, ingenuity and cultivation of
their inhabitants. The Moors of Spain soon threw off their allegiance
to the Caliphs in the East; and two independent kingdoms were also
founded in Atlantic Barbary. In 790, Edris-ben Abdallah, governor of
Almagrab, _or the West_, which name was applied to the ancient
Mauritania, assumed the title of Sultan of Fez, from his capital city;
his successors ruled supreme over Western Africa, until the middle of
the eleventh century, when the Almoravides, a fanatic sect, obtained
possession of the southern part, and established the kingdom of
Maraksh, or Morocco. These two principalities now form the empire of
Morocco. Eastern Barbary in the gradual dismemberment of the Arabian
dominions, first became one kingdom under a family of sovereigns
called the Aglabites, who for some time reigned with great splendor at
Kairuan, they were overthrown in 909, by an expedition from Sicily,
then a Saracen province, and the country was for nearly six hundred
years after, ruled or ravaged by various dynasties.

At length, towards the commencement of the sixteenth century, the
Moorish kingdoms in Spain were overthrown, and a rage for conquests in
Africa pervaded the Peninsula. Eastward of Morocco and Fez, Barbary
was at that time divided into a number of small principalities, each
consisting of a strong town with as much of the surrounding country as
it could keep in subjection; the principal of them were Algiers,
Bugia, Oran, Tunis, Telemsen and Tripoli. Against these places
numerous expeditions were sent out from Spain which generally proved
fruitless; however, some places on the coast were taken, among which
was Tripoli, or Trablis, as it was then called. It fell into the hands
of Ferdinand, the Catholic, in 1510; but his more politic successor,
the emperor Charles the Fifth, probably not knowing what else to do
with places so inconvenient, surrendered it twelve years afterwards,
with the adjacent island of Malta, to the knights of St. John, who had
just then been expelled from Rhodes by the mighty Sultan Solyman.
Malta was a barren rock, and Tripoli had sunk from its former
greatness, little remaining but its walls, its castle and its port.
Both places were however capable of being strongly fortified, and the
knights required nothing else; they therefore accepted the
assignments, and applied all their energies to render their new
habitations capable of resisting the shocks to which they would soon
inevitably be exposed.

The Turkish power was at this period in the zenith of its prosperity,
and Europe again trembled as in the days of the immediate successors
of Mahomet. The Mediterranean was swept by innumerable cruisers under
its flag, commanded by daring and ferocious captains, who completely
destroyed the commerce of christians in that sea, and made frequent
descents on the coasts of Italy, Spain and the islands, which they
plundered, carrying off the inhabitants for the purpose of extorting a
ransom. Of these the most famous were Urudsch or Horuc, and his
brother Chaireddin, successively dreaded in their day by the
appellation of Barbarossa, or the _red beard_.

Urudsch being anxious to have some port in the Western Mediterranean,
to which he could at intervals retire with his booty and prisoners,
offered his assistance to the prince of Algiers, who was endeavoring
to regain his possessions from the Spaniards; and no sooner had he
effected this, than he seized upon the city, murdered his confiding
ally, and declared the country subject to the Porte. On his death,
which soon after happened, his brother Chaireddin assumed the command
and succeeded in expelling the Spaniards from a small island, close to
the city called Algesr or _the island_ which they had for some time
held; he then connected it with the main land by a causeway, and thus
formed the present port of Algiers, which takes its name from the
island. He was afterwards regularly invested by the Porte, with the
title and powers of a Pasha, or viceroy; and obtaining large additions
to his army, composed entirely of foreigners, he reduced the country
to subjection.

This being effected Chaireddin turned his attention to the neighboring
state of Tunis, against which he prepared a powerful armament,
nominally for the purpose of reinstating its exiled prince Alraschid;
under this pretence, he easily gained the capital, which he instantly
declared to form a part of the Turkish empire. Alraschid died a
prisoner in Constantinople; but Muley Hascem, whom Barbarossa had
driven out, applied for assistance to Charles the fifth, which was
readily granted, and that emperor himself commanded the expedition
against Tunis. It appeared before the city on the 19th of July, 1535,
consisting of five hundred vessels, bearing thirty thousand veteran
troops. Barbarossa was not taken unawares, and the conflict was
terrible; the celebrated fortress of the Goletta, which commands the
entrance into the bay of Tunis, was defended with great bravery, by
Sinan a renegade Jew, but it soon fell before the artillery of the
fleet, and Tunis lay {71} exposed. Chaireddin assembled his forces,
and gave battle to the invaders; but he was totally defeated, and the
outbreak of ten thousand christian captives from the prisons of the
city, increased the confusion; the Turkish army fled to Bona, and
Tunis was instantly stormed by the imperial troops. Muley Hascem was
restored to his throne, on terms most favorable to the christians; but
in a few years more, we find the Turkish power again established, and
this country continued to be governed by Pashas, from Constantinople,
until 1684, when a certain Hassan-ben-Ali obtained sovereign
possession, and his family have ever since held the crown under the
title of Bey, paying however a tribute to the Sultan.

Charles the fifth was so much elated by his success at Tunis, that he
led another expedition in 1541, against Algiers, which was governed by
Hascen Aga, Barbarossa having been elevated to the office of Capoudan
Pasha, or High Admiral. The imperial troops landed at a short distance
east of the city; but immediately after there arose one of those
terrific storms of wind and rain, to which that coast is subject in
the autumn; the troops unprovided as yet with tents, were drenched in
rain, their ammunition was spoiled, and they were thrown into
confusion at the first onset of the Turks. The ships were many of them
lost, others dismasted or driven on shore, and the Emperor, after
great personal hardships, made his escape with a small remnant of his
gallant force.

The unfortunate issue of this attack probably contributed more than
any other circumstance to the long impunity enjoyed by Algiers, which
continued until within a few years past to insult the rest of the
world by its piracies, and had come to be considered as absolutely
impregnable. It was governed at first by a Pasha, appointed from
Constantinople in the same manner with other parts of the empire; but
in time, the garrison were permitted to elect their own chief, subject
however to the confirmation of the Porte, which was never refused as
the request was always accompanied by a present. The garrison and all
the officers of the government were foreigners; no native even though
the son of Turkish parents, being eligible to any; and no where else
probably in the world would have been found such a collection of
abandoned miscreants. The chief was in reality a Pasha of three tails,
or viceroy of almost unlimited powers--his peculiar appellation being
derived from his enjoying the right of having three horse-tails borne
before him in public. In the christian world he was usually known by
the appellation of _Dey_, which word however means _uncle_ in Moorish,
and was perhaps originally a nickname; it was never applied in
Algiers. No prince or officer ever held his place by a more precarious
tenure; seldom has one died a natural death, and it is certain that
the ex-Dey, Hussein, who surrendered the city to the French, is the
only one who could have said "I was once Pasha of Algiers."

Tripoli remained in possession of the knights of St. John until 1551,
when they were attacked by a Turkish army under the command of the
same Sinan, who had defended the Goletta against Charles the fifth,
aided by the squadron of Dragut a noted captain, in character similar
to the Barbarossas. The besieged conducted their defence with great
gallantry, but the town being burnt, they were forced to take refuge
in the castle, which they continued to hold out in hopes of relief
from Europe. But none came; the Seigneur d'Aramont, while on his way
as ambassador to Constantinople from Henry the second of France,
stopped at Tripoli and endeavored to obtain a suspension of the siege,
until some arrangement could be made with the Porte; but this
proposition was rejected by Sinan, who was sure of his prey; and all,
that the ambassador succeeded in procuring, was a capitulation on more
favorable terms, which being accepted, the governor John de Vallier
surrendered the castle, on the 16th of August, 1651, and retired to
Malta. Dragut took possession of the place which he rebuilt and
strengthened; and having been declared Pasha, established a system of
government, similar to that of Algiers; it was however more dependant
on the Porte, the chief being always appointed from Constantinople.

The states of Barbary thus became reduced in number to four, viz: the
independent empire of Morocco in the west, and the regencies, as they
are termed, of Algiers, Tunis and Tripoli, under the suzerainty of the
Sultan. Several places were taken and held at different periods by
Spain; for instance Oran, which was surrendered to Algiers in 1792,
after having been held since its capture in 1510 by the famous
cardinal Ximenes; and Ceuta a strong place nearly opposite Gibraltar,
which is still subject to Spain, and serves chiefly as a place of
imprisonment for political delinquents.--These states occasionally
carried on some commerce among themselves, or with Europe and Asia;
but their principal support was derived from piracy. Their cruisers
were generally small vessels, crowded with desperate ruffians, who
succeeded chiefly by boarding, either directly from the decks, or by
the aid of boats; thus their prizes were but little injured, and were
sold profitably in Barbary, whilst the crews were retained in slavery,
unless redeemed at a high ransom. To preserve their citizens from this
horrible fate, many commercial nations were obliged to pay enormous
sums as presents to the governments of these countries, which regarded
no treaties while this was neglected. It is, however, to the honor of
the United States, that our government opposed these demands, as soon
as it was in a condition to render resistance effectual; and it was
while successfully employed in humbling these audacious pirates, that
our cannon were first heard in the Mediterranean.

The length of this article renders its entire insertion in this number
impossible,--it will however be concluded in our next.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE DYSPEPTIC MAN.


MR. WHITE,--I am so unfortunate as to be the wife of a dyspeptic man,
and shall find some relief if you will permit me to spread my
complaints upon the pages of your Messenger. Men are "_April when they
woo, December when they wed_," as I have found to my cost. My husband
was once as tender and affectionate as I could wish, but poor man he
is now totally changed; I suppose it is owing to his having the
dyspepsia. He is so peevish and fretful I hardly dare speak to him;

  "He's always compleenin frae mornin to e'enin;"

{72} and it is impossible to keep pace with the endless variety of his
aliments. If I happen to make a mistake and inquire after the wrong
pain, he flies into a violent passion and reproaches me for a want of
sympathy in his sufferings. It was but yesterday I happened to say, my
dear how is the pain in your back? [I had forgotten it was his side.]
This was enough; he cursed matrimony and swore it was the vilest of
all institutions; that a wife was nothing more than a legalized
tormentor; that if he were single, he would not marry any woman under
the sun--no, not if she had a bulse of diamonds torn from a Begum's
ear, and much more in the same strain; and at last cooling down, he
asked me if I did not remember that his last pain was a pain in the
side, and then entered into such a history of his malady, that I
sorely regretted I had opened my lips upon the subject. What right
have we to worry other people thus with our maladies? I never tell
mine to any but the doctor, because I know that nobody else listens,
and I doubt very much whether _he_ does half his time. If any one
gives my husband the common salutation of how d'ye do? oh dear, he
begins at the beginning of his disease, [like an old gentleman of my
acquaintance who always begins at the Revolution,] and traces it down
through all its variations for the last five years--tells all the
remedies he has used and their effects, until you may see a half
suppressed smile lurking about the lips of the interrogator, which
increases at length to so broad a grin, that I am in agony for the
consequences. He has tried in turn every remedy of every quack upon
earth, and has gone so far as to punch himself almost to death with
his _own fists_, by the advice of one Halsted. At first he is always
pleased with the medicine, but at the end of two or three days he
protests that he is worse, much worse; and vents his spleen upon the
physic, the inventor, and upon me for permitting him to use such vile
trash. Sometimes he comes to me and tells me exultingly that he has at
last found out the panacea--the grand catholicon for all his
sufferings. "My dear B----," he will say, "let me explain to you the
philosophy of this matter. When food is taken into the human stomach,
if it cannot undergo a proper digestion it goes through the
putrefactive process; just such a process as would take place in
animal or other substances, if exposed to the action of heat and
moisture in the open air: a quantity of carbonic acid gas is
disengaged, and this gas filling the stomach acts by mechanical
pressure, and thus produces the pain I feel. Now I have discovered
that in consequence of my habit of eating fast, my food is not
sufficiently _triturated_, and of course the gastric juice [heaven
help me!] cannot act upon it; and I am exactly in the situation of the
sheep or any other ruminating animal, who swallows the herbage whole,
and then _regurgitates_, that it may undergo a better mastication.
Well what then is the remedy? I will tell you; I will make John pound
my food in a mortar, which will supply the necessary trituration, and
thus I shall be a well man." He sent off immediately to a druggist and
purchased a nice little wedge-wood mortar, and there stood John every
day behind his chair, pounding his meat, bread and vegetables, into a
revolting mass, until my poor ears were well nigh deafened with the
shrill din of the pestle against the sides of the mortar. Was ever
woman so beset? At the end of a week, finding himself no better, he
threw the mortar, pestle and all at John's head, and would certainly
have pounded _him_ to death but for a fortunate dodge, which permitted
the mortar to come in contact with my china press, where it made sad
havoc among my most valuable ware. He was very glad he said, because I
had no business to let the press stand there. It was on the tip of my
tongue to say, "bray a fool in a mortar," &c., but I checked the
impulse, and mildly said, I was very sorry indeed that he could get no
relief. This somewhat mollified him, and the next day he came to me
and apologized for what he had done, and promised to repair the damage
by making me a handsome present; but this calm was of short duration,
for he soon relapsed into gloom--and as he sat by the fire smoking his
pipe, he all at once declared that it must have been the cursed
tobacco which had poisoned his existence; that during the combustion
of the tobacco an oil was disengaged, which mixing with the saliva,
was taken up by absorption into his lungs, and had eaten them to a
honeycomb. John was immediately called: "Here," said he, "John, take
this pipe, and d'ye hear sir, hide it--hide it where I never can find
it again." John accordingly took the pipe, but struggled in vain to
choke his laughter. Before he could escape from the room, he burst out
into such a loud, distinct, irrepressible ha! ha! that there was no
mistaking the thing, and he was soundly caned for his involuntary
breach of decorum. About three days after this, in the evening after
tea, my husband's favorite time for smoking, I observed him very
restless indeed; he rose, walked about the room, sat down, whistled,
hummed a tune, and rose again. At last he began to rummage about the
wainscoat and mantlepiece, and behind the book case, and suddenly
turning round he called John in a softened voice; "John, my good
fellow, where is my pipe? I must have left it in the study; do go and
look for it." John hesitated and grinned.--"What the devil is the
fellow laughing at? Begone sir, and bring my pipe immediately." John
speedily vanished. Turning to me, you see, said my husband, my unhappy
condition; my very servants turn me into ridicule, and you do not
reprove them for it. I could not reply, but felt anxious to point out
to him that he could never hope to be well, because he would not
adhere for a space of time sufficiently long to any plan whatever. His
scheme now is to eat nothing but cold bread. It must be set away in a
pure place to _ripen_, as he calls it. Hot bread just from the oven he
says is giving out carbon continually, and has not imbibed a
sufficiency of oxygen to make it wholesome. Can you forbear smiling my
friend? Now I know that there is nothing of literature in all this,
unless the chemical disquisitions of my wretched husband may be so
considered; but nevertheless I flatter myself you will give me a place
in your Messenger, because many a victim of dyspepsia may look in this
mirror and see himself.

BELINDA.




BEAUTIFUL EXTRACT FROM LACON.


Posthumous fame is a plant of tardy growth, for our body must be the
seed of it; or we may liken it to a torch, which nothing but the last
spark of life can light up; or we may compare it to the trumpet of the
archangel, for it is blown over the dead: but unlike that awful blast,
it is of earth, not of heaven, and can neither rouse nor raise us.


{73}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE REPORTER'S STORY,

OR THE IMPORTANCE OF A SINGLE SYLLABLE.


How much may depend on a single syllable! What direful consequences
may be produced by the suppression of even the smallest component part
of a word!--Gentle reader, be as patient as you are gentle, and the
perusal of the following _true_ story will convince you of the
correctness of these exclamatory positions.

Late in the autumn of 1826, I left the city of New York in a steamboat
for Philadelphia, on my way to Washington, where I was to perform the
arduous, if not very dignified duty, of reporter of debates in the
Senate of the United States, for the leading journal of that
metropolis. My wife accompanied me, and on stepping on board the Swan,
(so was our steamboat justly called,) we found ourselves elbowed and
jostled by a throng of travellers from various parts of the Union,
wending their way, in most instances, to the capitol.

When the steamer had left the wharf, and the haste and bustle of the
moment had ceased, I had time to inspect the countenances of the
crowd, and recognized with much pleasure, the single familiar face of
an officer of the treasury department, with whom I had formed a
partial intimacy during a former visit at Washington. We met with much
cordiality, and soon became engaged in recalling our recollections of
past events.

My friend, it appeared, was personally and officially known to several
individuals of our company; and without the formality of introduction,
I soon found myself on easy travelling terms with four or five genteel
looking men. Among these, the only persons necessary to mention, were
a member of the House of Representatives from Massachusetts, whom I
choose to designate as Mr. C.; another from a neighboring state, who
will be sufficiently known to the reader as Mr. D.; and a young naval
officer, whose name, if he had one, I have forgotten.

A free and easy, gossiping conversation was kept up with considerable
vivacity by this group of strangers, the topics of which were various.
Politics and theatricals predominated--New York was then, as she is
now, the focus of both. The election of De Witt Clinton for the last
time, as governor of the state, over a young and popular candidate,
supported by the fragments of several exploded parties--the rising
importance of the anti-masonic party--the Italian Opera, and Signorina
Garcia, then in great vogue--the last appearance of Edmund Kean, after
his fatal frolic in Canada, and the first appearance of Macready, who
had just then made his debut on the American stage, to surprise and
puzzle the people by a style as new as it was polished and severe.
Such subjects beguiled the hours--and as I had long been almost as
conversant with the green room as the editor's closet, I was enabled
to contribute my full share to the gossip of our little coterie.

My Massachusetts acquaintance was a stout, well built, middle-aged
man, with a bold and open countenance, which expressed good humor, and
not a little self complacency. It seemed as if one could read on that
face the conviction of its owner, that he was born to be a member of
congress, a great man, and a clever fellow. A travelling cap, worn
carelessly, or rather with a careful affectation of negligence, on one
side of his head, and a slight rattan, which he twirled with a
practised hand, evinced a determination on his part to appear to the
very best advantage. Without these, and other affectations, which I
observed in Mr. C., no one could have mistaken him for other than a
well bred gentleman. His attempts to enforce the acknowledgment of the
character by aping the airs of fashionable folly, might cause a
momentary doubt, whether the whole was not affected. We often perceive
similar mistakes in ambitious men brought up in seclusion--but in the
present instance, a stranger was soon undeceived by the conversation
of Mr. C., which gave assurance of a cultivated mind, and the habit of
associating with the learned and the intellectual.

The characteristics of the other lawgiver to whom I have alluded, were
less complicated. His was a face as black as night. His beard,
whiskers, hair and eyes were coal black--the latter small and
piercing. No other feature was worth noticing, and the whole taken
together, formed, if not an _ugly_ countenance, one which came very
nearly up to that epithet. His dress was a pepper-and-salt frock, vest
and trowsers, and his hat had evidently passed its prime. In manners
he was the opposite of Mr. C. There was a bluntness in his remarks,
and a sharpness and brevity in his replies, entirely unaffected, but
not altogether pleasing. On a partial acquaintance, you had such
doubts of him as you would entertain of a partly tamed _bruin_.

The young naval officer was like all _young_ naval officers, with a
dash of spirit which he seemed solicitous to display--a stiffness of
deportment which evinced that the thoughts of discipline could not
easily be shaken off, and an apparent consciousness of the admiration
to which his profession and his _dress_ entitled him from people of
every degree. Nevertheless, he was agreeable, and condescended, most
benevolently, to mingle in the conversation with those around him.

Passing the time between these companions, and an occasional peep into
the ladies' cabin to see that nothing was wanting to the comfort of my
wife, (who was deterred by the chilliness of the atmosphere, from
joining me on deck) the journey was uncommonly agreeable, until we
reached Philadelphia. At that city my treasury friend left us, not so
much regretted as he deserved to be, because his place was supplied by
the new companions to whom I have alluded.

We were shortly transferred to another steamboat, in which, after
about two hours' delay, we proceeded to New Castle. A change of
considerable extent had taken place in our company. We had lost many
faces to which we had been familiar during the morning--and we had
gained many others which wore the first gloss of newness. I have
already said that I had not been formally introduced to the gentlemen
whose acquaintance had been pressed upon me--yet we had learned each
other's names, and used them with freedom. Probably I was the only
_incognito_ among them--the only man whose profession was unknown, and
therefore the only one liable to doubt or misconception. But of such a
chance I did not then dream.

Among the new passengers were two ladies, one quite young, although
the mother of two or three children. She was pretty, and, as I
afterwards found, very talkative. The other was a matron more advanced
in years, and with a still larger number of children. Her dress was
half mourning, her manner grave and lady-like. {74} With these ladies
I perceived that my wife had entered into conversation on their first
arrival on board, and my occasional visits to the cabin shewed me that
their gossip, was kept up with much spirit. Returning from one of
these calls, a strange gentleman addressed me, and asked if my name
was S----; I replied in the affirmative, and after a very civil
preface, he requested, (as I was the only gentleman with a lady on
board,) that I would give my protection to a female acquaintance of
his and her family, who were on their way to Washington. He observed
that he should go no farther than Baltimore, and from that place he
would be obliged to me to take charge of them. I readily assented: we
went to the ladies' cabin, where I was introduced with all due form,
to Mrs. M., the elder and graver of the two ladies already mentioned.
She had made herself acquainted with my wife, and all parties seemed
pleased with the arrangement.

On going above, I found my friends, the two members of congress and
the naval officer, laying plans for a game of whist on board the
Trenton steamboat, which was to take us from Frenchtown. I was asked
to make one of the party, and assented. A few hours brought us to New
Castle, where stages were in readiness to transport us across the
isthmus, to Frenchtown--for it must be remembered, that there was then
neither canal or rail road between the two points.

As the oldest passengers, I presume, my wife and I were seated in
stage No. 1, with a motley group of persons. Not one of our newly
formed acquaintances were with us, and in our carriage there was not
an individual with whom five minutes conversation could be sustained.
I made repeated efforts to arouse our fellow passengers, but after
receiving each time a monosyllabic rebuff,--a crusty yes or no, as the
case might be,--I relinquished the attempt, and confined my endeavors
to make myself agreeable to my good woman, who gave me an amusing
detail of a conversation while on board the steamboat, between herself
and the younger of the two ladies to whom I have already referred.
Mrs. R., as my wife informed me, had favored her with a detailed
history of her family, her husband, children and herself, with all
things thereunto appertaining, even down to the fashion of her last
new bonnet. Having thus exhausted herself by this unsolicited
confession, or as the Scotch say, having "made a clean breast," she
remained silent, apparently expecting a similar display of frankness
from her auditress. But my wife did not readily recognize the
principle of reciprocity in such cases--and accordingly gave the
conversation a different turn. This, however, failed to meet the views
of the communicative lady. Nothing short of mutual confidence seemed
to tally with her notions of politeness to strangers. And finding that
my wife still hung back, she proceeded to cross-examine her upon her
domestic affairs, family connexions, and most closely on my objects
and pursuits in life, and purpose in visiting the capitol at this
season. To all these questions my wife answered briefly, but truly,
although with reluctance.

I was much diverted at this novel specimen of female curiosity, and
the tactics observed in its gratification. It appeared to me
uncommonly _equitable_--for what could evince greater fairness than to
prelude an investigation of the private affairs of your neighbor, by a
voluntary detail of your own.

About eight in the evening, we reached Frenchtown, where our supper
was waiting on board the Trenton. Having despatched the meal with a
good appetite, and the ladies having withdrawn for the evening, the
engagement for a game of whist occurred to me. I had not, up to that
time, observed any one of our party, and I set out to collect them
together for our match.

I first encountered Mr. C. pacing up and down the cabin with great
gravity. Walking up to him, I reminded him of the game of whist,
proposing that we should collect our party. To my great surprise, the
manner of the man towards me was entirely changed. He gave me a glance
which looked exceedingly like contempt--replied to my question with a
rude and hasty negative, and turned upon his heel.

I was astonished, as well I might be, at receiving a cut direct from a
man, who but a few hours before had lavished upon me so large a share
of familiarity and attention. I was chagrined at his contemptuous
manner, and I was puzzled to divine its cause. Indeed, my perplexity
was far greater than my chagrin.

While I was pondering the matter, I caught a glimpse of my other
congressional friend Mr. D., at some distance from me. I went to meet
him, and put to him the same question I had addressed to Mr. C. As I
spoke, he wheeled partly round, fixed his small black eye upon me for
a moment, with a scrutinizing glance, and without vouchsafing one word
in reply, wheeled back into his former position, and walked from me
with a stateliness and decision of step, which precluded any farther
conference. There could be no mistake in this. It was the _ne plus
ultra_ of _cutting_. It was more than the cut direct--it was the _cut_
irrevocable, immutable, eternal!

Good heavens, said I internally--what can this mean?

  Is it the moon ----
  That comes more near to us than she was wont,
  And makes men mad?

If, thought I, the young "Middie" plays me the same game, it will be
evident that they act in concert. It is worth testing--and _apropos_
to the thought, he just then passed quite near me. I assumed as much
ease as the circumstances of the case would permit, (for it will not
be thought remarkable that I had been considerably disconcerted)--and
reminded him of our contemplated game of whist. He looked at me with
cool indifference, as though he had never seen me before in his life,
observed that a party could not be made up, and, waiting no further
question, passed me, whistling some naval air, and looking in another
direction.

This last rebuff completed my indignation and perplexity. But it was
an evil which must be borne,--for however annoying I might find such
treatment--the caprice of strangers in being at one moment as familiar
as old friends, and withdrawing their familiarity at the next, was not
good argument for a quarrel. I could have no claim for satisfaction or
explanation, on an individual to whom I had not been formally
introduced, and with whom my intimacy was of less than twelve hours
standing, for choosing

  -------- "to face me out of his acquaintance,
  And grow a twenty years removed thing
  While one could wink."

I had schooled myself to patience under these undeserved inflictions,
and was preparing to retire, when I was called to the door of the
ladies' cabin by the {75} waiting maid--and met there my wife, who
seemed in a state of tribulation not inferior to my own. She said that
since our arrival on board the steamboat, the two ladies who had been
previously so kind and social, had scarcely noticed her, and had
repelled every attempt at a renewal of former civilities; in truth,
that she had been treated by her companions in much the same manner as
I had been by mine. This was an additional mystery. How could it
happen that contumely and disrespect were cast upon us from parties
who were strangers, having no connexion with each other? The mystery
seemed unfathomable, and after wearying myself with vain endeavors to
conceive some adequate cause for the altered conduct of our fellow
travellers, I fell asleep, and dreamed of myriads of self-important
members of congress, and self-admiring naval officers.

We found ourselves at the wharf at Baltimore in the morning, and in
the scramble to disengage our baggage from the mass heaped upon deck,
(to which every traveller is premonished by the oft-repeated
advertisement that "baggage is at the risk of the owner")--I met my
whilom friends, but without the slightest token of recognition on
either side. The talkative lady looked grave when I approached her,
and was silent, ("an excellent thing in woman")--the older matron, to
whom I was to act as protector for the remainder of her journey,
shrunk from me as I advanced with the salutation of the morning; and
when all was prepared for our departure from the steamboat, she
declined my proffered arm, as I conducted her to the carriage. To my
wife she was equally distant,--nor did a sumptuous breakfast at
Barnum's, break the ice of her reserve, or rather, her aversion.
Certainly, thus far, our society did not promise to be agreeable on
either side. The lady kept as far aloof from us as circumstances would
allow, avoiding every opportunity of conversation--and we were soon as
silent as she, from a mingled feeling of pride and resentment. We
embarked in a stage about mid-day--the roads was infamous, the weather
chilly and obscure. We had the carriage to ourselves, and the ride was
therefore the more gloomy, as among a promiscuous party we might have
found some one willing to cheer the way by conversation: but as we
were situated with our taciturn companion, excepting in an occasional
colloquy with the driver, our organs of speech were unemployed, and
during the greater part of our journey, we might have been taken for a
party of mutes. As we drew near to Washington, this reserve wore away
in a measure. Whether the lady's tongue became impatient of so long a
period of inaction, or whether her assumed dignity gave way under a
requisition upon it too great for its power--I know not. Certain it
is, that she occasionally deigned a remark, and sometimes condescended
to put interrogatories to me, relative to the distance to the city,
and similar grave matters.

It was dark when we arrived. I had ordered the coachman to set me down
at Brown's--but I was informed that there was not a vacant room in the
house, and also that every other hotel in the city was full. This
overflow of company as I afterwards ascertained was caused by the
assemblage at Washington of the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal Convention,
adding some hundreds to the ordinary visiters of the period. To add to
the discomfort of wanting lodgings, it was raining with great
violence, and I dreaded a drive through the interminable streets of
the federal metropolis. Our lady companion had observed that she was
to be dropped at the residence of some relative, and moreover stated
that it was a boarding house. But she avoided proposing that we should
quarter with her; and not until I had seen her safely within the
house, and was returning to the stage, did she mention our plight to
her relative. The latter was immediately urgent that we should remain
at her house, declaring that she had several unoccupied rooms, which
were entirely at our disposal.

This new position of affairs was highly gratifying, and we anticipated
all the comforts of a good supper, and comfortable lodgings, with a
satisfaction which can best be conceived by those to whom those
commodities have, at times, been wanting. My wife was safely seated in
the well warmed dining room, the baggage deposited in the hall,--and I
took the opportunity afforded by a delay in the appearance of supper,
to step across the street, and inform the gentlemen with whom I was
engaged, of my arrival, which was a day or two later than they had
anticipated. On my return to the boarding house, to my utter
astonishment, I saw my wife standing at the street door, in her bonnet
and cloak, while my trunks were piled upon the steps.

Hey dey, said I, what does all this mean--why are you not warming
yourself at the fire, instead of standing here muffled up, as if your
journey was now to commence instead of being ended?

We cannot remain, said she, in a tone of chagrin.

Cannot! What is the reason? Are the people mad here, as well as on the
road?

It would seem so. I had scarcely been five minutes in the house, when
the landlady, who was at first so eager that we should lodge with her,
changed her mind, and informed me that she could not accommodate us.

But she will not turn us out supperless, I hope, such a night as this?

I am not so certain of that. She appears to be infected with the same
disease under which all our travelling companions have labored. People
seem actually to avoid us as though we carried the plague about in our
garments. She bowed me out of the dining room with as little ceremony
as she would have shewn to a mendicant.

Well, well, said I, come in out of the air, and I will reason with
her. So saying I led the way to the principal apartment in the house,
which served as parlor, drawing room, and dining room--where the
landlady soon made her appearance. She was a small, thin-faced woman,
her form wiry and attenuated; her motions rapid and nervous;
countenance much wrinkled, and of most forbidding expression, and a
voice from which no art could have extracted a sound bearing the
remotest relationship to harmony. Her dress was evidently suited to
the season, when members of congress are seeking quarters for the
winter, and when those who have them at disposal, are interested in
putting the best possible face on every thing appertaining to their
establishments. Her costume was, a silk frock, stretched upon her bony
frame, and a yellow gauze turban, of monstrous size, decked with
crimson ribbons, perched upon the top of her head, which thus seemed
enveloped in "fire and brimstone:"--These awkwardly worn habiliments
betrayed the fact that the lady had passed the day in attending the
calls of the law-givers of the land, {76} with the laudable design of
enhancing the value of her accommodations, in the eyes of some rustic
Solon, but newly caught, by the genteel appearance of their mistress.

I addressed this formidable figure, with an inquiry whether we could
not remain with her for the night, referring to the state of the
weather as rendering it almost impossible to make search for lodgings
that evening.

The lady eyed me with great scrutiny, and there was an elevation of
her nasal organ, while looking at me, which distorted to a more
hideous expression than was natural, her weather-beaten visage.

"Indeed," said she, "you can't stay, and that's all about it. Three
_members_ have just sent down to say that they would take the rooms
what they look'd at this morning, and that they must be fix'd up this
very night. So you see you can't stay. It a'nt my fault--and so I
can't say no more about it."

"Then we _must_ look for other lodgings. But you can give us supper.
The members of Congress have not bespoken _that_ also, I presume."

"Well--no. You _can_ eat your suppers here I spose."

"And this lady can remain here until I can obtain other quarters."

"Well, I've no particular objection to her sitting here awhile."

Just then supper was served, and we partook of it. Our travelling
companion was at the table, but scarcely recognized us, and the
landlady was barely civil. When the meal was over, I requested the
latter to allow a servant to accompany me in my search, as I was
ignorant of the location of the principal boarding houses. Her son, a
pert lad of about thirteen, volunteered to pilot me, and without delay
we sallied out.

It occurred to me as we passed up Pennsylvania avenue, that I had
forgotten to deliver a message of some importance to my employers,
when I called to announce my arrival, and I turned a little out of my
way to the office of the N---- I----, where, while I was closeted for
a few moments with one of the editors, my juvenile guide remained in
the clerk's office.

On leaving the office, I was surprised at the altered tone of the lad.

"You had better go back," said the manakin: "it is too late to get
lodgings to-night. My mother can keep you as well as not."

"But she has refused to do so, and insists that it is out of her
power."

"Never mind that. Go back with me--I'll work the old woman over. See
if I don't tell you the truth."

"You are a promising lad," said I, "but a little too forward. Let us
go on."

Finding me determined to prosecute the search, he yielded, and we
called at several houses; but all were full. Against my will, I was
forced to return, with the resolution of making good my quarters for
the night, at any rate, with or without the consent of the lady of the
house. My guide assured me that he could "manage the old woman," and
told me to give myself no uneasiness on the subject.

After a dreary walk, we reached the house. There sat my wife with her
bonnet still on, for no one had asked her to remove it--and there sat
the lady in the brimstone turban, and fiery ribbons, in whose ugly
visage the words "_turn out_" seemed written, in characters not to be
mistaken. As we entered, the boy motioned his mother, who joined him
at the door, where they held a whispering colloquy for a few moments.
While they were thus engaged, I learned from my wife that there had
been no change in the sentence of exclusion, altho' no new lodgers had
made their appearance.

The whispering ceased, and the landlady approached me. What was my
astonishment at perceiving that the gorgon face, before so hideous
with frowns, was puckered into the queerest attempt at a smile that
was ever before witnessed on the human countenance.

But this was not all. Not only did her face exhibit these convulsive
efforts, but the form approached us, curtseying with a most unhappy
imitation of grace.

The devil is in the hag--said I internally. What new trick is to be
played now? I was not long in suspense. The boy had kept his promise
it seemed, for he or some one else, actually had "worked the old woman
over." She affirmed that she had just received messages from the three
_members_, stating that they were not in haste for the rooms--and she
assured us they were entirely at our service.

We knew that this was a fiction; but we were fatigued, and disposed to
take the good the Gods provided for us, without much question. We were
shewn to our apartments and slept soundly, forgetting all the
vexations of the day.

The next morning, after having exhausted ourselves in wonderment at
the freaks which had been played off upon us, I left my wife, to make
some calls in the city. I had not been long absent, when she received
a visit from Mrs. M., our travelling companion, who, after the usual
salutations had passed, seemed struggling to suppress a disposition to
laugh, which my wife took to be another mad freak, to be classed with
those she had previously witnessed.

The propensity at length overcame her, and she burst into a fit of
uncontrollable laughter, which lasted for many minutes.

Indignant as my wife was disposed to be, at such an unexpected
explosion of mirth, from a lady who had for two days treated her with
haughty reserve, if not absolute contempt, she bore it with patience,
and awaited in silence the conclusion of her visiter's merry humor,
and such explanation of its cause as she might choose to give.

Every thing must have an end--and the lady at length ceased her
laughter, from absolute exhaustion.

"My dear madam,--she gasped out--my dear madam--this is very
rude--very rude indeed. You must be surprised at such conduct, and I
beg your pardon but"----

"It would be an unnecessary dissimulation, to say I am not surprised;
but I presume I shall soon learn to be surprised at nothing."

"You really then, think you have been associated for the last few
days, with persons little better than bedlamites."

"I have certainly been exposed to strange conduct."

"Well, I have come to explain the whole mystery. Do not be offended at
my mirth. I could not resist it. The laugh was more against myself
than you--and the whole affair is so ridiculous, that you will laugh
too, when you know the truth."

"I own that I have a strong curiosity to be acquainted {77} with the
cause of the strange treatment we have met with. I presume it arose
out of some mistake."

"Entirely, entirely--and then a blunder so ridiculous--so uncommon!
Excuse me, but really I must laugh--ha, ha, ha. But I will keep you in
suspense no longer; besides, I wish you to laugh _with_ me, and
therefore I will tell you my story. Listen. You remember that at
Newcastle, you and your husband took one of the first stages. Myself
and children were seated in another, in company with Mrs. R., (the
pretty, talkative woman with light hair,) two members of Congress, and
a young naval officer. We had scarcely started, when Mrs. R. commenced
with her usual volubility, running over the various persons who had
fallen under her observation in the steamboat. At last your turn came
to be criticised: 'Did you observe Mrs. S.,' said she, 'the lady with
black hair and blue eyes--rather pretty, and at first I took her to be
quite a genteel personage.' Yes, I replied, I had been introduced to
you, and was to place myself under the protection of your husband,
from Baltimore to Washington."

"'Did you ascertain any thing of their standing and character,' said
Mrs. R."

"Not a word said I. My friend Mr. H. told me they were genteel people,
and their appearance warrants his opinion."

"'Well, really,' said Mrs. R., 'how easy it is to be deceived by
people that one knows nothing about. You would not believe it--I am
sure I would not, if Mrs. S. had not told me with her own lips--I say,
otherwise, I would not have believed that Mr. S. was going to
Washington in such a _menial capacity_.'"

"What!" said I.

"'_Menial capacity?_' said one member of Congress."

"'_Menial capacity?_' echoed the other member."

"'I took him for a gentleman,' said the naval officer--'Confound the
fellow's impudence.'"

"But, said I, you must be mistaken, I'm sure. I am to go to Washington
with him."

"'There must be some mistake,' said the two members of Congress, and
the young naval officer, all in a breath."

"'Why we have engaged to make up a game of whist with him this
evening,' said the latter."

"'Certainly!' said one member of Congress."

"'Certainly!' said the other member of Congress. 'Oh, there must be
some mistake, my good madam. _Menial capacity!_ Impossible!'"

"'No mistake at all,' retorted Mrs. R., with some asperity. 'I tell
you I had it from Mrs. S's own mouth, and she owned it after a good
deal of hesitation and reluctance. I put twenty questions to her
before I could get an answer.'"

"Well, said I, if you are so well satisfied that you are right, we are
interested to know who and what these people are. I do not choose to
travel under the protection of a man of _menial capacity_."

"'Yes, yes,' said the naval officer, '_what_ the deuse is the fellow.
I should not wonder if he were a pick-pocket, or a black-leg, to judge
by his easy impudence.'"

"'Very likely,' said one member of Congress."

"'I have not a doubt of it,' said the other member. 'But let us know,
if you please madam, what he is.'"

"'As I said before, I would not have believed it if Mrs. S. had not
told me herself,' said Mrs. R., hesitating."

"'Oh, no doubt you are right,' said the naval officer: 'but please let
us know who it is we have been so familiar with.'"

"'Well,' said Mrs. R. 'Mrs. S. told me that her husband was going to
Washington to be _Porter_ to the Senate.'"

Here my wife interrupted Mrs. M. with a fit of laughter almost equal
to that with which Mrs. M. had indulged herself in the outset.

"So," said the former, "Mrs. R. mistook the word _Re_porter, for that
of _Porter_,--an important omission."

"So it would seem," rejoined Mrs. M. "But let me go on."

"'_Porter to the Senate!_' exclaimed every voice."

"'A fellow who runs errands for the Senators, fetches and carries
bundles, &c., I suppose,' said the naval officer."

"'I can't conceive what station he is to fill,' said one of the
members of Congress, 'unless it is that of _old Tobias, the black
man_, who kindles fires, and carries messages.'"

"'That is it I dare say,' said the other member."

"'We must cut him,' said the naval officer."

"'To be sure.'" "'To be sure.'"

"So it was settled by all present that you were to be cut without
benefit of clergy."

"I should not have consented to place myself under your protection,
continued Mrs. M., but that I had no choice. Knowing no other person
with whom I could travel, I reluctantly accompanied you; and I trust,"
said she, laughing, "that on the road, I shewed a very laudable
aversion to the contaminating society of a _Porter_ and his wife."

"No one can deny you that merit," said my wife.

"Well, I cannot ask your pardon for it. There was no malice in the
mistake, and I am almost as much annoyed at it as you can be. After
you arrived here last night, the landlady insisted on knowing what
business brought your husband to Washington; and I reluctantly told
her what I had heard. At the bare idea of lodging a _Porter_, her
feathers bristled up like those of a Barbary hen. Her yellow turban
looked blue at the idea of such an indignity. She protested that she
would have no _Porters_ in her house, nor no such rapscallions as had
the impudence to go about dressed like decent people, to take in the
flats. And so, my dear madam, you were turned out without much
ceremony, and might have spent the night in the street, but for the
information obtained by the boy at the office of the N---- I----,
which, by giving another syllable to the profession of your husband,
shewed beyond a doubt that you were entitled to christian treatment.
You know the rest, and I trust we shall all of us when we remember
these blunders, acknowledge the IMPORTANCE OF A SINGLE SYLLABLE."

S.




  Extracted from a Virginia Newspaper, Printed in 1775.

ON SLEEP.


  O sleep! what though of death thou art
    To be an image said,
  I wish thee still with all my heart,
    The partner of my bed.

  Thy company, soft sleep, then give,
    While in thy arms I lie;
  How sweet! thus, without life, to live!
    Thus, without death, to die!


{78}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE COTTAGE IN THE GLEN.


In traversing that region of country in the wilds of Maine, that
borders one of her finest rivers, if you look carefully on your right
hand as you pass through the town of ----, by the post-road, you may
observe a cart-path leading directly into a thick wood, where the
trees tower in majesty and beauty to the very clouds, and look as if
they had thus stood ever since the day when "the heavens and the earth
were finished, and all the host of them." Were it not for this same
cart-path, with its three ridges of bright greensward, and its four
lines of dusky brown, you might doubt whether the silent grandeur of
the forest had ever echoed to the voice or the footstep of man.

There is something truly grand and impressive in forest scenery. The
lofty trees stretching high toward heaven; the graceful and majestic
waving of the branches, breathing nature's own soft music, which
scarcely removes the impression of profound silence--or which, to
parody the words of Milton, "just makes silence audible;" the deep,
and seemingly "boundless contiguity of shade," and the awful solitude,
make man shrink into himself, and feel that he is in the presence of
the Eternal. The weak spirit of a creature frail as man, is soon
overpowered, if it give itself up to the impressions naturally
produced by contemplating, in solitude, the grandeur of creation. The
first feeling is delight,--next admiration,--then wonder,--then
awe,--and then oppression;--and when it arrives at this point, the
sight of such a little cart-path as I have mentioned, is a great
relief to the feelings: for it shows that a being having passions, and
feelings, and sympathies like his own--as short lived, as dependant,
as insignificant as himself, is, or has been near. The deep shade has
been penetrated; the solitude has been interrupted; and an unbroken
and eternal silence has not forever reigned in the forest.

If the reader wishes, we will follow this path, and see whither it
will conduct us. Its course is a little devious, probably to avoid the
trunks of the trees, for not one appears to have been felled to
shorten the distance, which is about three fourths of a mile, under
the unbroken shade of the same noble woodland. Now the path begins to
descend a little, and by almost imperceptible degrees, you arrive in a
valley lying between two lofty ridges, that become more and more
abrupt as you advance; and when you have proceeded about the fourth of
a mile, they seem nearly perpendicular on either side. And their
summits being crowned by the lofty trees of the same far stretching
forest, adds much to the apparent depth of the valley, and you feel as
if verging towards the centre of the earth. That little ripling stream
in the valley, beside which we have been walking, now begins to widen,
and presently expands itself into a mimic lake, restrained on the one
hand and on the other by the mountain side, leaving just room enough
on the left for the unbroken cart-path. Your ear is now assailed by
the sound of rushing waters, and a roof appears beyond the lake--so
that a habitation of man is near. No, it is a mill; the dwelling house
is sixty rods below: there it lies, on a beautiful swell in the narrow
valley, made, it would seem, on purpose for its site--and the again
diminished stream is softly murmuring by its side. That is the Cottage
in the Glen. If you please, we will descend, and take our station in
front of it. Before we turned that angle to attain this spot, you were
about to exclaim, "This is the very home of solitude, shut out from
the rest of creation." But look straight down the valley, and far--far
off, see the picturesque and busy village of ----, and the sparkling
waters of the river. The valley is so straight and narrow, and widens
so gradually towards its mouth, and the banks on either side are so
precipitous, that it produces the same effect on the scene beyond,
that a tube does in viewing a picture. Is it not beautiful! Now if you
will climb with me to the foot of that tree that stands part way up
the bank, we will be seated in the shade, and I will give you a sketch
of the inhabitants of the cottage.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Kirkwood, a native of Massachusetts, and head of the family, is
now upwards of seventy-five years of age; and until verging towards
sixty, was decidedly a man of the world. He was educated at Harvard
University, and at the age of twenty-eight, when he married, was a
good scholar, a finished gentleman, and a successful lawyer.

  "There is a tide in the affairs of men,
   Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune."

Mr. Kirkwood seized the favorable moment, and his wealth rapidly
increased. He wished to be rich; not to hoard his wealth--but that he
might be enabled to procure all the indulgencies and elegancies of
life, and move at the head of society. His wish was gratified. He
became rich; lived in splendid style; and his house was the favorite
resort of the wealthy, the elegant, and the fashionable. His wife was
a model of good housewifery, propriety and politeness; and his only
child, a son, was all that the heart of a man of the world could wish.
Highly gifted by nature, and favored with every advantage for the
cultivation of his talents, young Kirkwood was ushered into society,
elegant in person, elegant in mind, and correct in morals. It was
generally conceded that whoever obtained him, would gain a first rate
prize in the matrimonial lottery. Of course, there was no little
competition among mothers who had daughters to dispose of; and young
ladies who wished to dispose of themselves. But the lovely, well
educated, and retiring Mary Bust, engaged his affections without
seeking them; and in winning her heart, and securing her hand, he
insured his own earthly felicity. Gentle by nature, polished and
enlightened by education, unblemished in reputation, and thoroughly
well principled, through the assiduous care and unwearied instructions
of wise and pious parents,--she was all a man could wish for as a
wife, companion and friend; all he could wish for as the mother of his
children. The son's choice gave perfect satisfaction to his parents;
and when in the course of a few years, the young wife gave
successively to the arms of her husband, three sons and a
daughter,--there seemed to be around this family, a confluence of all
that constitutes the felicity of earth.

But, alas, in the tide of men's affairs, there is an _ebb_ as well as
_flood_; and this the Kirkwood family now began to experience. The
elder Kirkwood had just begun to discover that his affairs were in
some confusion, when his wife was suddenly snatched away by death. It
was a heavy blow, and he felt it as such. But men seldom {79} die of
grief! Millions have buried the wife of their youth, and been very
comfortably supported under the bereavement; and so was Mr. Kirkwood.
Indeed he had little time to spend in unavailing sorrow, or in
brooding over the memory of the departed one; for the clouds of
adversity became more and more dense about him, and he soon found that
the combined energies of himself and son, could not avert the storm.
Poverty seemed coming upon them "like an armed man." In the meantime,
two of the blooming grandsons were in quick succession conveyed to the
tomb; and just as the storm burst upon them in all its fury, the
younger Kirkwood followed his mother and his two children to the world
of spirits. After this tempest of adversity, Mr. Kirkwood stood like
an oak, scathed by the lightning,--its verdure blasted, and its
branches scattered abroad. He sunk, overwhelmed, and gave way to the
most hopeless despondency.

There is a spirit in woman that will sustain her under circumstances
which will drive man to despair. And when that spirit is moulded,
guided, and strengthened by religion, it is invincible. Soft as the
harp-tones of the "sweet singer of Israel," did Mary's voice now
breathe on the ear of her disconsolate father.

"'Shall we receive good at the hand of God, and shall we not receive
evil,' my father? Let us endeavor to say, 'The Lord gave, and the Lord
hath taken away, and blessed be his name!' Arise, my father, and call
upon our God. He 'hears the young ravens when they cry,' and will he
not give his children food? He clothes the lilies of the field, and
will he not clothe us? He binds up the broken heart; will he not then
console ours?"

"Alas, my daughter," cried the old man, "He is thy God, but not mine.
In the hour of prosperity I forgat him; in the hour of adversity I
dare not approach him. May he, indeed, feed, and clothe, and console
thee, and thy remaining little ones. For me--his vengeance alone will
pursue me. Would I could hide me from his avenging hand, and lay my
head in the grave!"

The despondency of her father added not a little to the load of sorrow
that pressed on Mary's heart; but she had no time for idle
lamentation. She had duties to perform; duties to him, herself, and
her children; and laying herself low before the throne of mercy, she
spread her sorrows and her wants before her Father in Heaven, and
taking fast hold of Almighty strength, she went forward.

"My father," said Mary, "'Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and
scourgeth every son whom he receiveth;' and, 'like as a father pitieth
his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him.'"

"But I have not feared him, Mary,--therefore he does not pity me. And
his chastening is the chastening of an offended judge--in
vengeance--not the chastening of a father."

Mary despaired not, though her father thus repelled all consolation;
and when he sat absorbed in melancholy, and she scarcely dared intrude
upon his thoughts, she would move about the room, just breathing the
lines,

  "Come ye disconsolate, where'er you languish,
   Come, at the shrine of God, fervently kneel;
   Here bring your wounded hearts; here tell your anguish;
   Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal;"

and at the same time raise a fervent prayer, that his sorrow might not
ultimately prove to be that "sorrow of the world that worketh death,"
but the "sorrow that worketh repentance unto salvation." Her prayer
was heard; her efforts were successful. It was not long ere with
heartfelt gratitude, she heard him say, "'It is good for me that I
have been afflicted.' 'The Lord gave,' but I have abused his gifts;
and he 'hath taken away,' and blessed be his name for thus bringing an
erring son near to himself." When this happy change first took place
in the feelings of her father, Mary felt as though she had scarcely a
care or a sorrow left. A future world, uncorroded by cares, unstained
by tears, unblemished by sin, and unvisited by sorrow, opened on the
eye of faith,--and all was peace within. But their pilgrimage was not
yet accomplished; this home was not yet attained; and in the meantime,
something must be done. Scarcely a wreck of their fortune remained;
and Mr. Kirkwood, verging towards sixty, with the energies of his mind
crushed by misfortune, felt it impossible to begin again his career as
a lawyer. The remaining pride of his heart, rendered it extremely
painful to remain amidst his former associates, with whom he could no
longer, on equal terms, hold intercourse; and where every scene called
back the visions of former splendors, and buried friends, with a
sickening influence.

"Let us fly far from hence, my daughter," said he; "elsewhere I may
recover something of my energy, and be capable of making some effort;
_here_ I can do nothing. Let us fly from the world, and hide ourselves
in seclusion. My soul needs repose. A withering blast has swept over
it, to tear away its idols. The work is done--but the wounds are still
bleeding: and though, I trust, the great physician is at work, there
needs time to perfect a cure. Let us fly from hence, and in some new
and humble occupation, strive to support ourselves for the remainder
of life's journey, and rear these little ones for immortality."

So that she could be with her father, and her children, to receive the
blessing of the one, and the caresses of the others, it mattered
little to Mary what spot on earth she called home. She was a "_widow
indeed_." The long, bright vista, through which she had looked on
years of future happiness, with the husband of her love, was closed by
death; and what mattered it, where she fulfilled the remaining duties
of life, so they were but faithfully discharged?

Through the agency of a friend, the Cottage in the Glen, with the mill
that appertained to it, and a few acres of ground, were purchased.
Mary collected together the few articles that remained of former
abundance; and with the feelings of a woman of cultivated mind and
literary taste, and with all the providence of a mother, foreseeing
the future wants of her children, did she most carefully gather up all
the books that remained of the once large and well selected library.
All things finally arranged, they removed hither.

A complete revolution had taken place in Mr. Kirkwood's views. He felt
that nothing is really degrading that is not sinful; and he resolved,
as far as practicable, to do his own labor with his own hands. But,
until he could learn the art himself, he was constrained to hire an
assistant, to take charge of his little mill; once familiar with the
business, it was his own employment. {80} The family were very
comfortable, and soon became very happy. Though the furniture of the
cottage was scanty, it was arranged with so much taste, and kept in
such perfect order, that it wore the air of gentility; and a profusion
of wild flowers in the summer, and a blazing fire in the winter, gave
an additional cheerfulness to its appearance. The mill supplied them
with bread, and many other comforts of life, beside paying a poor man
for a day's labor now and then on their little enclosure of potatoes.
They procured an honest and faithful maid servant, who milked their
two cows, prepared the butter and cheese, and spun the wool of their
half a dozen sheep, beside doing all the more laborious work of the
family. No human eye was upon them that had seen them in former days,
and they were fast forgetting a world, by which they were already
nearly forgotten. No real want of nature remained unsatisfied, and
their Heavenly Father was as near them here, as in any other place.
Glorious and consoling idea! that his children can be carried to no
spot in creation, where he will not be present to sustain and comfort
them! How glorious the idea of an Omnipotent God!

Nothing, under the power of religion, served so much to console the
heart of Mr. Kirkwood, as the presence and the happiness of his
grandchildren. Frederic was eight, and Clara three years old; and they
were as happy at the Cottage in the Glen, as they would have been in
the palace of the Thuileries. From his heart, he could adopt the
language of Paley: "I seem to see the benevolence of the Deity more
clearly in the pleasures of young children, than in any thing else in
the world. The pleasures of grown persons may be reckoned partly of
their own procuring; but the pleasures of a healthy child are so
manifestly provided for by another, and the benevolence of the
provision is so unquestionable, that every child I see at its sport,
affords to my mind a kind of sensible evidence of the finger of God."

"These children are happy, Mary," he would say; "they feel no regrets
for the past--no fears for the future, but enjoy the present with
zest. Our wants are scarcely greater than theirs. Let us, then, not
regret the past; let us not be anxious for the future; but in
performing present duty, and being grateful for present good, let us
trust our heavenly father, without fear or misgiving."

Neither Mr. Kirkwood nor his daughter found any leisure for idle
repinings. The indispensable labors of each day, with the care and
instruction of the children, occupied them fully. Frederic was sent to
the district school, there to acquire what he could of education; but
he was an intellectual and thinking boy, and soon began to call on his
grandfather to assist him through the difficulties he encountered, as
his mind rapidly developed. The education of Clara, Mrs. Kirkwood
considered her own peculiar business. And when the little girl was old
enough to go to school, she still preferred pursuing the task herself,
as she dreaded lest her daughter should breathe other than a pure
moral atmosphere.

Next to religion, the abundant means of education is undoubtedly the
glory and bulwark of New England. And the district school, where the
son of the town pauper may obtain the foundation of an education that
will render him intelligent and useful, is an incalculable blessing.
But wherever human nature is, there is depravity; and where human
beings mingle together, this depravity is called into exercise. Even
young children are not the innocent creatures some persons appear to
suppose; but in almost every school may be found the _germ_ of almost
every vice. So thought Mrs. Kirkwood; and it led her to educate her
daughter entirely at home.

Time rolled on; and the children at the cottage increased in wisdom
and stature: the parent and grandparent in meetness for the kingdom of
heaven. Industry and economy, both of time and goods, was the order of
the house; and the children cheerfully followed the example set them
by their superiors. Frederic was always diligently employed, when not
engaged with his books; and the healthful and joyous little Clara was
the assistant of each one, as circumstances required, from her
grandfather in the mill, to the servant girl at the washing tub.
Permission to play in the open air, was a holiday to her heart; and
she was light and joyous in spirit as the warblers of the grove.
Content and peace reigned in the family. With each returning sun,
their orisons were duly offered on the family altar; and when the
shades of evening closed around, their thanksgivings and praises
ascended to the throne of the Eternal.

  "A holy incense--sweeter, richer far
   Than that upon the golden altar shed
   In Judah's sacred fane."

No change of any moment took place in their circumstances, and nothing
in futurity was looked forward to with peculiar interest, until
Frederic attained his fifteenth year. Then, one evening, after having
been unusually thoughtful and silent, he suddenly looked up, and said,

"I want to be a minister of the gospel, and I want to go to college,
grandfather."

Both the grandfather and the mother looked up in some astonishment;
but they listened patiently to his plans, and heard him declare what
efforts he was willing to make--what deprivations to endure.

"Dear grandfather--dear mother," said the eager boy, in conclusion,
"do listen to me kindly. It will do me no harm to make the attempt.
You, grandfather, and our good pastor, will help fit me for college;
and I doubt not, that by my own industry, and what you can
conveniently do for me, I shall some how or other get through. I feel
that I can do nothing without an education."

"We will think on the subject, my son," said his grandfather, "and in
due time let you know the result of our deliberations. Meantime,
attend to your present duties, and 'take no _anxious_ thought for the
morrow.'"

The important subject was not mentioned again for the evening; but it
engrossed Mrs. Kirkwood's mind, and kept her waking many hours of the
night. From her son's birth, she had consecrated him to the service of
her Heavenly Father, though she knew not in what way that service
might be demanded. Now she hoped he had consecrated himself; and that
what seemed so aspiring in a youth in his situation in life, was an
impulse from above, rather than the natural workings of an ambitious
mind. But she was helpless in herself, and could only ask to be
directed by Him who is {81} perfect in wisdom; to be provided for by
Him who is infinite in riches. What needed she more!

The next day Mr. Kirkwood and his daughter held a consultation on the
subject; and when, toward evening, Frederic saw his mother searching
over a chest of old books, his eyes sparkled, and his heart throbbed
with feverish impatience to ascertain if his conjectures were
accurate. His joy was complete, when he saw the necessary books and
grammars come forth; some in a mutilated state, it is true,--but no
matter, so the important parts were but entire. He went about his task
like one in earnest; his progress was rapid; and in due time he was
admitted at college.

The years of his collegiate life passed rapidly away. The vacations of
spring and autumn he spent in the bosom of his family, giving delight
to the hearts of all by his improvement; assisting in their
labors,--and superintending with deep interest, and assiduous
tenderness, the education of his sister. But the long winter vacation
was devoted to school-keeping,--the most lucrative employment to which
he could, for such limited periods, devote himself. Once he was so
highly favored as to get a school in the neighborhood of the Glen; and
then his labor was a delight, rather than a task, as he could be with
his beloved friends, and direct his sister in her studies. The family
at the Glen, it is true, had to practice more than wonted frugality,
to help in defraying his unavoidable expenses; but no self-denial was
hard, when one so dear was to be benefitted--no sacrifice painful that
was made for so important an object. Clara was by no means the least
efficient in her endeavors to aid her darling brother. As soon as she
completed her thirteenth year, at her earnest and reiterated
entreaties, the servant girl was dismissed, and she cheerfully took
her labors on herself, that Frederic might have the considerable sum
thus saved to the family.

Meanwhile, Clara's own education progressed, notwithstanding her
situation seemed so unfavorable for study. But she was a rigid
economist of time; and when that is the case with any one, great
things may be accomplished. Although her hands were busily employed a
large portion of the time, a mind, thirsting for knowledge, surmounted
all difficulties. She could not, indeed, touch the keys of a piano, or
the strings of a harp; the spinning wheel and other domestic machines
demanded too large a portion of her time, to have permitted the
acquisition of skill on these instruments, even had she possessed
them. But she knew who Dugald Stewart was, and what he thought of the
"active and moral powers of man;" with Smellie she was intimately
acquainted; and Rollin, Hume, Gillies and Gibbon were her daily
companions. The works of Pascal and Massillon she could read in the
language in which they were written; and with Virgil she could
converse in his native tongue. Above all, she had studied the volume
of inspiration, and had learned the way of eternal life.

Never had the family at the Glen been happier than when Frederic
returned home, bearing his parchment roll, duly adorned with the
riband, and the imposing seal; and, after some preamble, running thus:

Notum esto, _quod nos, consentiendibus honorandis admodum ac
reverendis collegii antedicti_ Inspectoribus, _anno Christi_
MDCCC--_admisimum_ Fredericus Kirkwood _ejusdem alumnum, ad gradum_
Baccalaurealem _in_ Artibus; &c. But when he joined the domestic
circle, authorized to preach the everlasting gospel, their joy was of
a deeper, holier character. Would I could show you a picture of the
group, as they encircled the blazing hearth on that happy evening. I
will even make the attempt. There sits the venerable grandfather, in
his large arm-chair, his white hairs smoothly parted from off his
ample forehead, with every feature speaking of passions subdued, and a
heart full of gratitude, content and love. Next the mother, with
something like the bloom of youth stealing over her matron
cheek,--while her eye moves in a tear that rises from that deep
fountain of mingled feeling, known only to a _pious mother's_ heart,
as she looks on the son of her love, and that son a _believer!_
Between these two sits Frederic, comely in manly strength, his whole
countenance expressing heart-felt benevolence to all mankind--and
peculiar love, gratitude and veneration for those by whom he is
encircled. Last, and the darling of all, is Clara, seated on her
brother's knee, with one arm around his neck, while her other hand is
sometimes clasped in his,--sometimes straying amid his dark luxuriant
hair. She is not exactly beautiful, but she is lovely. Her stature is
rather below than above the medium size; and fresh air and healthy
exercise have given elasticity to her limbs, and a bloom to her cheek,
that rivals the richness of the peach. If her features are not
regular, they defy criticism; for her whole face has such a glow of
love and happiness, that the delighted beholder cannot seek for
defects. Thus they all sat, enjoying the full tide of domestic
happiness; and each might have said to the other, with Galatee,

  "Tu me demandais ton bonheur,
   Et c'etait moi que tu rendais heureuse."

Even the knowledge that Frederic was soon to leave them, to enter on
the duties of his vocation, could scarcely moderate their joy.

He has now entered on his holy calling; and though far removed from
those who loved him so tenderly, nurtured him so carefully, governed
him so wisely, and made such personal sacrifices to fit him for
usefulness, they are happy still. Far from selfishly regretting that
at the moment he was fitted for action, and capable of making some
return for all their kindness, they are obliged to resign him
altogether,--in the benevolence of their hearts they rejoice that they
have been used as instruments to prepare him for a life of usefulness
in the world; and their most fervent prayer for him is, that he may
"turn many to righteousness," and then "shine as a star forever."

Yes, the family at the Glen are happy still. The aged grandfather is
"waiting patiently his appointed time till his change come," with a
"hope full of immortality." The mother, patient, gentle, subdued,
serene, in fulfilling her quiet and unostentatious duties, is
carefully laying up treasure, where "neither moth nor rust corrupt nor
destroy." And the lovely Clara is the sunshine in the path of both.
She hushes the sighs,--wipes the tears,--soothes the pains, and
lightens the cares of each. Her voice is music to their ears; her
presence brings gladness to their hearts; and they both pronounce her
blessed.

But you inquire,--is she who breathes such fragrance around, forever
to be immured in this sequestered {82} valley? No--she will move in a
wider sphere; yet it is doubtful whether she elsewhere tastes such
pure and peaceful happiness as she has tasted here. She may find more
luxuriant roses, but then she must encounter the thorns; and what she
may gain in untried sources of happiness, will be counterbalanced by
unknown cares and sorrows. Yet she will, by and by, run the hazard:
for her brother's dearest college friend once begged an invitation to
spend a vacation at the Cottage; and when he left it, he left his
heart behind him. Clara could do no less than give her's in exchange;
and so she has promised, at some future day, to become his wife.

And now, as I have finished my sketch, we will leave the valley.

Do you further inquire what is the secret of their happiness? and
whether she who has been so eagerly sought through the wide world, has
chosen this for her favorite residence? I will give you the answer Mr.
Kirkwood gave to Clara, when she asked him a question of similar
import.

"Happiness, my daughter, has, on earth, no local habitation. She _may_
dwell in the palace or in the cottage; with the rich, or with the
poor; with the learned, or with the ignorant. Her seat is in the
soul,--and its security does not depend on external circumstances. A
_peaceful conscience_, and a _humble_, _contented_ heart, grateful for
blessings bestowed, and feeling no craving desire for those that are
withheld, are the pillars of her throne. But there are two classes of
persons that she will never deign to visit, be their rank or station
what it may. Neither the _idle_ nor the _vicious_ are ever happy."

S. H.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

PICTURE OF OLD VIRGINIA.

  Look here upon this picture--and on this,
  The counterfeit presentment.--_Hamlet_.


  Virginia had been beautiful
  And owned a lovely land;
  Her sons, who were so dutiful,
  Went with her heart and hand;
  They raised her to the highest seat,
  By talents and by worth,
  And sent her name in accents sweet,
  Far ringing through the earth.

  But lately she had fallen off;
  Her beauty was impair'd;
  Her younger sons were heard to scoff--
  _They_ might at least have spared.
  'Twas said that she was growing blind,
  Was lazy and supine,
  And that she weakly lagged behind
  Her sisters, grown divine.

  That all her days were spent, forsooth,
  In one eternal chime
  About her deeds of early youth--
  "Resolves" of former time.
  Naught could be said and nothing told
  But she more devils spied;
  "_More devils than vast hell could hold_--"
  Or all the world beside.

  And strangers[1] did her land deride--
  With wagging tongue, reviled;
  Wild beasts, they said, had multiplied
  In that most barren wild;
  Her houses were untenanted--
  The fox[2] had _manned_ her walls;
  And "_rank grass_" waved around his head,
  As in old Ossian's halls!

  Her moral strength and physical,[3]
  Aye, both of them were gone,
  And every man seem'd phthisical,
  Or like to tumble down;
  Her talents all were buried deep,
  Or in some napkin hid,
  Or with the mighty dead, did sleep
  Beneath the coffin lid.

  But far! oh far beyond all these,
  She had displeased her God;
  _Inter dolosos cineres_,
  She on volcano trod;
  She could not get o' nights her rest;
  At midnight bell for fire,
  She hugged her infants to her breast,
  Prepared for fun'ral pyre.

  Virginia roused herself one day
  And took her picture down;
  And as she gazed, was heard to say--
  Am I thus hideous grown?
  And am I stupid--lazy--blind--
  A monomaniac too!
  Relaxed in body and in mind?
  Oh no! it is not true.

  There lies outstretched my glorious land,
  With her capacious bay;
  My rivers rush on every hand,
  With sail and pennon gay;
  My mountains, like a girdle blue,
  Adorn her lovely waist,
  "_And lend enchantment to the view_,"
  As in "_the distance_" traced.

  I'll hie me straight to Richmond town,
  And call my liege men there;
  And they shall write these libels down,
  Or fill me with despair.
  I have a friend, who'll make some stir,
  And take my work in hand;
  I'll send him forth my "MESSENGER"--
  To "_spy out all the land_."[4]

  That Messenger went gaily forth
  Throughout her old domain,
  And there found many men of worth
  Would snatch their pens again; {83}
  And since their mothers' blood was up--
  To cast her odium by,
  Would shed--of ink--their latest drop
  T' inscribe her name on high.

  The land which he went out to sift,
  _No milk and honey floods_--
  _It takes not two her grapes to lift_--[5]
  But grapes festoon her woods.
  No want of food, for beast or man,
  There met his eager gaze;
  Find better bacon!--greens!--who can?
  Or finer fields of maize![6]

  Her Tuckahoes 'tis true, are slim,
  And of a bilious hue;
  But then he found the Anakim
  Beyond the mountains blue:
  Some men he found in safety chains--
  All crossed upon the breast--
  _They_ seem'd indeed to have no brains:
  But these all lands infest.

  The women look'd so passing fair,
  How shall their charms be told?
  By their Iachimo's[7] they were
  Like brilliants set in gold.
  Of such _pure water_ was each maid;
  So sparkling unto view--
  No wonder that it should be said
  They never could turn _blue_.

  No foxes here, peep'd windows through;
  But oft at early morn
  They're seen to brush the glittering dew,
  Pursued by hounds and horn:
  Her "_hounds are of the Spartan breed_"--
  "_So sanded and so flew'd_,"--
  All "_dewlap'd_" _they, and all_ "_crook-kneed_"--
  As Cadmus e'er halloo'd.

  In short, all zealots are run mad
  T' abuse this pleasing sod;
  Where people sleep as sound, egad,
  As in the land of Nod:
  What! colonize old coachman Dick!
  My foster brother Nat!
  My more than mother, when I'm sick!
  "_Come, Hal, no more of that._"

NUGATOR.

[Footnote 1: See Col. Benton's description of Virginia, done into
verse, beginning thus:

  "As Benton jogg'd along the road,
  'Twas in the Old Dominion,
  His thoughts were _bent-on_ finding food,
  For preconceiv'd opinion," &c.]

[Footnote 2: "The fox peeped out of the window, and the rank grass
waved around his head. Desolate is the dwelling of Moina--Silence is
in the house of her fathers."--_Ossian_.]

[Footnote 3:
  Man's strength is gone, his courage--zooks!
  And liberty's fine motions, &c.--_Benton_.]

[Footnote 4: And Moses sent them to spy out the land of Canaan.]

[Footnote 5: And they came unto the brook of Eshcol and cut down from
thence a branch with one cluster of grapes, and they bare it between
two upon a staff, ... and they told him, and said we came unto the
land whither thou sentest us and surely it floweth with milk and
honey, and this is the fruit of it.]

[Footnote 6:
  In old Virginia stint of food
  Diseases have engender'd--
  The mind is gone--to want of blood
  Good morals have surrender'd.

  Houses are fallen--fences down--
  And men are now much scarcer--
  Wild beasts in multitudes are known,
  That every day get fiercer.

  Flee gravel--grit--and heartless clay--
  Nor corn nor oats will grow there--
  To westward hie--away--away!
  No heartless Clay you'll know there.--_Benton_.]

[Footnote 7: The yellow iachimo.--_Shakspeare_. [Cymbeline.]]




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A LEAF FROM THE JOURNAL OF A YOUNG AMERICAN TOURIST IN ITALY.


The "sable goddess" had been seated for some time upon her "ebon
throne," when we passed through the ponderous gate and rattled along
the principal street of Genoa the Proud. It was a beautiful night. The
firmament was studded with sparkling gems, and the silver queen rode
steadily in the heavens, diffusing that pure and hallowed illumination
which prompted the ancients to worship her as the goddess of chastity,
and uninterrupted by any of those envious clouds whose intervention
between her face and the earth furnishes poets with so favorite a
figure to express the idea of virtue obscured and oppressed with
misfortune. It was not, however, a night in which "creation
sleeps,"--or, to use the pompous phrase of Racine, in which "tout
dort, et les vents et Neptune,"--for the wind was tempestuously high,
and the waves evinced all their usual restlessness at being roughly
visited by the subjects of old Æolus. As we whirled along, nothing
like an animated being was to be seen; not even a mouse was stirring;
and the rush and whistling of the wind through the street, seemed to
bring out the solemn stillness which otherwise prevailed, into the
strongest relief. How we strained our eyes to catch glimpses of the
glorious palaces which have so filled the trump of fame, and to which
the city is indebted for her magnificent title! And how impressive,
how imposing was their appearance in the partial development and
mellowed effect of their splendor, afforded by the beams of the moon!
The whole street was one consecutive, uninterrupted row of princely
buildings,--and exquisite indeed was the effect of light and shade
there exhibited--"leaving that lovely which was so, and making that
which was not."

We had given directions to be taken to the Hotel of the Cross of
Malta--_L'Albergo della Croce di Malta_, and when the carriage
stopped, we got out with the expectation of being at our destined
domicil. No sign, however, of a hotel was visible, and one of our
party began to make an accompaniment to the noise of the wind by
storming a little at the postillions for not obeying his orders,--when
the courier informed us that we were as near as the vehicle could get
to the house, as it was located in a street hard by, too narrow for
any but pedestrians. This position of one of the principal hotels of a
city denominated _la superba_, appeared singular enough, and with our
ideas of its superbness somewhat diminished, we followed the man a
short distance up a lane in which two persons could scarcely walk
abreast, until we reached the door of the establishment, whose aspect
was not particularly inviting, in despite of its towering altitude.
Our fears, however, as to the manner in which we might be
accommodated, or rather unaccommodated, were soon put to rest, when we
mounted the spacious stairway, and were ushered into a suite of
apartments which to the simplicity of an American, republican eye,
wore an air of absolute magnificence.

What a difference there was between the first aspect of things in this
our Hotel of the Cross of Malta, and that which is presented in the
places of entertainment for man and horse in the United States.
Instead of being ushered into a bar-room filled with the fumes of
whiskey and tobacco, crowded with boots to be blackened, decorated
with "tintanabulent appendages" innumerable, {84} and affording
palpable evidence in every way that the establishment is as much
entitled to the motto, "e pluribus unum," as the government of the
country itself, we were received at the portal by a single domestic
and conducted to our rooms without seeing or hearing the slightest
indication that any other "mortal mixture of earth's mould" besides
ourselves, was in the house. And then the difference in the appearance
of the apartments! The recollection of the closets or pigeon holes,
styled chambers by the courtesy of our mother tongue, so limited in
their dimensions, that like the cell of the poor Hibernian, in which
he "did nothing but walk up and down," you cannot "stand in them at
all," furnished with a bed, a wash-stand, two chairs, and a looking
glass, in which you may see one moiety of your face at a time, if you
exert yourself with sufficient industry, did not certainly excite any
very lively regrets, as we gazed on the spacious apartments glittering
with mirrors, the walls and ceiling frescoed and gilded _ad unguem_,
mantles supported by sculptured goddesses, chairs and lounges covered
with damask, and beds so richly curtained and attired, that it seemed
as if one could scarcely sleep in them, for thinking of the luxury in
which he was reposing. The hotel was formerly a palace, whose glories,
in part, it still retains. Yet, to tell the truth and shame a certain
nameless gentleman, before my head had been long laid upon the pillow,
I would willingly have exchanged the grandeur and the spaciousness of
the room in which I was courting the sweet restorer of tired nature,
for the plainness and contractedness of any of the closets to which I
have alluded. Verily I paid for my magnificence. Never did I suffer
from cold as on that night--the very exercise which I took in shaking
and shivering ought to have induced perspiration, but in spite of a
respectable quantity of bed-clothes, with the addition of all my
habiliments piled on top of them, I could not make myself warm enough
to allow the god of sleep to exercise his balmy influence upon my eyes
for an instant. Italian dwellings, unfortunately, as I thought then,
are constructed much more in reference to the weather of the torrid
than of the frigid zone. Every method is devised of letting in as much
of the coolness of the external atmosphere as possible, and of
adapting the materials of the apartments to the nullification of all
caloric; and the one in which I was quaking, was in no way an
exception to the prevalent custom. The marble floors and unpapered
walls, notwithstanding the warmth of the colors with which the latter
were filled, created a resistless disposition to chilliness in
themselves; the wind came pouring through several windows, reaching
almost from the ceilings to the floor, whose looseness provided it
with abundant facility for ingress; no fire-place offered its aid for
combating the power of the blusterer; and the bed in which I lay,
curled up into a heap, to prevent the "genial current" from entirely
freezing, was of amplitude commensurate with the dimensions of the
chamber. Napoleon, with his whole staff, might have been accommodated
in it, when he visited Genoa. Whenever I attempted to make a change of
position, I might as well have fallen into an ice-house. What joy when
the morning's light dawned upon my eyes! Never did I observe the maxim
with regard to early rising with so much good-will, as when I left the
inhospitable couch, determined not to entrust myself to it again. By
the time I had dressed I was as near congelation as I well could be;
the only thing that kept my blood in circulation was the prospect of
an exhilirating fire in the sitting-room, and there I steered with all
possible speed; but alas, for human expectations! On opening the door
my optics were immediately filled with smoke, and as they are not of
that "nice" character which are requisite "to see what is not to be
seen," I could discern nothing like a blaze. The badly constructed
hearth manifested the most invincible repugnance to permit the wood to
ignite, but kindly enabled us to obtain all the warmth we could from
fumigation. I confess I became somewhat dispirited. One of my motives
in coming to Italy was to escape the cold of the winter at home, and
here on my very entrance into its mild and genial atmosphere, as it is
always called, had I suffered more chattering of the teeth than I ever
did before for the same length of time. This may be an escape thought
I, but if it is, it is one amazingly like that of Lieutenant
O'Shangnessy, who _escaped_ from the field of battle into the ranks of
the enemy.

W.




NEW ENGLAND.

The place from which the following letter is indited, can be forgotten
by no one that has ever seen it. A fine view of _Northampton_ may be
had from the top of the _Mansion House_, where the visiter commonly
abides; but whoever ascends _Mount Holyoke_, is rewarded for his
pains, with a prospect of surpassing beauty. In _Virginia_, we may
have from our summits, a view of mountains on the one hand, and on the
other a country comparatively level, with occasional spots of
cultivation; but there is seldom any greater variety. Nothing else is
afforded by the _Peaks of Otter_. _Mount Holyoke_, furnishes a
combination of beauties. The spectator beholds mountains and lowland;
a country wild and rugged in one direction and in the highest state of
cultivation in another. He has before him the lovely village of
_Northampton_, with others not far distant. And the _Connecticut_, is
seen winding its way, amongst its fertile meadows, in so circuitous
and yet so regular a manner, as to make the country on its banks
resemble a beautiful parterre. The water prospect gives to the scene
its chief source of interest. _Mount Holyoke_, rises not so high as
_Catskill_; nor is the _Connecticut_ so distant from it, as the
_Hudson_ from the latter. And it is owing to this, that the water
view, is finer from its summit, than from the _Pine Orchard_. The
distance is sufficient to "lend enchantment to the view"--not so great
as to prevent a spectator from seeing any beautiful object that a
nearer view would embrace, with all the distinctness that is
desirable. A Virginian, who has high authority for supposing that a
visit to _Harper's Ferry_ is worth a trip across the Atlantic, may ask
if _Mount Holyoke_ surpasses this famous _Virginia_ scene. State pride
must yield to candor, and acknowledge that it does. The prospect from
what is called the _Eagle Rock_, two miles distant from Harper's Ferry
on the Loudoun side, is certainly very fine, and calculated to remove
in some degree that disappointment, which one who has read Mr.
_Jefferson's_ description is apt to feel, when the scene from the
_Jefferson Rock_ is first beheld by him. But the view of the streams
at Harper's Ferry, beheld from any point, cannot compare in beauty
with the Connecticut at Northampton. And, in other respects, Harper's
Ferry must {85} yield to Mount Holyoke. It will not do to put the
workshops of the former against the beautiful villages seen from the
latter. Harper's Ferry cannot in any way obtain pre-eminence, until
the spectator becomes conscious of the justness of _Mr. Jefferson's_
opinion as to the mode in which the water first passed through the
Blue Ridge. And, to be able to acknowledge the correctness of that
opinion, must be a work of some difficulty after looking at the
_Potomac_ and _Shenandoah_, and seeing how small a power is produced
by the two streams combined.

The author of the letter, in speaking of the ladies of _New England_,
repudiates what he terms a leading argument for slavery. The
individual who is led by a perusal of the letter to make the following
remarks, is certainly not an advocate of slavery; but his own
observation, has brought him to some conclusions, from which he
inclines to think, the intelligent gentleman by whom that letter was
written, will scarcely dissent. Whoever has travelled in a stage or
steamboat in Virginia, and travelled also in stages and steamboats in
the non-slave-holding states, must have perceived that more deference
and respect are shown towards female travellers with us, than in the
northern and eastern states. In a southern steamboat, men will not be
seen scrambling for seats at table, before the ladies are provided
with places; and, in a southern stage, a female traveller will always
be offered that seat which it is supposed she would prefer. If more
consideration be shown for female travellers, in the slave-holding
than in the non-slave-holding states,--the next inquiry is, whether
slavery be the cause of the difference. It may be admitted, that in
the southern states, the men who travel are for the most part
gentlemen; while to the north, a large proportion of those who are
perpetually moving about, are persons who have never been accustomed
to any good society, and have very little idea of good breeding.
Again--it may be admitted, that our steamboats are generally less
crowded, and there is consequently less inducement to be guilty of
that indelicacy, which is so often seen in a northern boat. Do these
facts explain the cause of the difference above alluded to? They do
not. For we find to the south, that a theatre, or a place for the
delivery of a public speech, may be filled by citizens, without any
distinction of persons; and yet respectable females coming to a place
thus crowded, would be treated with more consideration than would be
shown towards them at the north under similar circumstances. There
must be some other cause for the difference; and slavery is in a great
degree that cause. To the north, in consequence of the absence of
slavery, many females, even in respected ranks of life, perform duties
which here would devolve upon our slaves. Nor do the duties which they
perform consist merely of unseen employments within doors. A very
large proportion of the sex engage in the business of buying and
selling, and travel about unattended. Thus embarking in what with us
would be regarded as the proper offices of men, the consequence is
that they are treated with not more respect than is shown towards men.
This remark is applicable, as before stated, to a large proportion--to
so large a proportion, that the general rule of deference towards the
sex, which prevails to the south--can scarcely be said to prevail, in
the northern states; but those by whom, and to whom that deference is
there shown, are rather to be regarded as exceptions. A gentleman to
the north, will treat one whom he _knows_ to be a lady, with courtesy
and respect. To the south, this previous information, is not so
indispensable. We act upon a general presumption in favor of the sex.
A female with us, is treated with courtesy and respect, unless
something be known as to her character, or be apparent in her conduct,
which justifies the conclusion that she is not entitled to be so
treated.

C.


  From the Fredericksburg Arena.

LETTERS FROM NEW ENGLAND.--NO. 1.

BY A VIRGINIAN.


_Northampton, Mass. July 24, 1834._

And you will positively "excommunicate" me if I do not send you "some
_first impressions_" of Yankee-land? Have at you then; though, really,
my time has been so filled with seeing and hearing, that hardly a
scrap remains to write down a hundredth part of the curious or
striking things that meet my eyes and ears.

Unusual opportunity has been afforded me for seeing various lights and
shades of Yankee character. In stage and steamboat, in jersey wagon
and on foot, on highways and by-ways, in farm houses and city palaces,
I have seen and chatted with all sorts of people, from the ---- of the
---- down to the tavern porter and the country laborer. Five days I
have spent in a pedestrian stroll, calling often at the country houses
to get a draught of water, rest myself, and talk with the farmer or
his wife. These gossipings, you may well suppose commonly produced
amusement and frequently solid information, at least solid materials
for reflection; and, considering that it is only a little more than
three weeks since my entry into New England, methinks I have a pretty
exact measure of Jonathan's foot. Yet for all this preface, do not
expect any very astounding revelations. From the thousand incidents
that, unitedly, make my tour extremely interesting to myself, it is
not certain that any one, or any dozen can be selected, which will
materially interest another person.

In the _visible_ face of Massachusetts and Connecticut, the features
which, by their novelty or beauty, most strike a Virginian eye, are
the small farms, usually of from fifty to two hundred acres; the small
fields in proportion, there being sometimes fifteen or twenty in one
farm; the stone fences, rendered necessary and numerous in many places
by scarcity of timber, and by the troublesome superabundance of stone;
the universality of _hay_ crops, on hills as well as in meadows; the
almost entire absence of wheat, (the only grains generally cultivated
being corn, rye and oats,) the clustering of habitations together in
villages, instead of having them dispersed at intervals of a mile over
the country; the white painted village churches, all with stately
spires, visible for miles around, having gilt vanes, and clocks of
hands so large and stroke so loud, that I have repeatedly seen and
heard the hour half a mile off.--The country is more hilly, or
_rolling_, as our farmers would say, than the lower half of Virginia;
and the hills have, generally, a smaller base and a more gracefully
swelling, dome-like top, than our hills. These rotundities, with their
concomitant hollows, traversed by numberless stone fences, with here
and there patches of woodland and detached white farm houses, half
imbosomed in elms and fruit trees; while, perhaps, two {86} or three
villages, with steeples piercing the sky, are at once within the view,
exhibit everywhere landscapes of a beauty unknown to eastern, or
indeed, to western Virginia. Here is not a hundredth part of the
appearance of abject, squalid poverty, that our state presents. I have
not seen a log house in New England; and nine-tenths of the ordinary
farm houses are painted. Brick and stone buildings are not common,
except in the cities. This village, the most lovely to the eye in all
the north, and Worcester, (take care to call it _Wooster_) having
respectively, 3000 and 4 or 5000 inhabitants, contain, both together,
hardly more than one hundred and fifty brick and stone houses.

But the _morale_ of New England, the character of her people, their
tone of thought and feeling upon some important subjects, their social
and political institutions, regulations, and usages, have interested
me far more than her physical lineaments.

Would that time and space were mine to explain the road, pauper, and
school systems of Massachusetts and Connecticut. (They and Rhode
Island are the only states of New England which I have visited.) But
that would require too much detail. Their felicitous organization may
be inferred from their effects.

The common roads are all, or nearly all, _ridged up_, turnpike
fashion, and fully as good as our turnpikes. I do not mean such as a
certain one not far from ----, which the traveller knows to be a
turnpike only by the tolls and the jolts, but those in the valley, and
near Richmond.

There is probably not a beggar by trade (except solicitors for pious
charities and subscriptions) in New England. The needy are sent to a
poor house, having a farm attached to it, on which they work for the
parish, or are let to the lowest bidder for their maintenance, as the
people of each township choose. In different townships (or _towns_, as
the provincial dialect hath it,) the number of paupers greatly varies.
I have been told of five, ten, twenty, and even thirty, or more, upon
the list; and, as there are many "towns" in a county, perhaps the
number of such pensioners here, equals ours. But mark! the expense
here is next to nothing--sometimes absolutely nothing: nay, some
"towns" actually derive a revenue from the labors of their parish
poor. Salem has thus gained several thousand dollars in a year. All
who are able render a fair equivalent, sometimes more, for the relief
they receive.

Every person in this state, above four years of age, is entitled to
instruction, at the charge of the "town," in the useful common
branches of knowledge; and a man or woman who cannot read, is here a
prodigy.--Nine-tenths, at least, of the whole population take, or read
newspapers. (In Virginia not more than half the white population does
so.) Here seems to be not a fourth of the tippling that we have;
gambling is even far more rare: there is not a race course in New
England; and, considering the density of the population, (eighty to
the square mile, ours is only nineteen,) I do not believe there is a
fourth so much vice and crime as with us. In moral science, and not
least in that branch of it which investigates the texture of a
people's character, it is hard to ascertain causes and effects with
precision.--What was _effect_, by a sort of reaction frequently
becomes _cause_; they give each other reciprocal impulses, like the
mutual aid of parent and offspring; sometimes various causes mingle
their operations, in unseen, perhaps invisible degrees,--and there is
no laboratory, no apparatus for resolving the inscrutable compound
into its elements. The moral chemist should, therefore, diffidently
ascribe the order, industry, sobriety, thriftiness, and intelligence,
which characterise these people, to any one cause, or to any set of
causes. But general consent, and the reason of the case, leave little
doubt that much, if not most of these virtues, must be attributed to
the system of COMMON SCHOOLS. Yet it may be questioned if, in
producing social good, the school system has not in these states a
_co-efficient_, of equal or superior influence. The road and poor
systems--nay, the school system itself, it seems to me, owe nearly all
their virtues to the TOWNSHIP SYSTEM.

Each county is subdivided into districts, of no uniform shape or size,
though usually four, five, or six miles long and broad. By an
impropriety, too fast rooted ever to be eradicated, these are called
_towns_; which word is never understood here in its English sense, as
opposed to _country_, and meaning an assemblage of houses, but always
as signifying one of the _districts_ I have mentioned. Protesting
against its lawfulness, I shall yet use it now in the New England
sense. Each town is a sort of republic. Its people, in full town
meeting, elect a representative, or representatives, in the
legislature, _selectmen_, (nearly equivalent to common-council-men)
assessor, and collector; decide how the poor shall be kept, schools
organized, or roads altered or repaired, and what amount shall be
raised by taxes for these and other purposes. A town meeting is held
statedly, in the spring, for elections; and two or three others,
whenever ten voters request it of the selectmen, in writing. At
deliberative meetings, a chairman (here called "Moderator,") is chosen
by the assembly; great decorum prevails, and earnest debates arise.
The town, as a corporate person, is liable for any damage sustained
through neglect to keep a road in repair; and damages have frequently
been recovered. It is obliged by law, to support schools enough to
educate all its children in the manner prescribed. It is bound to
maintain its own poor. And the near interest, the direct agency which
every citizen has in the performance of these duties, cause them to be
attended to with an exactness and an efficacy which a government less
_local_, never would attain. This is the very system which it was the
leading wish of Mr. Jefferson's life to see established in
Virginia.[1] No one can see its admirable effects without owning that
wish to have been one of the wisest which his wise and patriotic mind
ever cherished. Such an organization is not only a nursery of
statesmen,--it diffuses among the multitude habits of reflection and
of action about public affairs,--makes them feel often and sensibly,
the dignity of self-government,--and fits them better and better for
the exalted task. It is, morally, what a _well disciplined_ militia
would be physically. Not the wretched militia that, by our own
disgraceful neglect, has now become our own scorn, but that which our
forefathers recommended to us as a main "bulwark of our liberties,"
and "the best defence of a free state."

[Footnote 1: See his letters to Kercheval, in 1816.]

_All the direct taxes in this state are laid by the towns._ The state
government is maintained entirely by the {87} interest on some
accumulated funds, and by a tax of half of one per cent. on the
capital of the state banks. By the by, there are at least one hundred
of these in Massachusetts, having a capital altogether, as is
computed, of about thirty millions! And this for a state of 7,800
square miles, and 640,000 people. Verily "_incedit per ignes
suppositos cineri doloso:_" or, in English, "she _sits_ upon a mine of
gunpowder." Perhaps sailing through the air in a car buoyed by
bubbles, might be as apt an illustration.

The _common_ schools (so those supported by taxation are called) are
not the only ones, for even elementary instruction. Many wealthy
persons, unfortunately for the public weal, prefer sending their
children to teachers of their own employing: and thus numerous private
schools of various grades, and some of these of great merit, are
planted over the state. _Unfortunately_ I say, because such persons
are often those whose _interested_ countenance and supervision are
most essential to the good management of the _common_ schools,--which,
deprived of them, lose half their usefulness. Female education is well
attended to. Good schools for females, (reputedly so, I have not
entered one of them) seem much more numerous than with us, allowing
duly for population. And a judgment of the trees by their fruits,
would confirm that belief; for in my casual and diversified
intercourse, I have met, I think, with a larger proportion of well
taught women than would occur in a similar range through our own
society. Yet such a comparison is very fallacious, and perhaps not
worth making. Of one thing I am satisfied, by personal observation;
that the additional work rendered necessary to ladies in New England,
by the imperfect and unservant-like "help" which they hire, is not at
all incompatible with refined delicacy of mind, manners, and person.
That it _is_ so, however, is a leading argument with some of our
_philosophers_ for slavery. If memory served me, I would quote for
their benefit, a caustic passage from the "Three Wise Men of Gotham,"
to the effect that "a _genuine philosopher_ is never at a loss for
_facts_ to support any theory, however absurd or ridiculous. Having
constructed _that_ according to the most approved principles, and upon
the most ingenious plan, he goes to work, and either _makes_ all the
facts needful to uphold it, or distorts actual facts to suit his
purpose."

It has been my good fortune to meet with some admirable female minds
in New England. Since the spells of romance were shaken from me, I
have never hoped to see more happily exemplified, that trait of a
capital heroine of our favorite Miss Edgeworth: "you could discover
that the stream of literature had passed over her mind, only by the
verdure and fertility you saw there." (I mar the quotation, doubtless,
but that is its substance.) No pedantic harping upon books, and
authors, and sciences; some cross-examination would be requisite, to
find out that she knew their names. But let a subject be tabled,
calling for ideas, or for exertions of intellect, to which a
conversancy with books, authors and sciences was indispensable--and
you might see that she knew them well. Then too she knew much that
they--but for fear you should think I am about to fall in love, (which
however is impossible,) I will suppress the rest of my encomium.

_Abolition_, if not dead here, is in a state too desperately feeble to
give us an hour's uneasiness. Of the many intelligent men with whom I
have conversed on this subject in Massachusetts, Rhode Island and
Connecticut, there is but a single one who does not reprobate the
views of Messrs. Tappan, Cox, Garrison and Co. as suggestions of the
wildest, most pernicious fanaticism. Tappan has two brothers in
Boston, both ardent colonizationists, and decidedly opposed to his mad
notions. Not only do the persons I have talked with, themselves
reprobate interference with that painfully delicate and peculiar
concern of the south: they testify to the almost entire unanimity of
their acquaintance, in the same sentiment. And such multiplied and
decisive proofs have I, of the sound state of the public mind on that
subject, as leave me not a doubt, that nine-tenths of the votes, and
ninety-nine hundredths of the intellect of the country, are for
_letting us wholly alone_. You have little idea of the contempt in
which Garrison, and his will-o'-the-wisp, the _Liberator_, are held
here. I have heard him spoken of as a "miserable fanatic," and "a
contemptible poor creature," in companies so numerous and mixed, as to
demonstrate--none gainsaying it--that the speakers but expressed the
public thought. "There is in this, as in other communities," said a
Cambridge Professor to me, "always afloat a certain quantity of moral
_virus_, or noxious _gas_, ever and anon imbodying itself in some such
form as this, of abolitionism. Not long ago, it was anti-masonry. In
two years, abolitionism will be as prostrate as anti-masonry is now.
It may, meanwhile, spread fast and boldly: it may create disturbances
and alarms: it may prevail so far, in some districts, as to have
representatives in Congress, who will there bring forward some scheme
of emancipation: but triumph finally, or even extensively, in the
north, _it never can_." And all that I saw, or heard, convinced me
that Mr. G---- was not widely mistaken.

At Worcester, last year, an apostle of abolition from "some where away
down east," delivered a lecture, in the Baptist Church, against
slavery; depicting its wrongs and evils, and insisting upon its
extirpation. He was heard patiently; but when he closed, the pastor of
the church arose, and, to the satisfaction of a numerous audience,
completely answered every argument; vindicated the southern
slaveholders from all wilful injustice in being such; shewed the
impracticability of any but the most cautiously gradual emancipation,
and the madness of attempting even that, by officious intermeddling
from the non-slaveholding states. Our apostle wanted to lecture again
the next day; but the excitement against his doctrine had grown so
strong, that he was refused a further hearing, and admonished, by some
of the leading citizens, that if he remained longer, he was in danger
of tar and feathers. Among the warmest of his reprobators, were the
late and the present governors; both residing there. He wisely
decamped; and has had no successor in Worcester. The manner in which
the New York riots have been spoken of in New England, strikingly
shews the bad odor of abolition here. Instead of the leaning towards
that side, which I feared would result from sympathy and indignation
at its being made the object of a mob's fury, the abolitionists seem
to be regarded by the majority as most chargeable themselves, with all
the mischief that has been done. It is the common sentiment, that they
deserved the treatment they received; and the censure thrown upon the
mob is very _gentle roaring_ indeed. I find almost {88} every New
Englander readily assenting to the positions,--That two millions of
slaves could never be turned loose amongst us and live, while _we_
lived: that the existence of the two _castes_ in the same country, in
a state of freedom and equality, is morally impossible: that
emancipation, without removal, therefore, is utterly chimerical: that,
unjustifiable as slavery is in the abstract, rights of property in
slaves have been acquired, which, sanctioned as they are by the
constitution, and by a claim prior and paramount to the constitution,
cannot be violated without an outrage, destructive at once of our
social compact: that, let slavery be ever so wrong, abolition ever so
just and easy, it is a matter which concerns _us alone_; and as to
which, we are so sensitively jealous of extraneous interposition, that
every agitation of the subject in other states is calculated to weaken
our attachment to them, and bind faster the chains of slavery.

In a word, the south may be assured, that on this point, New England
is sound: at least the three states which I have visited. Colonization
is popular here--with those, I mean, who know or reflect at all about
it. The majority (like the majority with us,) are without either
knowledge or thought on the subject. The abolitionists find fault with
colonization, because, say they, its aim is to postpone or prevent
emancipation. Our southern _illuminati_ oppose it, on the ground that
it _favors_ emancipation! Do not these inconsistent objections
neutralize each other, like opposite quantities in Algebra, or
opposite simples in Chemistry?




N. P. WILLIS.

We extract the subjoined article from the _Norfolk Beacon_, believing
that it will be both new and interesting to most of our readers. That
paper has recently passed into the hands of Mr. Hugh Blair Grigsby, a
gentleman of fine education and literary taste; and as he has declared
himself a neutral in politics, we have a right to expect that the
Beacon will be frequently rich in other matter interesting to the
general reader. The eulogy upon Willis, or rather his vindication from
those ill natured aspersions, which are always cast upon aspiring
genius,--is honorable to the feelings of early friendship which
dictated it. We have suppressed one or two passages near the
commencement of the article, having reason to believe that Mr. Grigsby
would not have written them if the circumstance to which he alludes
had been better understood. That Willis is a man of genius and an
admirable writer both in prose and verse, will not be questioned we
think by a large majority of those who are at all familiar with his
productions. There are some it is true, who affect a sneer at his
pretensions,--and there are others doubtless, who without affectation,
do not admire him. The world is infinitely diversified; and there is
nothing in which diversity is more strongly exemplified, than in
matters of taste. Shakspeare, Milton, Pope, Byron,--nay, almost all
the illustrious votaries of the NINE, have occasionally had their
revilers,--and it would perhaps be rather an unfavorable indication
for any writer, that his works had never been censured or criticised.
The unfavorable opinions formed of Willis's reputation, as deduced
from his habitual idleness at college--his repugnance to mathematical
studies--or his eccentricities either in dress or behaviour--seem to
us to rest upon very unphilosophical grounds. What if the merits of
the immortal bard of Avon, were to be tested by his diligence in the
early acquisition of knowledge! Even Lord Byron was not remarkable
either for industry or attainments whilst at school. As to the
mathematics,--we dare say that the more bigoted disciples of Euclid
and Hutton, would deem it evidence of bad taste, not to be inspired by
the beauties and mysteries of the triangle and cone;--but what would
they think of the learned and eloquent Gibbon, of whom it is said that
so great was his disgust or inaptitude for their favorite science,
that he could scarcely be brought to comprehend or demonstrate the
three first propositions in Euclid. The truth is, there is an ethereal
quality in genius, which disdains to be trammelled by the rules and
systems of human invention. That it is so, is perhaps
unfortunate,--yet the fact itself cannot be controverted. We commend
Mr. Grigsby's article to our readers, not only because it is well
written, but because also it is the testimony of a fellow student in
favor of a writer who, whatever be his merits or demerits, has
acquired acknowledged distinction in the literary world.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Few men of his age have passed through so fiery an ordeal, and come
out of the flame with greater purity, than N. P. WILLIS. It is indeed
without a parallel in literature, that a young man of unblemished
virtue, of accomplished genius, and of a good heart, should be sought
out and hunted down with such an implacable spirit of vengeance.

       *       *       *       *       *

"To those who knew Willis in his early days, it was evident that he
would become, what Edmund Burke said of Townshend, 'a first rate
figure in the country.' The first notice that the public had of his
budding genius was a little poem in six verses, the two first lines of
the first verse being

  The leaf floats by upon the stream
    Unheeded in its silent way.

We cannot recal the whole stanza; but our fair readers may remember
that their albums contained some time since, a beautiful vignette
representing a lady resting in her bower listening to the notes of a
pretty songster perched above her. This engraving was taken from these
lines in this poem:

  The bird that sings in lady's bower,
    To-morrow will she think of him?

"This little poem gained the prize awarded by the Mirror, but what the
prize was, we really forget. We have not looked over this poem since
the morning we first read it, near ten years since; and, with a little
effort, we think we could recal it. It was regarded at the time as a
very pretty production.

"Some of our readers, who are not wont to frown at the lighter efforts
of literature, may remember some poems under the signature of Roy,
which were republished in every paper in the United States, and
occasionally, it is said, in the British periodicals. Those were from
the pen of Willis.

"Every one who has a soul for poetry has read the scripture sketches.
Hagar--Absalom--the sacrifice of Abraham--Zepthah's Daughter, are all
the productions of a rich imagination. They have their faults, we
allow, and so has another piece which he has called 'better moments,'
and so with many others; but we will {89} take either and all of
these, and will plead the splendor of his genius before any tribunal
of taste under heaven. Willis's poems have passed through several
editions. He also pronounced a fine poem before Brown University. But
the fame of Willis, however proudly it may rest on his poetry, is
still more widely diffused by his prose.

"It was a cold morning in the winter of 1824-5, before sunrise, in a
division room of Yale College, that Willis gave the first sample of
that mellifluous prose which has since attracted such general
admiration. He was then commencing his sophomore year; and the
student, who had tried a freshman hand on the translations from the
classics, was now called to essay an original composition. We were
class-mates, but were not in the same division. It was not our good
fortune, therefore, to hear his first composition; but we never can
forget the merriment which it produced in college. If we mistake not,
the theme of his first essay was the dilemma of an old man who had
lost his wife; and was in sad perplexity about the plant which he
ought to place at the head of her grave. One suggested that an oak
sapling was best; but the old man contended that it would not in its
infancy protect the grave from the sun and rain; and when it grew up,
it would produce no good fruit, and would, moreover, with its
spreading branches, _rot the shingles of his house_. Plant after
plant, and tree after tree, were mentioned, the merits of which Willis
scanned with great felicity of thought and language. At last, after a
due reflection on the useful and the becoming, the old man resolved to
plant a _cabbage_ on the grave of his wife. The cold blooded critic,
who delights to fasten his fangs on rising merit, may pronounce the
theme a very unfit subject for merriment; but fellows of eighteen are
no philosophers; and we doubt whether any composition read within the
walls of old Yale, ever produced such a happy effect as the one we
have just noticed.

"It has been urged against Willis that he spent his time idly at
College, and was totally unversed in those studies which are supposed
to test with the greatest severity the powers of the understanding. If
the meaning of all this be that he is not a profound mathematician, we
readily admit the charge; and declare that we would confide as little
in his judgment, as we would in that of Moore, Rogers or Campbell, in
case either or all united should attempt a new edition of the
Principia, or a full translation of La Place--but as we never heard of
any such intention, we must in candor believe that the objection has
some other meaning. If it were to appear, however, that he is not well
versed in mathematics, we are willing to assign him any punishment
which any one will declare that a boy of seventeen, who has failed to
plunge head and ears into the mathematics, ought to receive.

"At the same time we are free to declare that the system of teaching
pursued at Yale College, is the most defective the wit of man ever
devised. We mean, of course, the tutorial system. A few raw lads, who
have passed through the collegiate year, and rusticated for a
twelvemonth afterward, are called to preside in the division rooms,
and to perform all the most important duties of education. These
gentlemen, if they went forthwith to supply their great and glaring
defects, and to qualify themselves to perform their delicate and
honorable duties with credit to themselves and honor to the
university, would command our respect; but no sooner do they
accumulate a sum of money, than they bid farewell to the cause of
education. And herein rests our chief objection; which is not that the
tutors are _young_ but that they are utterly insensible to the dignity
and importance of their office, which we deem the most honorable on
earth; and merely consider teaching as the drudgery to which they must
submit, to obtain money enough for their advancement in their various
modes of life. In this aspect the whole system is faulty, and requires
thorough amendment. We said that we did not object to the youth of the
tutors--we rather deem it an advantage, when teaching is to be the
great object and end of pursuit. We think that superannuated generals
and professors rank in one and the same degree. The mind, after a
certain time, clings to its ancient convictions, and shrinks from the
field of experiment. And as the splendid example of Napoleon has
opened the eyes of the world on the subject of old generals; so ought
the example of Bichat, the younger Gregory and the lamented Fisher, to
produce a similar result on the subject of old professors. The
spring-time of life is illumined by a warmer sun than ever lights up
the breast of the old man. Youth is the time of pure aspirations, of
lofty daring and successful achievement. The heart yet untouched with
the sickening lusts and cankering cares of the world; alive to the
finest impulses of our nature, and glowing with the desire of
immortality, is a noble thing; and we verily believe that such a heart
is rarely to be found unless in the bosom of youth.

"We have blamed freely the tutorial system of Yale College; but we
have given the dark side only. There are advantages accruing from the
system; but they are, in our opinion, utterly inadequate to
counterbalance its great and ruinous defects.

"While however, we freely denounce the tutorial system of Yale
College, we would not be unjust to the able men who preside in the
institution. For Doctor Day, Mr. Kingsley, Mr. Goodrich and Mr.
Olmstead, we entertain the highest respect; and believe them to be
ripe scholars; but we know the influence of ancient habit, and that
miserable system is so mixed up with the entire machinery of the
institution, that we have barely a hope of seeing it amended by the
present administration. Could Willis have found such a tutor as Mr.
Jefferson has represented Mr. Small to have been--one whose learning
inspired respect, and whose parental kindness melted the heart of the
obdurate, and won back the wayward--we should not have heard this
grave charge against him; as it was, while his classmates were
calculating eclipses, moral and mathematical, he passed with ease from
beside them; and assumed an honorable station in the literature of his
country.

"But to Mr. Willis as a writer of prose. And one great source of
wonder with us is his uncommon acquaintance with the vocabulary of the
language. He moves over the spacious field with the ease and grace of
the most accomplished scholar. And then his sentences flow so sweetly
on, that you liken them to some limpid rivulet from the hill of the
muses flowing around and about the rich landscape before you, and if
for a moment concealed from the eye, it is only to burst upon you in
all its fullness and beauty. So much for the style of Willis, in its
mechanical sense. But there is something beyond this; and which is far
more important. It is the life of style. And here is the particular
forte of Willis. {90} He reverses the rule of the logician; and
instead of advancing from general to particular, he paints the species
with the minutest care. The letter which we gave yesterday is a happy
specimen of the philosophy of his style. His theme is a voyage on the
Hudson in the summer season, when all are thronging northward, and to
this miscellaneous multitude he seeks to introduce us. He selects a
few individuals, and finishes their portraits with the greatest care
and the most consummate skill. But first observe the connection of the
trip. Whoever has travelled the Hudson in the summer season, will at
once recognize the group of passengers who have arrived '_just_ thirty
seconds too late;' and the striking description of a steamboat 'built
for smooth water, long, shallow and graceful, of the exquisite
proportions of a pleasure yacht; and painted as brilliantly and
fantastically as an Indian shell.' Then we have the Kentuckian to the
life, 'sitting on three chairs;' and the Indian, who does not deign to
show the slightest curiosity, unless in eyeing the broad chest and
sinewy form of the Kentuckian--detecting with characteristic skill the
hardy dweller of Kentucky in the unnatural disguise of ruffled shirt
and fine broadcloth coat 'cut by a Mississippi tailor'--and the
Alabamian, whom the common eye would confound with the Kentuckian, and
who is a different species altogether; and next, the southern beauty
from the interior of Alabama, 'dressed in singularly bad taste;'
graceful as a fawn, but untutored in the mysteries of the dance. In
fine, the whole scene is painted before us almost with the
distinctness of actual life. We pass over the great excellence of this
sketch in other respects; but we are sure that he who reads the letter
will long retain its striking passages in his memory.

"It will be asked by that race of cynics who set a wonderful value on
the fabrics of their own manufacture, but show no admiration of the
noble structures reared by the genius of others,--it will be asked by
such, what good can such productions accomplish in the business of
life? While we heartily repeat the sentiment first uttered by Dr.
Johnson, and afterwards endorsed by Sir Walter Scott, that we hate a
_cui bono_ man, we will enter the lists in the cause, and declare that
they produce a right and proper effect on the general mind. Now we
have shown that the leading excellence of the writings of Willis
consisted in minute and exceedingly graphic sketches of the natural
world in all its varied aspect of mountain, plain, and river, and that
still more varied chart of instruction--Man. His pages then reflect
like some beautiful stream, with lights and shades, all the rich and
stirring variety of nature. And who will deny that nature hath not a
voice and eloquence that rightly speak to the bosoms of men? And
herein resteth the power of Willis.

"It may with propriety be inquired, if Willis could not select a more
extended field of fame? We believe that he might select a theme of
higher bearing, and that he is now preparing the path before him. His
present sketches are so many notes from which, in riper years, he will
strike a nobler harmony. We know that he has a fine ambition; an
ambition that looks far beyond the pages of the New Monthly, or the
Mirror,--and which stirreth within him a desire of a great and proper
poem, which 'men will not willingly let die,' and which will weave his
humble name with the destinies of his country."




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

WASHINGTON AND NAPOLEON.

THE CONTRAST.

----"Urged by a curiosity common to all strangers, Captain Lockerby
visited the tomb of Bonaparte. The spot where the tomb stands is only
accessible by ticket. It was railed round with green palms, and a
sentinel walked round it night and day to prevent approach within the
railing."----


  Behold what a contrast is here!
  Two heroes gone down to decay--
  The grave of the one, how deserted and drear!
  While the other is deck'd in its marble array
  And a sentinel guards it by night and by day.

  Oh, what was the life of the first,
  That in death they have left him thus lone?--
  Was the crown of the Tyrant his thirst?
  And mounting in blood on the steps of a throne--
  Had he murdered his thousands to aggrandize one?

  Of grandeur of soul was there none
  In that bosom, transform'd to the clod;
  The end of its government done,
  To abandon the lictor, the axe, and the rod,
  When it look'd on its nothingness--thought of its God?

  But see what a far different scene!
  The tomb of the valiant and wise!
  Encompass'd secure by its paling of green,
  And gleaming in white, as those tropical skies
  Beam down on the waste where St. Helena lies.

  Lo! numbers resort to that spot,
  And beauty bows too at the shrine--
  Oh virtue! how envied thy lot!
  The grave cannot darken thy splendor divine
  Nor sully thy brightness, but adds to its shine.

  Yet CHRISTIAN!--come nearer and read,
  For conjecture hath led us astray--
  Hast thou heard of one, false to his creed?
  Of a blood loving tyrant--ferocious--whose sway
  Was supported by rapine, while earth was his prey?

  'Tis to him that these honors are paid,
  And his dust must be guarded--from whom?
  Are the terrified nations afraid
  Lest he yet should arise from the curse of his doom,
  And bursting its cerements, escape from the tomb?

  Ah no! he lies powerless now!
  But thousands would bear him afar:
  To this Juggernaut, long did they bow,
  And were abjectly crush'd by the wheels of his car,
  As triumphant he rode through the red fields of war.

  Is virtue then, nought but a name?
  Let us turn to the spot we have passed--
  If guilt can exult in its shame,
  The good in his grave may be silently cast--
  Abandoned--unnoticed--the scene but a waste!

  Yes, yes, thou art dumb with amaze--
  'Tis WASHINGTON slumbers below--
  Was language too weak for HIS praise?--
  Was the grief so profound, that it baffled all show,
  Or the feeling too deep for the utt'rance of wo?

  Let us hope that it was--let us trust
  That we honor the Friend of Mankind--
  That the Corsican despot in dust,
  His merited meed of abhorrence shall find
  In the progress of truth and the march of the mind.


{91}


MINERAL WEALTH OF VIRGINIA.

The following interesting communication from Peter A. Browne, Esq. of
Philadelphia, was submitted last winter, by the Governor of Virginia,
to the General Assembly. It was printed with the documents
accompanying the annual message, and bound up with the legislative
journals, but has had no other publicity. It is therefore _new_ to
nineteen-twentieths, if not to ALL of our readers. We confess we feel
somewhat mortified, that the valuable hints and suggestions thrown out
by an intelligent and scientific stranger, should have failed to
attract the attention of our public functionaries. We are not without
hope, however, that a subject of such vital importance as a geological
survey of the state, will claim the earnest and speedy consideration
of the people, as well as their representatives. It is one of those
subjects upon which all parties, however divided by sectional
jealousies or other adverse views, may meet on common ground, and
unite in harmonious action. There is no portion of the commonwealth
which is not deeply interested in the development of its mineral
wealth--none which ought not to lend its hearty sanction to a
scientific survey of the country by a skilful geologist. To say
nothing of the noble example of other states--among them some of our
youngest sisters--our interests are too deeply involved in the
proposed undertaking, longer to defer it. Agriculture,--commerce,--the
arts,--are alike concerned in the successful prosecution of a work
which promises to each such essential benefits. The people of Virginia
have been too long ignorant and unmindful of their own vast resources.
Who would have dreamed a few years since, that a vein of precious
gold, which, for two centuries, had escaped observation, actually
enriched our soil? Who now can form an adequate conception of the
various hidden treasures which science and enterprise may bring to
light. Can the paltry consideration of a few thousand dollars expense,
outweigh the magnificent advantages which are likely to result? Shall
the present generation fold its arms in supineness, and leave every
thing to be done by posterity? We earnestly exhort our legislators to
take the subject into serious consideration.

The writer of the subjoined communication will be pleased to learn
that the mineral springs of the state, (which might in themselves be
made a source of boundless wealth,) have been subjected to careful
analysis during the past summer, by an able chemical professor in one
of our colleges. It is understood that the results of his observation
will in due time be laid before the public.


_Philadelphia, Sept. 30, 1833._

SIR,--Although I have not the honor of a personal acquaintance with
you, I have no hesitation in making the present appeal to your
patriotism and wisdom, not doubting but that I shall find in the great
and growing interest of the subject to the country at large, and
particularly to that portion of the Union over which you preside with
so much dignity and discretion, a sufficient apology for occupying so
much of your valuable time, as will enable you to give the present
communication an attentive perusal.

I have recently returned from a _geological_ excursion to Virginia. I
entered the state near the head waters of the Potomac, passed thence
to Winchester, followed the course of that fine valley to the Natural
bridge; retracing my steps, I turned westwardly at Staunton, crossed
the mountain at Jennings's gap, and visited the justly celebrated
medicinal springs in that region; returning, I went from Staunton
through Charlottesville to Richmond, and down the James to its mouth.
When this tour is taken in connection with a former visit to Wheeling,
it will be conceded that I have seen enough of the state, to enable me
to form a rough estimate of its geological and mineralogical
importance; and I do assure you, sir, that although my anticipations
were far from being meager, I was astonished at the vastness and
variety of interesting objects in that department of natural history,
that were constantly developing themselves, inviting the mind of man
to reflection, and his hands to industry, and displaying at every step
the wisdom and beneficence of the great Creator.

I determined upon respectfully suggesting to your excellency the
expediency of a topographical, geological, mineralogical and
oryctological survey of Virginia. Should the enlightened
representatives of the freemen of your state concur in this opinion,
it will redound to the honor of all concerned, by the encouragement it
will give to the study of the natural sciences--by the enhancement in
value of lands in the interior, thereby enriching the state and its
citizens, and giving a very proper check to unnatural migrations to
the extreme west, by bringing to light and usefulness innumerable
valuable crude materials, thereby not only enlarging the field of
manufactures and the useful arts, but furnishing carrying for the
canals and roads already constructed, and assisting in new internal
improvements in locations of equal importance. That I may not appear
to be too enthusiastic, pardon me for pointing out some of the most
obvious features in the geology of Virginia. Whether we consider the
comfort and convenience of our species, or the industry and prosperity
of a state, there is no mineral production that can outvie in
importance that of _coal_. In this country, where we have hitherto
always had a superabundance of fuel, owing to the vast extent of our
natural forests, the importance of a constant and abundant supply is
not felt, and we are too apt to neglect properly to appreciate its
value, but it is not so elsewhere, and a moment's reflection will shew
that it ought not to be so _here_. Without fuel, of what use would be
to us the metallic ores? for instance iron, which is now moulded,
drawn and worked into thousands and tens of thousands of useful
instruments, from a knife, to the complicated machinery of a steam
engine, would forever remain an indissoluble and useless mass of
matter without the aid of fuel--even the steam engine itself, that
colossus of modern machinery, without the assistance of fire would be
inactive and impotent.

The Rev. Mr. Conybeare, an eminent English geologist, speaking of the
coal veins (or coal measures, as they are there called,) of his
country, thus expresses himself:

"The manufacturing industry of this island, colossal as is the fabric
which it has raised, rests principally on no other base than our
fortunate position with regard to the rocks of this series. Should our
coal mines ever be exhausted, it would melt away at once, and it need
not be said, that the effect produced on private and domestic comfort
would be equally fatal with diminution {92} of public wealth; we
should lose many of the advantages of our high civilization, and much
of our cultivated grounds must be again shaded with forests, to afford
fuel to a remnant of our present population. That there is a
progressive tendency to approach this limit, is certain, but ages may
yet pass before it is felt very sensibly; and when it does approach,
the increasing difficulty and expense of working the mines of coal,
will operate, by successive and gradual checks, against its
consumption, through a long period, so that the transition may not be
very violent; our manufactures would first feel the shock; the excess
of population, supported by them, would cease to be called into
existence, as the demand for their labor ceased; the cultivation of
poor lands would become less profitable, and their conversion into
forests more so."

Where is the state in this union--I might, perhaps, safely ask, where
is the country in the world, that can surpass Virginia in the variety
of position and abundance of supply of this valuable combustible? She
possesses, not only in common with her sister states, a liberal
quantity of bituminous coal in her western and carbonaceous regions,
where, according to geological calculations, bituminous coal might be
reasonably expected to be found; but in the eastern division of the
state, within a few miles of the tide water of a majestic stream,
which empties its ample waters into the Atlantic ocean, in a
geological position, where bituminous coal never would have been
sought after, because bituminous coal could not there have ever been
expected to have been found, bituminous coal of a good quality, and
apparently in great abundance, has been found; nature seeming, as it
were, in this instance, to enable her to favor an otherwise highly
favored land, to have defied all her own rules, and baffled the skill
of the gravest geologist, by depositing bituminous coal upon the naked
and barren bosom of the uncarbonaceous granite! I have often wondered
why this anomaly did not strike the capacious and highly gifted mind
of Jefferson, and why he, or some other of the many reflecting men of
Virginia, was not led by it to inquire, what else there might be in
store for the good people of that state? By neglecting to seek for
them, we ungratefully reject the proffered kindness of our Creator;
the laws of inanimate matter are, in this respect, in unison with
those that govern animated nature; we are furnished with the material
and means, but in order to stimulate us to useful and healthful
industry, we must labor in their appropriation. God gives us the earth
and the seed, but we must plough and sow, or we can never reap; so he
has bountifully placed within our reach innumerable valuable rocks,
minerals and combustibles, but to enjoy them, we must delve into the
bowels of the earth--and having found them, we must, by various
laborious processes, render them fit for our use. To those who are
accustomed to regard these things, it is difficult to determine which
causes the most painful sensations, to observe how few coal mines, in
comparison to what might be, are opened in the neighborhood of
Richmond, or the want of skill exhibited in the selection and working
of those recently opened. Nor is the deposite of the bituminous coal
upon the granite, the only geological anomaly of this quarter.
Proceeding from Charlottesville towards Richmond, almost immediately
after you leave the Talcose formation of the Blue Ridge, you are
astonished at the fertility of the soil; you can scarcely persuade
yourself that you are travelling over a country of primitive rocks.
Soon, however, you discover that the fertility is not universal, but
confined to patches of a brick-red covering, that overlay the
disintegrated materials of the primordial formations, and upon seeking
further into this curious matter, your surprise is not a little
increased, upon discovering that this brick-red covering owes its
existence to the disintegration of a rock, which, in most other
places, is exceedingly slow to decompose, and which, when decomposed,
forms a cold and inhospitable soil. It is the _hornblende sienite_.
Here it is surcharged with iron, which oxidating by exposure to the
atmosphere and moisture, the rock freely disintegrates, and the oxide
of iron being set at liberty, imparts its coloring to the ground, and
fertilizes the soil in an extraordinary degree.

Professor Hitchcock, in his report of a geological survey of
Massachusetts, makes the following remarks in relation to the effect
of iron upon a soil:

"No ore except iron occurs in sufficient quantity in the state, to
deserve notice in an agricultural point of view. In the west part of
Worcester county, the soil, for a width of several miles across the
whole state, is so highly impregnated with the _oxide of iron_, as to
receive from it a very deep tinge of what is called iron rust. This is
particularly the case in the low grounds; where are frequently found
beds of bog ore. I do not know very definitely the effect of this iron
upon vegetation; but, judging from the general excellence of the farms
in the Brookfields, Sturbridge, Hardwicke, New Braintree, Barae,
Hubbardston, &c., I should presume it to be good. Certainly, it cannot
be injurious; for no part of the county exceeds the towns just named,
in the appearance of its farming interest--and nearly all the county,
as may be seen by the map, is of one formation. It would be an
interesting problem, which in that county can be solved, to determine
the precise influence of a soil highly ferruginous upon vegetation."

Next in geological and statistical importance, I would place the
mineral springs of Virginia; and these would form a legitimate subject
of investigation to those who should be appointed to conduct a
geological survey.

I am not aware of any portion of country of the same extent,
possessing an equal number and variety of mineral springs, as the
counties of Bath, Greenbrier and Monroe. This is a subject upon which
one might easily compose a book, but I must confine myself to a few
lines. The waters are thermal and cold; the former of various degrees
of intensity. They hold in solution a variety of metals, earths,
acids, and alkalies, combined in various proportions, and suited to
relieve the sufferings of invalids from a number of diseases. Mineral
springs of less interest than these, have excited the attention of the
learned in almost every age and country; and Virginia owes it to her
high mental standing, independently of every other consideration, to
assist the cause of science, by investigating the causes of the high
temperature, and making accurate analyses of these waters. It is the
duty of states, as it is of individuals, to furnish their quota to the
general stock of information; and this is peculiarly the duty of a
republican state, whose happiness, nay, whose very political
existence, depends upon an improved {93} state of the minds of its
citizens. Mr. John Mason Good, in his "Book of Nature," after
describing the barren state of society in the middle ages, says, "we
have thus rapidly travelled over a wide and dreary desert, that, like
the sandy wastes of Africa, has seldom been found refreshed by spots
of verdure, and what is the moral? That ignorance is ever associated
with wretchedness and vice, and knowledge with happiness and virtue.
Their connections are indissoluble; they are woven in the very texture
of things, and constitute the only substantial difference between man
and man," and I would add, between state and state.

Has the heat of these waters any connection with volcanic phenomena?
Or is the temperature entirely chemical, originating in the
decomposition of sulphuret of iron, as I suggested some years ago in a
paper published upon the subject? At the Hot Springs, the hot sulphur
water and the cold pure water, issue out of the calcareous rock at the
base of the Warm Spring mountain, within a few feet of each other. One
of these Virginia Springs, makes a copious deposite of calcareous
tufa; and at another, you perceive newly formed crystals of sulphate
of iron. The White Sulphur Spring takes its name from a rich white
deposite, and the Red Sulphur from one of that color. If this is not
an uncommon and a highly interesting section of country, calling aloud
for investigation, and meriting legislative interference, then have I
taken an entirely erroneous view of the subject.

The Warm Spring mountain is white sandstone. The rocks of the valley
of the Hot Springs are calcareous, argillaceous and silecious; they
are all nearly vertical. At first the two former, and afterwards the
two latter, alternate. They have all been deposited in a horizontal
position, and between their narrow strata are thin layers of clay
covering organic remains.--Those of the lime and slate are principally
zoophytes. That of the silecious is the fossil described by Doctor R.
Harlan, from a specimen obtained by me in the western part of the
state of New York. He supposed it to be a now extinct vegetable fossil
of the family fucoides, and he has called it _Fucoide Brongniard_,--in
honor of M. Brongniard. But I suppose it to be _animal_, and to belong
to the family of the Encrinites.[1]

[Footnote 1: See an essay of Richard C. Taylor, F. G. S. on the
geological position of certain beds which contain numerous fossil
marine plants of the family fucoides; near Lewistown, Mifflin county,
Pennsylvania, in vol. I. part I. of the Transactions of the Geological
Society of Pennsylvania, page 1.]

The mountain ranges of Virginia are more numerous, and the valleys
consequently narrower, than they are in Pennsylvania; but some of them
are very interesting. The great valley, as it is sometimes called, or
par excellence, _the valley_, situate between the Blue Ridge and the
North and Alleghany Mountain, is by far the most extensive. The rocks
often obtrude, rendering the soil rather scanty, but nevertheless this
is a fine district of country.

I could find no fossils in this rock. In regard to the metallic ores,
I would observe, that I discovered sufficient indications of their
existing in Virginia in quantity sufficient to justify a more accurate
examination. Iron abounds in almost every part of the western section
of the state. Traces of copper, lead, manganese and chrome, have also
been discovered near the Blue Ridge; and the gold of Orange County is
equal to any found in the Carolinas or Georgia.

I have never seen any thing that exceeds the richness and variety of
coloring of the serpentine of the Blue Ridge. This mineral is easily
cut, and the fineness and closeness of the grain renders it
susceptible of a high polish. At Zoblitz in Saxony, several hundred
persons are employed in its manufacture. Besides the minerals
belonging to the Talcose formation, and generally accompanying
serpentine, are many of them valuable in the arts--for instance,
steatite, (soap stone,) talc, chromate of iron, clorite slate, and
native magnesia. A geological survey would, most probably, lead to the
discovery of most of these minerals.

I could make large additions to this communication, but for the fear
of trespassing upon your patience. I will, therefore, close my
observations with noticing two instances of want of confidence in the
mineral productions of your own state, which I am persuaded that a
geological survey would tend to correct. I met many wagons loaded with
sulphate of lime (gypsum,) from Nova Scotia, being taken to the
interior to be used as a manure; but I did not see one wagon employed
to bring carbonate of lime (common lime stone,) from the inexhaustible
quarries of the great valley to any other district to be used for the
same purpose. In the beautiful and flourishing city of Richmond, I
observed the fronts of two stores fitting up in the new and
fashionable style with granite (so called,) (sienite,) from
Massachusetts, while there exists in the James river, and on its
banks, in the immediate vicinity of the town, rocks of a superior
quality, in quantities amply sufficient to build a dozen cities.

I have the honor to be, sir,
    Your obedient servant,

PETER A. BROWNE.

_To his Excellency John Floyd,
    Governor of Virginia._




LAFAYETTE.

The following tribute to the memory of Lafayette, having been
transmitted from Paris for the purpose of being published in some
American periodical, the gentleman by whom it was received, has
requested that the same may be inserted in the Messenger.


He breathed not the atmosphere of cities at his birth; he was born on
the mountain top; he inhaled with the breath of life, the breath of
liberty. Though sprung from a lordly race, he was the people's friend;
and, under every trial, he displayed the inborn dignity of man.

Rich too he was, but lucre was not his idol; and his liberality was as
unbounded, as his heart was generous. At that season of life which, to
common men, is a time for pleasure and dissipation, he heard and
obeyed the holy call of freedom.

Far off, beyond ocean's bounds, a young and promising nation was
struggling for its rights. He felt, as if instinctively, the part
allotted to him on the stage of life; and he became America's adopted
and beloved son, when in his native land, his name was scarcely known.

On returning to France, he found her laboring under mysterious
warnings--of good or evil he knew not--the {94} foreboding pangs of
political convulsions; and he put his trust in the cause of humanity,
because he judged of other men from himself.

But vain was his boldness and wisdom in council; in vain did he beard
in their very den, the infuriate demagogues; a bloody pall was spread
over his devoted country; he gave her up in despair, and the dungeon
of Olmutz closed upon him as a tomb. When a brighter day arose, his
freedom was stipulated as the most glorious trophy of his nation's
victories. But the hurricane had swept the ancient fabric from the
earth; not a vestige of it remained, so dreadful had been the storm.
All the powers of the state were centred in one man; a man of
selfishness and pride, who aimed at absorbing all wills in his own.
And in sooth he did this, with one sole and great exception. The
instinct of freedom, which was as the vital spark in our great
citizen, kept him aloof from the man whose empty and ephemeral triumph
is stained with the blood and tears of every nation. He retired to his
paternal fields; and at a time when the sword ruled paramount, he
guided the fruitful ploughshare.

Liberty was no more; and by a hard but just retribution, it was made
the rallying word of nations against us. Then fell upon our country
unheard of disasters and defeats; after which dawned a milder reign.
He now reappears upon the public stage; he comes to heal our wounds,
to rekindle in our hearts the love of liberty. He devotes himself to
the task with a zeal unceasing, enlightened by long-tried experience,
inspired by a pure and upright heart, and animated by a spirit of self
denial never equalled. In the prosecution of this noble attempt--he
dies!

He was one of those men who, at far and distant intervals, appear in
days of degeneracy to arrest the right of proscription against virtue.

He disdained power, he despised riches, he abhorred corruption. He
wished that all men should be happy and free.

Yet in the age of barefaced egotism, and under the reign of fraud and
knavery, such disinterestedness and candor must inevitably be
deceived; therefore is it that our political jugglers sneer at this
great and good man--their grovelling minds understand him not.

But his name, pronounced with reverence in both hemispheres, is become
the watchword of mankind laboring to be free; and it will stand for
ages, as the brightest symbol of humanity.

Thy soul, oh Lafayette! was a pure and glorious emanation from that
GOD in whose bosom thou now hast found a resting place. He alone can
reward thy manifold virtues, thy constant love of humanity, thy
inexhaustible charity, thy piety and truth. Thou art blessed in
Christ.

ALEXANDRE DE BOINVILLE.

_Paris, May 1834._




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

PINKNEY'S ELOQUENCE.

  Hear you this triton of the minnows?--_Coriolanus_.


"Yet Mr. Pinkney is not an eloquent man; he is convincing, to be
sure--and that is to be eloquent in one way; but he would be more, and
fails." "Nothing can be further from eloquence, if by eloquence be
understood any thing that is persuasive, beautiful, dignified or
natural, than the declamation or reasoning of William Pinkney." "His
best speeches are a compound of stupendous strength, feeble ornament,
affected earnestness, and boisterous turbulent declamation." "But God
never meant him for an orator; he has no property of mind or body--no
not one, calculated to give him dominion in eloquence."

As old Doiley says in the farce, when told that "gold in the balance
of philosophy was light as phlogisticated air," this must be deep, for
I don't understand a word of it. The above are extracts from a work,
in which the author undertakes to deny to Mr. Pinkney the praise of
eloquence. No kind of composition confounds me more than criticism,
and especially that sort which pretends to develope the
characteristics of some distinguished orator. If one

  ----------------should
  So get the start of the majestic world

as to "bear the palm alone," we feel a very natural curiosity to know
what was his appearance, his manner, and peculiar style of eloquence;
but alas! in the hands of the critic, he assumes so many shapes, that
the imagination is absolutely bewildered, and we turn away in despair
of finding out what the man was like. The critic like the newspaper,
contradicts himself at every step. One sentence tells us what another
denies; and we rise from the perusal of his sketch jaded and worn out
with the variety of contrariant ideas which have passed through our
brains. I am no critic, and heaven forbid I should ever belong to that
cold hearted fraternity, who more often pervert taste than improve it;
but I cannot forbear contesting the truth of this writer's assertions,
and declaring that he seems to me to be a Lilliputian about the body
of a Gulliver.

It has been said of Demosthenes, "that he has been deservedly styled
the prince of orators. His orations are strongly animated, and full of
the impetuosity and ardor of public spirit. His composition is not
distinguished by _ornament_ and splendor. Negligent of the lesser
graces, he seems to have aimed at the sublime, which lies in
sentiment. His action and pronunciation are said to have been
uncommonly _vehement_ and _ardent_. The Archbishop of Cambray gives
him the preference to Cicero, against whom he makes the objection of
too much _ornament_." According therefore to this author, if Wm.
Pinkney was not an orator, it follows that Demosthenes was none;
because their style of eloquence seems to have been alike in almost
every particular, except that Pinkney aimed at _ornament_, of which
Demosthenes had none and Cicero too much. If speeches, characterized
by _stupendous strength_, and _turbulent declamation_, and _convincing
argument_, are neither "persuasive, nor dignified, nor natural," then
was not Demosthenes persuasive, nor dignified, nor natural, and of
course he was no orator according to this definition. If ornament be a
fault in Mr. Pinkney, he had it in common with Cicero; but perhaps the
author may say that Cicero attained what Pinkney only aimed at. Hear
him then again on the subject of ornament, so passionately loved by
Mr. Pinkney. "Bring him in contact with a truly poetical mind, and his
argument resembles a battery of colored fire-works, giving out
incessant brightness and reverberation." It would seem then that
ornament is not a common trait of his eloquence, but a {95} glitter
which is effected by attrition against poetical minds. It is then that
he draws upon the inexhaustible stores of beauty laid up in his mind,
gathered from the writings of Shakspeare and others, and retained by
the force of a powerful memory. He has no fancy of his own, but uses
the fancy of others. Then surely he is so far superior to Demosthenes,
whose eloquence was thought to border on the hard and dry; alike
impetuous, vehement, stupendous and convincing with him, and
superadding a relish for the beauties of poetry; not aiming at any
_ornament_ of his own, but contented with what suggested itself in
illustration of his argument from the pen of others. Then how is he
feeble in ornament? But again; if there be nothing of dignity or
nature in Pinkney's _reasoning_, how is it discovered that his mind is
"_adamant clamped with iron_," [a poor conception, and suiting the
ideas of a blacksmith better than a belles-lettres scholar--for the
iron adds nothing to our thoughts of the strength of adamant;] that it
is "a colossal pile of granite, over which the thunders of heaven
might roll," &c. &c. It is useless to quote the rest of the unmeaning
fustian of the sentence.

After all this avowal of stupendous strength of argument, we are told
in a subsequent paragraph, that say what we will of Mr. Pinkney's
argument, he the author, never saw him yet--no never, pursue his
argument steadily for ten minutes at a time. Then how can it be so
overwhelming and convincing? Nothing lessens so much the force of
argument as a perpetual aberration from the subject. Again; "God never
meant him for an orator; he has no property of mind or body," &c. &c.
Not to say any thing of the presumption and impiety of determining for
God, I would ask what are the _bodily properties_ of an orator? This
writer has not condescended to define them, although he dwells at
large upon such as he thinks cast discredit upon Mr. Pinkney. It is
scarcely necessary to observe that Demosthenes was ungraceful in
figure and action; and that not only _orators_, but very wise and
learned men, have been repulsive in their persons, their features, and
their manners also. Though Cæsar and Cicero were exempt from defect in
this respect, as far as I remember Demosthenes stuttered--Socrates was
bald and flatnosed--Anthony a rough soldier--Lord Chatham's eloquence
was forcible, but uniform and ungraceful--Fox was a fop of Bond
street, and wore high heeled morocco shoes. Mr. Pinkney therefore may,
without reproach, be a "_thick, stout man, with a red fat English
face_," and Mr. Fox will keep him in countenance as a fashionable man.
The facetious Peter Pindar has said, that

  Love hates your large fat lubberly fellows,
  Panting and blowing like a blacksmith's bellows;

but I never heard that oratory did.

In the next breath we hear that "Mr. Pinkney has a continual
appearance of natural superciliousness and affected courtesy."
_Continual_--and yet afterwards "his manner is exceedingly arrogant
and unpropitiating;" and his deportment had been already described as
"_brutal, arrogant, full of sound and fury, accompanied by the rude
and violent gestures of a vulgar fellow_." One moment he is a giant,
not only _metaphorically_, but in sober truth, if we may judge from
his stentorian lungs, which have caused the author's whole system to
jar--and from those violent gesticulations, which indicate uncommon
personal strength;--the next, he turns out to be only five feet ten,
and a petit maitre, and affectedly courtly and conciliatory; and yet
"nothing could make a gentleman of him; he can neither look, act,
_speak_, sit, nor _talk_ like one." Notwithstanding all this
scurrility and abuse of Mr. Pinkney's person, the author is not yet
exhausted, but lavishes more upon his intellect. "The physical powers
of Mr. Pinkney," he says, "are to my notion, strictly correspondent
with his intellectual ones; both arc solid, strong and substantial,
but without grace, dignity or loftiness." Loftiness! the same man who
has such "prodigious elevation and amplitude of mind," "and both have
_a dash of fat English dandyism_." I confess myself wholly at a loss
to comprehend what the fat dandyism of the intellectual powers is. A
man's mind might, by a forced metaphor, be said to be dandyish,
perhaps; but a _fat mind_, is a solecism in words wholly inadmissible,
I think. "His style of eloquence," it is added, "is a most
disagreeable and unnatural compound of the worst faults of the worst
speakers." "He is said to resemble Lord Erskine as he was in the day
of his power: it is a libel on Erskine, who was himself a libel on the
reputation of his country as a speaker." "The language of Mr. Pinkney
does resemble that of Lord Erskine; his reasoning is about as
forcible." If the term style here be the manner of speaking
appropriate to particular characters, I have shown that the censure is
equally applicable to Demosthenes, the prince of orators, who, in
addition to his vehemence, was so ungraceful in his motions, that it
was necessary for him to practice with a naked sword hanging over his
shoulder; and therefore to compare Demosthenes to Lord Erskine is a
libel on Lord Erskine, himself a libel on his country as a
speaker--and _argal_, as Shakspeare says, Demosthenes is inferior to
English orators. If, again, the word style mean the manner of writing
with regard to language, these sentences would involve a
contradiction, and Mr. Pinkney is like and unlike Lord Erskine at the
same time.

Yet why do I talk of Demosthenes? In the following sentences the
author admits that Mr. P. copied too closely after Cicero and
Demosthenes. "He desired to be eloquent; he thought of Demosthenes and
Cicero, and his heart swelled with ambition. He remembered not that he
was to be a lawyer, and that Demosthenes and Cicero were declaimers.
He who should look to move a body of Americans in a court of justice
by the best thundering of Demosthenes, would only make himself
ridiculous." Very true; and this may certainly prove that Mr. Pinkney
might have been a greater _lawyer_, by bending the whole force of his
mind to that one pursuit; but it has nothing to do with the premises.
The ground is here changed; this is not the point to be proved--not
the quod erat demonstrandum. The point to be proved is not the
_propriety_ of displaying eloquence before a jury, but that Wm.
Pinkney was never meant by God for an orator; that he has no property
of mind or body to make one. This is assuredly the scope of the
extracts. Had Mr. P. not aimed at _ornament_, his ashes might have
passed undisturbed by the author, who allows that he was decidedly the
greatest _lawyer_ in America, but is very angry that he was not the
greatest in the world. In spite of all this, however, Pinkney "pursued
his way like a conqueror, and had well nigh {96} established himself
as the high priest of eloquence in America." Why, what a stupid,
blind, misjudging race we must be, to think of choosing a man for our
high priest of eloquence whom God never meant for an orator, and who
had no property, not one, of mind or body, for his business--and never
to awaken from our folly until this writer tore the urim and thummim
from his breast. "The giant," he says, "is gone down like a giant to
the household of death," and there should at least have escaped the
imputation of baseness which deserved shooting. How _giants_ die, I
pretend not to know; but imagine such giants die pretty much like
other people; and it seems to me perfectly ridiculous to talk of a
man's dying like a giant. At that awful hour, the littleness of the
greatest genius is a subject of melancholy reflection. I will only add
that I know nothing of this writer. If his object was to guard us
against the mischievous effects of a false taste in eloquence, he
cannot be angry with me for wishing to guard against the equally bad
effects of a false taste in criticism.

NUGATOR.




THE DANDY CHASTISED.

In this metropolis a real, downright exquisite is rarely to be seen.
Curiosity may be gratified by a good description of the animal as
exhibited in other places. The following communication is from one
residing in a city much more fashionable than ours. Its author seems
well informed in the science of æsthetics; and it is to be hoped that
he will exert himself to correct mistaken impressions as to the
beautiful. Further notices by him may be beneficial.

C.


Among the follies and vices of mankind, there is nothing more
remarkable or ridiculous than the continual effort, among all classes
and kinds of people--savage, civilized, and pseudo-civilized--to
increase or impart beauty and comeliness to their forms and features.
Through what various and opposite means is this cherished object
pursued! This savage tattoos his cheeks--that smooths and oils them,
and would esteem the gratuitous tattoonry of the small-pox a graver
misfortune than all the pain attendant on the disease.

The Indians on our Western border are wont to assume the character of
the bear, the panther, or some "other interesting beast of prey," and
place their ambition in enacting the look and conduct of such beast to
the life--and "to the death."

The belle of that age is surrounded by a vast circumvallation of
hoop--of this, is pinched into a narrow breastwork of steel and
whale-bone.

To cramp the feet into unnatural littleness is now the sad task of
those who, to be beautiful, are willing to suffer the tortures of the
thumb-screw--or the toe-screw, (it matters not.) The fashion changes,
and long pointed shapeless boots deform the human foot.

In no age--in no condition, can men and women be persuaded that God
Almighty has made them well,--albeit he hath "made man after his own
image," and woman much better than man.

They must fall to reforming their forms by some fanciful deformity.

But the innovation stops not here. Thus far it might be borne. The
human form cannot be wholly changed by all the ingenuity of vanity and
fashion. It must still retain its principal attributes, and lose not
all its lustre. Not so with manners. They are more plastic. From
fashion and human folly they accordingly suffer most. Fashion is the
sworn foe of nature, and in this field there is no natural bound to
its triumphs.

On the face of the earth, or in the waters, there is no animal to my
feelings so wholly hateful as a modern exquisite: a wretch that has
put off his natural aspect to put on a clay mask, hard, ungainly,
inflexible, of lifeless mud--which no Prometheus could vivify: a thing
which can boast neither the humor of the monkey, nor the fierce
respectability of the wild beast,--not the usefulness of the
tame--still less the dignity and bearing of a man.

Sometime since, after sauntering an evening through a ball room, in
which some such caricatures of men were existing, I went home and
vented my rage in the following doggerel:

The Indignant Rhymes of a Natural Proser.

      Oh! Muse, assist me in my strain!
      Your Museship I would entertain
      With a poetic flagellation:
      Assist me Muse, to lay the lash on,
  With pen formed from a dog-wood switch,
  Fit to chastise a dunce: with pitch
  For ink, and bull's hide parchment handy;
  Now aid me, Muse, and we'll chastise a dandy.

  That petty, puny, paltry, pretty thing--
  In form a wasp, but destitute of sting;
  Vain as a peacock, soulless as a gnat,
  Brainless as soulless, finical as flat:
  Of apes the ape most awkward and most vile--
  Jackall of monkeys, and without jacko's wile.
  The jackall serves none but the noblest beast,
  But this base thing takes lessons from the least.
  As Egypt's sons did bow the knee of yore,
  And worship apes, the eternal God before--
  He, in god image framed, with godlike mind,
  Would be a god--of Egypt's monkey kind.
  A traveller sage! Europe he hath explored--
  His mistress fashion, and an ape his lord.
  No dignity finds he in native man,
  Acting and thinking after nature's plan;
  No wisdom, save in artificial fools--
  Nature's apostates--slaves to senseless rules:
  No beauty sees he, save in gold and lace,
  A made up figure, and a painted face;
  And no politeness, save in mere grimace.

    Go! thou vile satire on the human race;
    Go! _on all fours_, and seek thy proper place:
    Go! thing too mean for any mighty ill--
    Go! petty monster, "pay thy tailor's bill."




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

PLACED WITH A ROSE UPON A LADY'S CHEEK.


  Roses on roses I bestow;
  Bright rose! to brighter roses go--
  Bask in the sunlight of her eyes,
  Nor dread their fires; the dews which rise
  In pity for a heart that grieves,
  Will shed reviving coolness on thy leaves.

QUESTUS.

_Norfolk_.


{97}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE ALLEGHANY LEVELS.


The following description of a part of Virginia and Maryland, seldom
visited and but little known, may have sufficient interest to deserve
a place in the columns of the Messenger.

The country alluded to, is in the northern part of this state, and
comprehends that corner of Maryland included between the North Branch
of Potomac and a line due north from the Fairfax stone, at the head
spring of that stream, to the Pennsylvania line; and also a portion of
the territory at present in dispute between the two states; Maryland
claiming as her boundaries the South Branch of Potomac and a meridian
thence to Mason and Dixon's line,--while the first mentioned limits
only are acknowledged by Virginia.

A short notice of the origin of these conflicting titles might,
perhaps, be interesting to some readers; but in addition to our lack
of complete information, the limits of this sketch will not permit it.

Between Cheat river, at the fertile bottom called the Horse-shoe, and
the summit of the mountain which divides the Western from the Atlantic
waters, the country is thinly peopled, and only cultivated in the
largest tributary vallies: the long spurs of the Backbone being too
sterile to serve any other purpose than ranges for cattle and animals
of the chase. The approach to the Great Backbone of the Alleghany
region is here, as elsewhere on the western side, characterized by a
broad and gentle acclivity, covered almost entirely with loose rocks
of various sizes, many of them of the species of agglomerated quartz,
familiar to the west under the name of country mill-stone, and
valuable for the domestic molendinary uses of the simple and hardy
race inhabiting those regions.

There is little timber of large size, the growth being chiefly
chestnut oak and small moss-grown white oaks, exhibiting upon their
blackened roots the scathing effects of flames, which, through the
negligence of hunters in firing the dry leaves, have often and
fiercely swept down the mountain side. The more recent inroads of fire
are denoted by large tracts of underwood, black and denuded of leaves,
and so stiffened by scorching as to present vexatious obstacles to
progress, independent of the minor, though, in that place, unimportant
annoyance of soiled clothes and person.

Large pine and birch trees, and a thicker undergrowth--detached blocks
of stratified sandstone, some of them of huge size--and an increasing
wildness and desolation in the aspect of the scenery, inform the
traveller who may have ventured so far, that he is on the confines of
the Alleghany wilderness.

The mountain top, near Lord Fairfax's stone, is crowned with a bold
irregular precipice, which the hunters belonging to the exploring
party of which the writer of this article was a member, termed the
Bear-holeing, from its being the winter abode of great numbers of
those animals,--the numerous cavities of the rocks, and the tangled
laurel thickets, affording them a secure refuge from foes, whether
biped or canine.

We were not without hope of being treated to the novelty of a bear
hunt, our guides being veterans of the rifle, and accompanied by fine
dogs, one of them as his master informed us, having engaged Sir Bruin
more than fifty times.

The perils of this sport may well give a reputation for boldness and
hardihood to our western yeomanry, when we consider that these
encounters always occur in most intricate thickets of stubborn tangled
laurel, in which the bear must have greatly the advantage in
progression,--the sharp form of his head, and its close proximity to
the ground, making it perform, in relation to his huge muscular body,
the office, it might be said, of the coulter to a plough. But few of
them are killed without the sacrifice of one or more of man's zealous
confederates in this dangerous sport; and the rescue of the faithful
brutes, (such is the inexpugnable nature of the foe and his
extraordinary vital energy, which seems often to defy even the rifle,)
obliges the hunter, with a personal daring not inferior to that of the
Roman gladiators, to terminate the conflict with his hunting
knife;--he dies invariably biting the ground or whatever else may be
within his reach; showing to the very last the propensity to combat,
which he exhibits even while a cub.

The range of precipice of which we have spoken, either terminates, or
is interrupted for some distance north of this point--whence, for more
than thirty miles, the country is totally without human inhabitant,
and will probably for a long time, if not always, so remain.

The land may be said to lie in lofty tables, though the vallies are of
great depth--the latter circumstance alone reminding the traveller
that he has descended a mountain,--the seemingly interminable tract of
flat forest land impressing, most forcibly, the idea of a lower
situation, though these are without doubt among the very highest lands
in Virginia. They are called by the hunters and settlers upon their
outskirts, the Alleghany Levels. In them are the principal sources of
all the great waters of Virginia. The North and South Branches of
Potomac, Jackson's river, and the Shenandoah, Greenbrier and Gauley,
Cheat and Tygart's Valley--which flow north, east, west and south,
seeking by long and winding courses, the Ohio or the Atlantic Ocean.

The greatest singularity of this country consists in its primeval
appearance: the ground is carpeted throughout with an elastic and
verdant moss; black spruce and hemlock pines, of dark funereal aspect,
tower above the soil like an army of Titans,--the interlacing of their
umbrageous arms converting the noonday into seeming twilight. Under
its mossy covering, the surface of the ground is completely
reticulated with roots of trees--nature seeming to compensate in
numbers for the defective character of her supports, as large trees
may be often observed whose roots do not enter the ground for some
feet below the trunk, being previously contorted and spread out like
the arms of a polypous, and clothed in the same mantle of moss which
overspreads rocks, trees and earth, in this fantastic region.

This moss may be stripped from the soil in sheets of any desirable
size, and, when not previously saturated with rain, affords a most
comfortable substitute for a mattrass, as in our bivouacs we more than
once experienced.

The underwood is mostly streaked maple or elkwood, (the _Acer
Striatum_ of Michaux,) diversified with immense tracts of the _Kalmia
Latifolia_ and the large rose-bay-tree, (_Rhododendron Maximum_,) more
popularly known as the "little and big laurels." The last {98} named
plant, when in flower, is the ornament of the wilderness. Those who
have never seen it, may have some conception of its appearance, if
they imagine tall bushes, from eight to twenty feet in height, with
dark evergreen leaves, (not unlike in form and color to those of the
magnolia grandiflora,) bearing clusters of full blown peonies, or
large double damask and cinnamon roses, the intensity of the color
seeming to vary with situation.

It is to be feared that this beautiful plant cannot easily be
naturalized in this climate--an attempt made by the writer of this
article, possibly from a too warm or not sufficiently humid exposure,
having failed.

The geographical position of these "laurel beds" is a necessary part
of the hunter's lore. Frequent instances are narrated of persons
bewildered in them many days, and some are said to have perished. A
farmer, born and residing on Stony river, five miles north of this
wild, by whom we were supplied with provisions, accompanied us to the
skirt of the forest, but could by no entreaty be induced to proceed
farther.

These laurel thickets are most frequent in approaching vallies, which
are as before remarked, of great depth; the descent is sudden, in
general by what resembles a rude flight of steps, moss grown and
ruined. To casual observation there would appear to be no water at the
bottom; but a subterraneous rumbling, and occasional flashes through
the interstices of the fragments on which he steps, inform the
passenger that a stream of volume and power is beneath him.

The largest streams however, as in other regions, flow in open
channels, their waters having a dark ferruginous tinge, derived it is
said, from the laurel roots, but more probably from deposites of ore
through which they flow.

The wild animals are no doubt many, as well as various, though the
noise attending our own operations kept them from our sight. We daily
saw tracks of bears, deer and elk; of the latter, a drove of some
threescore is said still to inhabit these almost inaccessible wilds.
Of birds, we saw none living except a few silent and melancholy snow
birds; but our nightly lullaby was the whooping of owls, which here
abound in great numbers.

To the reputed wonders of rattlesnake dens, where these reptiles lie
in monstrous cumuli, refusing to uncoil until the whole mass has been
many times assailed with rifle balls and other missiles, we cannot
testify, having never, though very desirous of so doing, the fortune
to find one.

The soil is a cold argillaceous loam, unsuited to the production of
the nobler grains, but susceptible of becoming, under proper culture,
good grazing land, and no doubt proper for rye, oats and
potatoes,--the invariable products of the whole mountain region.

The botany of the wilderness proper, is confined chiefly to the two
species of pine before mentioned, the hemlock pine (_Pinus
Canadensis_,) and the black spruce (_Pinus Nigra_ of Lambert.) Some
stately specimens of the wild cherry and scattering patches of red
beach complete the list.

On emerging from the wilderness, the customary variety of oak, ash
maple and hickory presents itself, mingled with the cucumber tree
(_Magnolia Acuminata_,) and that invaluable treasure to western
housewives, the sugar tree,--announcing the neighborhood of
cultivation.

This dreary expanse of forest terminates on the summit of the Eastern
Front Ridge, at the head of the North Fork of Patterson's creek,
itself an inconsiderable tributary of Potomac, but deserving celebrity
for the grandeur of its scenery. It appears to have cut its way
through three lofty mountains in succession, affording a more sublime
exhibition of river gap landscapes than I have witnessed in any other
part of the state,--the boasted grandeur of Harper's Ferry fading into
insignificance when compared with it.

At the first farm east of the wilderness,--in the homely but
comfortable dwelling of one of the worthy Dutch farmers, our little
party enjoyed the unwonted luxury of beds, and were able to breakfast
without performing for ourselves the office, which has occasioned our
species to be so properly designated as "cooking animals."

C. B. S.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE CYCLOPEAN TOWERS, IN AUGUSTA COUNTY, VA.


On a fine morning in September 1834, a party of which the writer was
one, consisting for the most part of gentlemen who had met together in
the town of Staunton from various sections of the Union, resolved on a
visit to certain remarkable NATURAL STRUCTURES which lay in the
neighborhood of the Augusta Springs, and about twenty miles distant
from the place of their departure.

After passing over a hilly and picturesque country, the road opened
upon a fertile valley, which though in places narrow, was of
considerable length,--and when seen from an elevated position,
appeared like the bed of an ancient lake, or as it really is, the
alluvial border of a flowing stream. The strata of limestone hills,
followed their usual order of parallel lines to the great mountains of
our continent, as though a strong current had once swept through this
magnificent valley,--forming in its course islands and
promontories,--which are now discoverable in numerous short hills and
rocky bluffs, that are either naked and barren, or covered with a
growth of stately trees. It was at such a projection, that we first
descried the gray summits of what seemed a ruinous castle,--resembling
those which were raised in feudal times to guard the passes of the
Rhine, or like such as are still seen in mouldering majesty on many an
Alpine rock. These summits or towers, of which there are seven, lifted
their heads above the lofty elms, like so many antique chimnies in the
midst of a grove; but, on approaching them nearer, our pleasure was
greatly increased, to find them rise almost perpendicularly from the
bed of a small stream, which winding around their base, serves as a
natural moat to a building not made with mortal hands. The southern
front of this colossal pile, presents a wall of about sixty feet
elevation, terminating in three towers of irregular height, and
perforated at its base by a cavern,--which, by an apt association, was
denominated "_Vulcan's Forge_." The tower on the extreme right, was
unanimously called "_Cocke's Tower_"--in honor of one of our party who
ascended it. On the left, are two other isolated towers,--of which the
centre or smaller one was distinguished as the "_Hymenial Altar_,"--a
name which {99} had its origin partly in a _jeu d'esprit_, and partly
on account of a shady bower in its rear, which seemed an appropriate
shade to mantle maiden's blushes. The furthest and tallest, received
the title of the "_Tower of Babel_." This is also the most
perpendicular of all these rocky structures; an archway passes through
it, by which there is an easy ascent to the remaining two, which stand
on the acclivity of the hill,--and though of less altitude, are not of
inferior beauty to the rest. One of them, which is of a round form,
and flat at the top, and on that account received the appellation of
the "_Table Rock_"--affords from its summit a splendid view of the
whole; the other, and last of the five, we distinguished as
"_Shelton's Rock_"--from one of our party.

These rocks in their formation resemble the palisades on the Hudson
river--but are more regular in their strata,--which appear to have
been arranged in huge masses of perfect workmanship--with projections
like cornices of Gothic architecture, in a state of dilapidation.
Those who are acquainted with the structure of the Cyclopean walls of
the ancients, would be struck with the resemblance,--which suggested
the name at the head of this article.

We pause to inquire why these primeval fragments of the world have
remained so long unnoticed? Why is it that men are so easily awakened
to the liveliest interest in distant objects, and yet neglect those
which are nearer and more accessible? "A prophet" it hath been said on
high authority, "hath honor save in his own country,"--and to that
strange propensity of the mind to contemn whatever is familiar, must
be attributed the neglect of many of the richest treasures at our own
door, which frequently impart both wealth and distinction to foreign
enterprise. For many years these towers have been known in the
surrounding country, by the homely appellation of "THE CHIMNEYS,"--but
no one has ever stopped to examine them, or to inquire how nature
formed so curious a pile in such a spot. Imagination may indeed
conceive that this noble structure was once the _Scylla_ of a narrow
strait connecting the waters of the north and the south, until their
accumulated pressing burst through the blue ridge at Harper's Ferry,
and left in their subsidence these towers, as a perpetual memorial of
their former dominion.

G. C.




[We do not remember where or when the following _Sonnet to Lord Byron_
was published. All we know is that it has been in print before, and
has been ascribed to the pen of the Hon. R. H. Wilde, of Georgia.]

ORIGINAL SONNET TO LORD BYRON.


    Byron! 'twas thine alone on eagle's pinions,
      In solitary strength and grandeur soaring,
      To dazzle and delight all eyes, out-pouring
    The electric blaze on tyrants and their minions;
  Earth, sea and air, and Powers and Dominions,
    Nature--man--time--the universe exploring,
  And from the wreck of worlds, thrones, creeds, opinions,
    Thought, beauty, eloquence, and wisdom storing.
  O! how I love and envy thee thy glory!
    To every age and clime alike belonging;
  Linked by all tongues with every nation's story,
    Thou TACITUS of song!--whose echoes thronging
  O'er the Atlantic, fill the mountains hoary
    And forests with a name which thus I'm wronging.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MUSINGS III--_By the Author of Vyvyan_.

JAMESTOWN.

        Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone
        Til I had bodied forth the heated mind
  Forms from the floating wreck which ruin leaves behind.
            _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_, _Canto_ iv. _Stanza_ civ.

  Tawnor nehiegh Powhatan.
            _Salvage dialect_, _apud Capt. Smith_.


  I stand on hallowed ground--the sacred sod
  Which once an ill-starred people bravely trod
  In native freedom, ere the wanderer crost
  The broad Atlantic waters and love lost
  The fair reward of labor, ill repaid
  By base desertion--country--friends betrayed--
  Misery and exile from a native land,
  Ending in death upon a foreign strand.

       *       *       *       *       *

  My spirit falls into a deeper mood
  And thought goes darkly forth to gather food
  For bitter contemplation;--for I trace
  Some record of the spoilers of that race
  Most gallant, wheresoe'er I turn mine eyes,--
  While of the exiled--neath their native skies
  Is scarce a token left--save what belongs
  To a sad history of unnumbered wrongs.
  Methinks the very sun's departing rays
  With melancholy meaning seem to gaze
  Upon the hostile monuments of yore,--
  Yon ruined arch with ivy overgrown--
  Those shattered tombs of moss-discolored stone--
  That slowly moulder by the silent shore.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Might I the Genius of Old Time invoke,
  This were the hour--the place--where many an oak
  Tosses its arms and points to ancient graves
  Beside the aisleless tower, which o'er the waves
  Shall no more send its voice upon the air,
  To call to matin or to vesper prayer.
  Alone, it stands, like some grim sentinel
  And in stern silence bids the world farewell!

       *       *       *       *       *

  Lift we the veil of vanished centuries--
  Beneath the shade and shelter of these trees
  The careless Indian smoked his calumet--
  (The CHRISTIAN had not crost the ocean yet)--
  Without a thought to mar his musing, save
  To strand his light canoe beyond the wave
  Or fasten it with sedgy rope secure,
  Lest the next tide should steal it from the shore.
  But lo! one evening as he lay beside
  The margin where his native waters glide,
  A sight of wonder on his vision broke;
  And the deep voice of flame in thunder spoke
  The doom of wo to him and all his race.
  Yet fear, which might have blanched a paler face,
  Quenched not the flashings of his dauntless eye,
  Nor for an instant quelled that bearing high
  Which best became the warrior of the wild--
  The Hunter bold--the Forests' lordly child!
  Ay! tho' the evil spirit of his sky,
  For such well might his inexperienced eye
  Have deemed it, lurked within the snow-white mist
  That brooded o'er the silent river's breast, {100}
  And spoke in accents of the dark storm-cloud,
  From out the folding of its gleaming shroud,
  He stood prepared to meet the worst--like one
  Who hath no fear of aught beneath the sun.
  Methinks I see him watching by the shore,
  With strained eye, intently gazing o'er
  The river's course. Well may he clasp his brow
  In doubt and wonder--is he dreaming now?--
  The cloud seems gathering up its folds of snow,
  And straight spars glitter in the sunset glow,
  Far loftier than the loftiest pine that rears
  Its stately crest above its tall compeers:
  Beneath--a huge dark mass is seen to glide
  With stealthy motion o'er the heaving tide,
  Crowded with moving forms of human mould,
  But of an aspect well might daunt the bold,
  Gazing the first time on that pallid crew,
  So foreign and so ghastly in their hue!
  But hark!--the distant shout that wildly pours
  Its thousand echoes on the strand, assures--
  Swift to the Chiefs he speeds--the wise--the bold
  In council meet--his tale is briefly told;
  Then far and near they gathered in their might
  And 'gainst the invader battled for their right,
  As valiant men should for the altars reared
  By their forefathers and the homes endeared
  By thousand ties and recollections past
  To which the heart clings warmly to the last.
  But not to lengthen out a thrice told tale--
  The Red Man never yielded to the Pale,
  Though forced by foreign fire to wander far,
  Homeless and houseless, neath the evening star.
  Slowly and sad, the western hills they climb,
  Yet find no rest beyond for wearied limb
  And aching heart--no single spot of earth,
  Of all the wide spread land that gave them birth,
  Is theirs. They gaze upon the setting sun
  And feel their course like his must soon be run--
  They hear their requiem in the deepening roar
  Of waves that dash upon the distant shore--
  But they must wander on unceasingly
  So long as space remains for footing free,
  Til hemmed at last twixt ocean and the foe
  They turn to bay _once more_ and perish so.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Oh! little dreamed the tender hearted maid,
  By love and her own gentleness betrayed,
  That death and desolation's fellest wrath
  So surely followed--in the very path
  Of good intent--to whelm her race with woes
  She would have warded even from her foes.
  Where yonder temporary structure frail[1]
  Extends across the strait its slender rail,
  The shallow waves at flood scarce overflow
  The sandy bar the ebb reveals below--
  'Twas there the royal daughter crost to save
  The pilgrim strangers from an early grave.
  Who that had seen her on that fatal night,
  Swift gliding, like a startled water sprite,
  To that lone Island-Fort where calmly slept
  The dreaming foe, in fancied safety wrapt--
  Who could have aimed at such a breast the shaft?
  Tho' well apprised no other means were left
  To baffle treason--not as such designed
  In the simplicity of her guileless mind.
  Had she been only destined to inherit
  A portion of that fierce determined spirit
  And deep prophetic hate--like vestal fire
  Nursed in the bosom of her royal sire,
  A nation's doom had not been rashly sealed
  By mercy thus so erringly revealed--
  But it is done--and lo! the love which hurled
  An ancient race to ruin--GAINED A WORLD!!

[Footnote 1: Alluding to the new bridge erected by Collier Minge, Esq.
affording passage from the main land to the island, where a wharf has
been built for the accommodation of steamboat travellers.]




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE FATED CITY.


  'Twas evening, and the sinking sun
    Streamed brightly in the sky,
  And cast his farewell beams abroad,
  Like smiles of an approving god,
    O'er plain, and mountain high--
  O'er waving fields of floating gold
  That, round his gorgeous pyre, were rolled,
  And o'er the city's glistening spires,
  That flashed beneath his blazing fires.

  There lay that city;--wealth and pride
    Had built their temples there,
  And swift-winged commerce there had brought,
  From many a clime, her trophies caught:--
    From Indian isles afar,
  The pearl, the beryl and the gem;--
  But treasures, far outvieing them,
  Were with that city's wealth combined--
  The priceless treasures of the mind!

  The sun went down, and night came o'er
    That city's winding walls;
  The white moon rose along the sky,
  And looked down calm, and silently,
    Upon the shouting halls,
  Where music rang, and laughter went,
  From lip to lip, in merriment;--
  Where all was careless, heedless, light,
  Besporting on that festal night!

  An hour passed on;--what cry was that,
    Which thrilled that city so?
  What shrieks are those,--what means yon cloud
  That wraps the temple, like a shroud,
    And fills the breast with wo?--
  What mean yon flames, that blazing, run
  Along that mountain dark and dun?--
  Why quakes the land,--why heaves the sea--
  Why peal the heavens dreadfully?

  Night left the earth;--the sun arose,
    As wont, above the sky,
  And looked,--not on that city bright,
  Which he had left before the night,
    With turrets gleaming high;
  But on a black and blasted waste,
  Dread desolation's hand had traced,--
  Upon a flood of _lava_, where
  Once proudly stood POMPEII fair!

A. B. M.

_Tuscaloosa, Alabama_.


{101}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

HYMN TO THE STARS.

BY D. MARTIN, _of Mobile_.


  Ye burning blazonry of God!
    Ye glittering lights that never die!
  That pace the realms by seraphs trod!
    And hold untiring watch on high!
  And circling heaven's eternal king,
  Ye dwell--His glorious fashioning!

  Creation saw your timeless birth,
    When from your own clear sapphire skies,
  Ye looked upon the virent earth,--
    An everlasting paradise!--
  And seemed to mock with silent gaze,
  Nature's green garb and tuneless lays!

  Since then ye've read the world's black page,
    And seen a stream sublime,
  Roll its dark waters o'er an age
    Of countless years of time!--
  In whose deep, dark, unletter'd caves,
  Earth hides her mighty as in graves!

  Life's wasting--but ye still shine on,
    And seem to me to be,
  The lights upon the horizon
    Of eternity's black sea!--
  Pointing to the sun-lit far off west,
  Where all immortal spirits rest!




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO * * * * *.


  Believe not that my heart is cold,
    And feels not friendship's sacred fire,
  If I sometimes myself withhold,
    And from thy festive scenes retire.

  Oh, no! I love the social bower
    Where friendship smiles with joyous mirth,
  And yet to me there is an hour
    More dear than all those scenes on earth.

  'Tis when in pensive mood, the mind,
    Retires within itself to muse,
  And some bright dream, long since resigned,
    With sad though pleasing thought reviews;

  Some golden dream of early years,
    When all the heart was warm and true;
  And life, unshaded yet with cares,
    Displayed its best and brightest hue.

  'Twas then I dreamed of faithful love,
    That would o'er time and change prevail--
  Food, fairy scenes of pleasure wove--
    Bright, verdant spots in life's dark vale.

  But time advanced, and at one sweep
    My air-built castles tore away;
  And, like a wreck upon the deep,
    My shattered hopes and prospects lay.

  Upon life's ocean still I'm tossed;
    And tho' the skies are sometimes bright,
  Yet on the waves again I'm lost,
    Midst howling storms and pitchy night.

  Believe not then my heart is cold,
    And feels not friendship's sacred fire,
  If I sometimes myself withhold,
    And from thy festive scenes retire.

L.

_Pittsylvania_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE GRAVE SEEKERS.

BY R. S. F.


  Come part the crowd, and open a way,
    For those who are seeking the grave;
  Some are pressing on in the light of day,
  Some by the moon's obscurer ray,
    Some on land and some on the wave.

  Now come with me to the festive hall,
    Where in mirth they dance and sing,
  Till echo is answered by echo's call,
  As the merry peals ring from one and all;
    To the grave they swiftly wing.

  Again with me, come haste away
    Where the theatre shines so bright,
  For there the lamps, with their peerless ray,
  Have darkness changed into brighter day.
    They gaze on the stage with delight!

  Come follow this crowd which moves as the wave
    On the gently ebbing sea;
  With the scenes of the night their bosoms heave,
  But little they think the next is the grave,
    Not of the stage--but eternity.

  See, reckless youth--maturer age
    Alike are far from heaven;
  In festive scenes their time engage--
  They idly sport--they madly rage--
    While to the grave they are driven.

  Ye may trace their path as ye move along
    The busy crowds of care;
  In the house of God--in the house of song--
  In distant isles--the waves among,
    To the grave they must all repair.

  So part the crowd, and open a way,
    For those who are seeking the grave;
  Some are pressing on in the light of day,
  Some by the moon's obscurer ray,
    Some on land and some on the wave.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO A YOUNG CHILD.

BY D. MARTIN, _of Mobile_.


  Thou hast a clear, unsullied brow,
    A bright and dreaming eye,--
  And a spirit free and chainless,
    As cherubs in yon sky!

  The meteor lights of intellect,
    Glance lightly on thee now,
  And play like fairy revellers,
    Upon thy parian brow!

  Well, be it so--and may thy life
    Be like a summer stream,
  That sparkles into gladness,
    Beneath the sun's bright beam.

  May thy brow ne'er wear the coloring
    Of passion's stern commotion,--
  Which darkens many a God-like one,
    While on life's stormy ocean!

  May the sunny hours of childhood
    Be the last to pass away,--
  And the setting sun of life's dark night,
    Dawn on a brighter day!


{102}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

CUPID'S SPORT.

  "Am I in fairy land?--or tell me, pray,
   To what love lighted bower I've found my way?
   Sure luckless wight was never more beguiled
   In woodland maze, or closely-tangled wild."


Some where in Virginia, and in a certain year,--but I beg you will not
inquire when or where, for you will break the thread of my discourse,
and I shall be compelled, like corporal Trim when he was rehearsing
the Lord's prayer before my dear uncle Toby, to begin at the
beginning, at every interruption,--there lived a young man, in a
certain town--

Now my dear reader, do you suppose I intend telling you a story
without a single name, date or place in it? If you do, I am afraid you
would see me at Kamschatka, or in Simms' hole, before you would make
up your mind to travel one inch with me, or listen to one syllable.

Well, then, in a _certain_ place, and at a _certain_ time, as young
_Timothy_ was sitting in the cool evening's shade, musing o'er the
events that human life befall, and reflecting upon the many ups and
downs he must necessarily encounter during the residue of his life,
that _old_ heathen god, who, paradoxical as it may appear, is still as
_young_ as he was at the day of his birth, I mean sly Cupid, who was,
is, and ever will be a boy to all eternity, happened to have been
snugly perched upon a branch of the very tree under which our friend
was reclining, and the little urchin sat pluming his variegated wings,
and feeling the points of his keen feathery arrows, preparing for his
evening's sport.

Poor Tim! how little did he dream he was the subject the young god had
selected for as merry a frolic as ever fortune smiled upon in her
merriest mood. Tim was in his twentieth year,--"a leal light heart was
in his breast," he knew not the cares and anxieties of the world, nor
had he yet encountered fortune's frowns; he had enjoyed a full portion
of her smiles and blandishments, and his life had flitted along like a
gay summer's dream. He had yet to learn that all his castles were but
air built and fanciful, and it was necessary he should plod a little
upon his mother earth. Tim was none of your dashing thorough-going
bloods, who soar aloft with the eagles of the day, ever and anon to
pounce upon some harmless pigeon,--nor was he one of your gig and
tandem boys,--flourish and dash,--tinsel and paint,--who whirl about
for a season, and are all the go while the chink or the credit lasts,
but who, finally whirl off to jail, or into obscurity and
insignificance, nobody knows where, and nobody cares when. He was a
mild, pleasant, merry-making fellow. As for his person,--my dear miss,
you must excuse me; I know from your looks, you are curious to know
whether he had black hair and black eyes,--or light hair and blue
eyes,--or red hair and grey eyes,--but, really, I can't tell
you,--certain it is, he had eyes and a nose, and

  "When he happened to grin,
   His mouth stood across
   'Twixt his nose and his chin."

There he lay, all defenceless, on his right side, (I like to be
particular,) with his clean white roundabout, and his waistcoat
unbuttoned, both thrown carelessly over his left arm; there lay his
heart, gently swelling and subsiding and he unconscious of its
undulating flow--while Cupid--I was about to say, while Cupid's keen
eyes were penetrating its inmost recesses, and eyeing it as a hawk
some sunny perch in a limpid stream,--but, alas for Cupid--the
ancients have interdicted the use of his eyes; nevertheless, on the
present occasion, it is necessary for my purposes that Cupid should,
at least, take the bandage from off his eyes, and the ancients to the
contrary notwithstanding, I do maintain that the sly god has as
beautiful a pair of eyes as ever were seen,--yes, and he is able to
change them at his pleasure. At one time, he appears with the mildest,
softest, kindest, clearest, heavenly blue eyes;--at another, with the
keenest, blazing, and yet the blackest eyes that ever flashed wit, and
eloquence, and expressing all the passions that the heart ever darts
through its open portals. All eyes are his, of every hue and every
form,--and at this moment, he was using as playful and as devilish a
pair, as ever bewitched and enchanted a trembling maiden. He sat
quietly selecting the most mortal parts of that defenceless heart,
with bow well strung, and barbed arrows, and ever and anon, he placed
the winged messenger to the string and twanged his silver bow. Cupid
sometimes but tips his arrows' point with a poison, as rapid in its
action and as efficacious as the most powerful prussic acid, and wo to
the youth or the maid who feels the deadly pang; at other times, he
slightly dips the barb, and leaves it to time and circumstances to
develop its potent influence. On the present occasion, having smitten
poor Tim with a double portion, away he flew, to practise his wiles on
other subjects. Gentle reader, you are now introduced to our young
friend Tim,--you have seen him in a condition worse than that of
Daniel in the lions' den, and whether he is delivered or not your
patience will enable you to discover. Would that I could have
interposed a shield to protect the youth, but what the fates decree no
mortal can prevent,--and you know, what is to be, happens for the
best.

Have you ever seen a lady setting her cap for a beau? This is an every
day occurrence, and yet how difficult to explain, though ever so easy
to perform. It is one of those things that delicate fingers alone can
accomplish or pourtray. For my part, I have seen, and heard, and
thought, and talked much and often of these caps, that, nine times in
ten, are no caps at all, and yet the exact method of setting them is
not to be described. Were I to describe the lady's habiliments, you
would have not the least idea how her cap was set,--were I to dwell
upon the peculiar cut of the cap itself,--its points or its quillings,
its trimmings or its laces, and how it was placed, whether on the tip
of the head, or down upon the ears, or a little to one side, or
square,--or round,--it matters not, you would still be wide of the
mark; but yet, when the "cap is set," there is no mistake in the
matter.

Good reader, you are not acquainted with my little Mary. She had as
happy a knack of setting a cap, as ever a lass had since the days of
mother Eve, and on this very evening, she will appear with it set to
such advantage, that all the family servants, as she passes them, will
utter an involuntary "umph--u--u!"--Can you conceive the peculiar
sound here vainly attempted to be embodied--for of all utterable
exclamations it is the most exhilirating to a miss in her teens. If
you cannot:--know, that it signifies, "I tell you what, young {103}
massa, you better steer clear." Little Molly is not the greatest
beauty of the age, nor yet the loveliest flower that ever bloomed, but
she was pretty enough to make Cupid's little arrows rankle in Tim's
susceptible heart, and fate would have it, that they should
accidentally meet, some how or other, wherever they went. She had a
peculiar way of her own, of fixing on a bonnet,--a little gipsy
bonnet,--down the sides of which, hung her long flaxen ringlets, and
where she parted her hair on her forehead, there was carelessly pinned
a half blooming moss rose, behind which sat Cupid laughing in his
sleeve. I say carelessly pinned, because it seemed as though it
mattered not whether 'twere there or not, and yet, more care had been
used in giving it its particular position, than all the rest of her
dress,--and perhaps, after all, this was "setting her cap." Tim had
never seen little Molly look half so sweet before, and when his eyes
and her's would meet, there was a sensation created that thrilled
through his every fibre; to him, that rose bud seemed to be instinct
with life and animation, and Cupid's laughing eyes and smiling face
made every leaf "a heart quake." Tim had been thought to be brave, his
comrades always looked up to him as a leader in daring enterprizes.
Men have been known to walk up to the cannon's mouth when the gunner
stood with the lighted match within a few inches of the powder, but to
storm a rose bud, manned by Cupid, on so polished a brow, required a
dare-devil spirit that human nature shrunk from,--and though Tim would
have given the world to have touched that bud, he could not have
advanced his finger an inch towards it by any possibility. This first
symptom of the operation of Cupid's arrows but few have escaped. You
would give the world to approach the loved object, and yet a touch
would create a shock as violent as that from a Leyden jar, well
charged with the electric fluid. Little Molly's was what would be
termed a laughing face, her clear blue eyes were lighted up by a mind
vivid and playful; cheerfulness and contentment were conspicuous on
her brow,--but yet she was one of your real mischievous little imps,
who knew a thing or two, and was up to all kinds of tricks,--in truth,
she used to say of herself that she had a little devil in her;--now
don't be alarmed my good reader; I don't mean the evil spirit who
roams about, seeking whom to devour--"that tailed, horned, heartless
chiel,--the very deil,"--but, she had a way of practising so many
little artful, innocently wicked things, and they were done in so
artless a manner, that though you would think from their effects his
satanic majesty alone was the guilty perpetrator, yet you could not
help loving his highness the more for his misdeeds. Of all things in
the world, she seemed to derive most pleasure from practising her
playfulness on friend Tim, and at every successive effort, Tim would
only exclaim, "surely the devil's in the girl! what in the devil does
she mean?" Tim had better have suffered the devil to go about his
business--but no, he kept inquiring what in the devil the girl meant,
till Cupid had him, head and ears, neck and shoulders, heart and soul,
body and life, as safe a prisoner as ever was incarcerated in a
dungeon's darkness. Little Molly was perfectly innocent of any
intention to entrap our friend; nothing was further from her thoughts;
she only intended at the outset to gratify her disposition for fun,
and she knew no more the state of her own heart than if she had been
deprived of that throbbing, thumping, turbulent member; but when
kindred hearts often sport together, and kindred eyes often meet with
kindred glances, kindred throbs will beat, awakening kindred feelings,
which some little flaxen haired, clear, blue eyed lassies find truly
difficult to obliterate.

Reader, dost thou expect me to give thee in black and white my hero's
courtship? Of all the things in the world, the most tame and insipid
are lovers' courtships,--it may be the most interesting, animating,
soul-stirring, thrilling courtship that ever mortal breathed, but
canst thou enter into the feelings and go along with the heart in its
gentle outpourings? 'Tis not words, sentences, nor ideas, clothed in
the dress of fancy, or robed in imagination's best attire. 'Tis the
look, the touch, the action, that constitutes the universal language
of love none can misunderstand.

I must take thee my good friend, (for we must be friends who are
travelling so cosily together,) and place thine eye at a key hole,
where "you shall see what you shall see." Alas poor Tim! I have been
watching thy movements; thou evidently knowest not what thou
doest,--instead of reading as thou wast wont, thou hast been serving
thine apprenticeship to that _manufacturer_ Cupid! Of all the epithets
that ever were applied to a heathen god, none can be more appropriate,
though I say it who should not, than this epithet bestowed by me upon
Cupid.--Cupid a manufacturer? Yes, a manufacturer. Whenever you see a
poor fellow sweating over the fire, filing, and stretching, and
polishing rings, carving hearts and diamonds, and the like, you may
set it down that Cupid is teaching his apprentice the first rudiments
of his art,--for he is the master workman who superintends the
manufacture of all such invaluable tokens, and teaches the how, and
the where, and the when, they are to be distributed and bestowed. You
are now seated at that key hole; I have told you what has been Tim's
employment, make the best use of your eyes, and tell us what you see.
Who ever saw a fellow try on a ring in that way before?--putting the
ring upon the fore-finger?--the rogue knows as well as you do, that
that little ring will not go over the first joint of that finger, but
then it is so pleasant to try, the finger is so soft and white. Trying
it on the middle finger?--he knows that the ring will not go over the
nail, but that finger is so tapering, how could he avoid it. Had it
been you or I, we should have placed it at once on the ring finger,
and there would have been an end of the matter,--but look! the fellow
is trying it upon the little finger--that finger is so little, and
some how or other, so lonely, he feels for it a tender compassion. A
little finger look lonely when in company with three fingers and a
thumb? Aye,--lonely,--and its little nail is so thin you may see the
blood circulating under it, and of all things to see the blood flowing
fresh from the heart, so delicately tinged, is----The fellow has
slipped the ring on, is gently squeezing the whole hand, and "has
raised his wistful eyes to heaven,"--and little Molly has gently
tapped him on the cheek with her fan, as much as to say "you rogue."

Get away from the door, my good friend, you have now seen as much as
we bargained for: and my dear miss, you are curious to know what
conversation passed all the while between Tim and little Mary; I'll
tell you: {104} there did not pass one solitary word, but two little
hearts were in as much of a flutter as ever was made by a flock of
partridges, springing from their cover.

By this time Tim had become grave and sentimental, and oh! if you ever
heard music!--morning, noon, and night, there was the most incessant
fluting,--fluting,--fluting. It was all of that soft die-away kind,
you would have thought that Tim's soul was melting away and softly
escaping through his flute. His heart, too, had undergone as thorough
a change as that of the silk worm transformed into the fluttering
moth. His mind was etherealized: instead of the humdrum, commonplace,
prosing thoughts he once indulged in, his imagination now soared
aloft,--he was dwelling amid the heights of Parnassus, his soul was
drinking in the nectar of poesy and revelling in the ambrosia of
fancy. You may talk of the pierian spring as the fount of knowledge;
you may invoke the muses from their heavenly habitation, and Apollo
and Minerva may attend in their train, but unless Cupid's arrows have
drank of the heart's blood, tinging the sources of the mind's
impressions, poesy will still be steeped in Lethe's wave, and never
spring into life's gay morn. Now, every thought is dressed and
ornamented, and oh! the fantastic flights!--oh! the soft mellow
pastorals,--the country life, the blue vaulted arch unspotted with a
cloud--nature, simple and gay; there she is, sweetly clad all
beautiful and fresh--aye, and the loved one!--pearls and gems, and
diamonds, and roses, and lilies, and stars, and suns, and firmaments
in splendor glowing, and "could the busy bee but taste those lips,
he'd quit his hollow domes to revel 'mid the sweets upon that hallowed
spot."

As for little Molly, she, too, had undergone a metamorphosis, she who
was wont to play so many "tricks before high heaven," who loved to
play them off upon poor Tim, better than on all others, had grown so
shy, you would have sworn she hated the very sight of him. In the
company of others, when Tim was present, she scarcely opened her
mouth,--to him, she scarcely ever spoke,--of him--no word of
remembrance broke from her lips,--you would have thought he was
obliterated from her mind; but more could be read by these two in a
single glance of the eye, than volumes could express. As for me, I'd
rather have the sensation produced by one of those stolen glances than
be made a king. In such a situation, I would not be compelled to talk,
by all the racks of the inquisition--silence is delight. But at such a
time, to be bored with one of your real clatter, clatter, jabbering,
never ending, incessant talkers, is the most horrible purgatory. Poor
Tim was just in this situation. Little Molly had a noisy, officious
cousin, who, he thought uglier than the veriest hag that ever shrank
and shrivelled into stringy nothingness, and yet the girl was comely
enough. She had taken it into her head, that her cousin Mary hated the
aforesaid Tim, and therefore kindly volunteered to rid her of so
troublesome a companion; and in consequence of such sage surmises,
never failed when Tim paid a visit, to intrude herself among
them;--and oh the clatter!--Tim's heart sank within him--he came not
to talk!

My dear young miss, whoever thou art, that seest these lines, let me
advise thee as a friend, to take thyself to thine own apartment, and
remain in solitude the balance of thy life, rather than interfere in
these critical moments; for you may rely upon it that thou art hated,
contemned, abhorred and despised to a degree that is truly sinful.
Thou art cursed with ten thousand more curses than ever Dr. Slop
poured upon the head of luckless Obadiah.

Gentle reader, (for thou must be gentle to have travelled with me so
far without wincing, and yet have heard so little,) can you tell me
how it is that when a man is in love, however rambling and roving his
disposition may have been before, as soon as he is fairly caught, he
becomes from that moment confined to one solitary route. Let me
explain myself,--for I have been carefully noticing our friend Tim. He
and little Molly lived in the same town, but at a considerable
distance apart, and yet to whatever part of the town Tim was called,
he was as certain to pass by little Molly's house as he was to pass
out of his own door. For instance, he would go to the post office, and
from the frequency of his visits, you would have supposed he had more
correspondents than all the merchants of the place put together, and
while the post office was up town, little Molly's was down town, and
yet he invariably went down town by little Molly's to get up town to
the post office. One might suppose that Tim expected to see little
Molly at the windows, but she was not one of your starers, who employ
themselves in gazing at the comers and goers, and I'll venture to say,
that in six months, Tim never saw her once, and yet go in what
direction he might ultimately intend, go down town in the first place
he must,--and he experienced more pleasure in passing that house than
in eating his breakfast or his dinner.--This is a species of
hydrophobia that I will leave you to think on and cure.

These incidents had occurred--these symptoms had been made
manifest.--In the mean time two years rolled onwards.--Tim was in his
twenty-second year, and little Molly in her eighteenth.

One day as Tim stood ready with his hat in his hand to take his leave
after an interview,--it had been a long and hopeless one,--looking
wistfully at her, he said energetically and in a voice deep toned--"It
is the _last_ time I will ask. If you are in earnest, I go forever!" I
listened, but could not hear the reply. There was a pause. Perhaps,
nothing was said. I thought I heard a kiss. I may be mistaken, but
certain I am, that instead of hearing Tim leave the house, I heard him
walk rapidly to the table, and throw down his hat. When I again saw
him,--the pensive, musing, meditative Tim was the merriest fellow that
ever cracked a bottle.

When a man has had his hat in his hand, and with a wo-begone
countenance has risen to make a final adieu, under the impression that
he is utterly discarded and despised, and suddenly resumes his seat
with such evidences of change of purpose; we generally presume he has
obtained the liberty of hanging his hat up, which is tantamount to
obtaining the liberty of the domicil, and is what I should call the
gentleman's setting his hat, in contradistinction to the lady's
setting her cap.

Day after day, go when you would, and peep into that passage, you
would find Tim's new beaver hanging upon the same hook, and these two
young innocents sitting side and side, cheek and joke, feasting on
each others' eyes.

Tim would sometimes talk of the future, and develop his little schemes
for their mutual happiness; but if ever he touched upon that most
delicate of all subjects, the {105} ascertainment of the period when
their two hearts were to be linked indissolubly together, all the
delicacy of the female character would instantly be aroused, and
little Molly, in a playful mood, would sing out "time enough yet, time
enough yet."

Matters remained in this unsettled condition, our friend Tim still
enduring the same uncertainty, living in that half delightful, half
vexatious state which totally unfits a man for any occupation, unless
it be "breathing soft music through a mellow pipe." Our friend thought
more than once 'twas time these scenes should be ended: accordingly he
determined to inform his good mother of his happy prospects, as a
prelude to his future movements. Many ineffectual efforts were made,
but it was a delicate business. How to commence these soft narrations
has puzzled more heads than one. He had given the old lady repeated
chances to help him out, by sly hints and inuendoes, but she would
never perceive what he was driving at. The truth was, she had selected
in her own mind a most eligible match for her son, and she could not
believe he was so blind as not to discover its advantages. Money was
the foundation upon which that edifice was to be erected; but Tim,
poor fellow, belonged to an ill-fated family. Not one of his ancestors
had ever married other than a poor girl, from the remotest antiquity,
and he had a sentimental notion of such affairs, that would forever
exclude the idea of his marrying a rich one, whatever other
qualifications she might possess.

At length, Tim succeeded in getting his mother safely cornered, the
door shut and no one else present. Walking backwards and forwards for
a minute or two, he stopped suddenly, as if he was about to commence.
The old lady was knitting away by the fire. Instead of commencing, Tim
walked to a chair as if he was about placing it close along side and
stating the whole case like a man; but turning about, he deliberately
sat the chair in the corner and folded his arms.

"Mother," said Tim, and then he cleared his throat. "What, my son?" "I
have been thinking whether it would not be better to have our old
house painted?" This was a new idea, one that never had crossed Tim's
mind till it was uttered, and as it happened, 'twas not an
inappropriate one. "But, my child, it will answer very well as it is,
for such an old body as I, and if you begin to paint, you will be
compelled to furbish up every thing else." "But, mother, suppose I
should think of courting some young body?" "Oh, if you will fall in
love with my little favorite, you can afford to paint and furbish
too." That was a chord Tim had heard struck before to-day. "Suppose
_she_ wont love me, and somebody else will." "Faint heart," said his
consoling mother, "never won fair lady." The old lady was off upon the
old track; but Tim having fairly begun, was not to be so easily
baffled this time--so taking up his chair, he walked deliberately to
the fire and seating himself, placed his feet upon the fender.

"Mother," said Tim, "it is time I should tell you that"--rap, rap,
rap,--tantarara, bang--rang the old brass knocker at the outer door.
"See who is there, my son." Hang all the world thought Tim--shall I
never have an opportunity of telling the old lady? Tim took no candle
with him to the door. "Who's here?" "Harry, sir." "Well, uncle Harry,
what do you want?" "Mass Tim, Miss Mary send her complements, and tell
me give you dis letter." Tim ran his hand into his pocket and gave old
Harry a bit of silver. "I reckon," said Harry, who began to think Mass
Tim and he were old cronies, "I reckon young Missus dont send letters
to young Massa for nutting." "Wait for an answer a moment, uncle
Harry," said Tim kindly. "Who's at the door, my son?" said the old
lady, as Tim returned, holding an open letter in his hand. "A servant,
madam," was the reply. "What," said Tim to himself, as he walked to
the candle, "does my Mary want?"

Good reader, while old Harry is waiting at the door in the best humor
in the world, because he had the good fortune to be the bearer of a
_love letter_ as he shrewdly suspected, from his young mistress to so
good a young gentleman, and while the good old lady is knitting away
and thinking how to induce her son to fall in love with _her_
favorite, if thou wilt follow my example, thou mayst perceive what is
going on for thyself. Thou seest that I am about to take a sly peep
over friend Tim's shoulder, and if thou wilt peep over the other, thou
mayst discover what otherwise thou wilt never have an opportunity of
perceiving.

"_Saturday Evening_.

"MR. TIMOTHY WILBERFORCE.

"Can Mr. Wilberforce forgive and forget one who has injured him much?
Oh! how I reproach myself for having given you hopes, my friend, that
can never be realized. Mr. Wilberforce, you must forget me; and oh,
can you not attribute my strange conduct to my youth? I am so young
and thoughtless. Indeed, I would not willingly give you pain. Can we
not continue friends? I hope we may, but indeed you must forget the
promises I have made you, and if possible forgive me. I find I do not
love you as I ought. Let us be friends, but nothing more. MARY."

Tim had seen his mother watching his countenance while he was reading:
so putting on a smile, "Is that all? Pshaw, I thought it was something
important," said he, going to the outer door. "Harry, there is no
occasion to wait--no answer is necessary." Slam went the door. The
bolt rang with a double turn. The letter was wadded in his breeches'
pocket. "Who was that letter from, Tim?" said his mother. "A young
friend has asked me to go serenading with him," replied honest Tim.
Down he sat, with his feet upon the fender, and his arms folded over
his breast. Then seizing the poker,--punch, punch, punch--you would
have sworn it was freezing. Every coal was upturned--the room was
filled with dust and smoke. "My son, it is not very cold to-night."
Tim kept stirring the fire. "Did you desire to have the old house
painted, Tim? If you wish it, my son"--"madam?"--"You were saying,
Timothy, that you were about to tell me something?" "Did I?" Down went
the poker, and Tim paced the apartment.

My good friend, were you in such a situation, what would you do? Only
think of that rap at the door at such a moment--of the contents of
that _love_ epistle--of that dear uncle Harry! For my part, I shall
ever believe as long as I live, that there is something in names, and
that none but a very old Harry Scratch himself could have been charged
with such a scrawl. What would you have done? Tell the old lady the
whole matter? What! with all those contending, conflicting
feelings--passions--hopes--blasted and utterly {106} destroyed! As for
me, I think a man would be _almost_ excusable if he had walked
premeditatedly to his razor case and cut his throat. Tim did no such
thing. He walked to--bed.

Will you be so kind as to explain to me, why little Mary--our sweet,
innocent, flaxen-haired little Molly, who was as much in love as ever
lassie was, should have acted thus strangely? You who pretend to
fathom the profundity of human motives and to ascribe proper causes
for every action, will you unriddle this enigma? But the day before,
she was as kind, as affectionate as usual, and in every way the same
to Tim. From this time forward, too, she was as friendly as any other
friend; and yet, as indifferent as if their hearts had never beat in
unison--as if their eyes had never read the inmost thought of each
others soul--as if their lips:--to me and to Tim, it is utterly
inexplicable.

Time--old father time--flies with his mowing scythe. This is the
account the ancients give of the matter, but I have a notion that we
should as well exclaim, time--old doctor time--flies with his healing
balm, cicatrizing every wound; for if it was not for doctor time,
Cupid might be more appropriately represented with his sickle
gathering in his harvest; but time with his "balm of Gilead," or some
pleasing draught, manages to cure many a bleeding heart. I thank thee,
good doctor, thou hast come "with healing under thy wings," more than
once to me.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MY CLASSMATES.

By the author of the "Extract from a Novel that will never be
published."


There were two among my companions at College with whom my intimacy
was particularly close. They differed much from each other, as I did
from them, in character and mental powers, but we were from the same
state, viz. Virginia, although from different parts of it; and the
presence of each of us spoke to the others of our distant homes, and
formed a tie that bound us closely together. There is besides, a
strong local attachment, separate and distinct from national feeling,
(a peculiar one, as far as my observation extends, in our country,)
pervading the native born inhabitants of that state, particularly the
eastern and southern section of it, which draws them like brothers
together when abroad. However reserved a Virginian may be to others,
his heart immediately opens to one who possesses the same birthright
with himself; and for him, if called upon, he will encounter pecuniary
inconvenience and personal risk. I have known many instances of this
feeling. But to my tale. The elder of us three, by name Morriss
Heywood, was one of those beings on whom has been bestowed the
fearful--almost fatal gift of genius. He stood pre-eminent among us
all, towering in intellect, piercing the veil of truths hid from our
dimmer eyes, revelling in the gardens of imagination barred to our
dull and every day capacities. While we with pigmy steps and slow,
crept along the paths of knowledge, urging our toilsome way with many
a groan, he pressed forward with a giant's stride, and left us a
sightless distance in the rear. His disposition too was noble as his
mind. Generous beyond the bounds of prudence--brave to the verge of
rashness--ever ready to afford assistance to those who required it--to
promote their welfare, and to condole with, and partake of their
grievances. Like most persons of extraordinary powers, his temper was
unequal. At times gloomy and abstracted, shunning all communion,
avoiding all recreation, abstaining from exercise and almost from
food,--he would bury himself in the seclusion of his chamber, devoting
day and night to intense application; then sated for a time with his
"deep draught" at "the well spring of science," he would come among us
full of life and gaiety, the soul and promoter of every frolic,
breathing into us the spirit of his own warm heart, robing common
things with the hues of his own bright fancy, and lighting up the very
regions of dulness with the quick and brilliant flashes of his wit.
The grave professors regarded him with amazement, and some of them
even with fear; for sometimes in the spirit of mischief, he would
sport with their heavy and useless learning, and puzzle them sadly
with the subtleness of his inquiries,--leading them unconsciously into
the mazes of metaphysical absurdities, and then leaving them with a
quibble or a jest to pick their way out as they could, floundering at
every step, and conscious of the ridicule they incurred. My other
friend, Charles Drayton, had no peculiar characteristic that calls for
present description. He had ordinary intellect, great application, a
kind but not a warm heart, and a disposition to submit to legitimate
authority; for all which, when we were graduated, he was rewarded with
some fifth or sixth rate honor. The busy pursuits of life soon
separated me from them after our departure from college. They
commenced the study of the law, while I doubting my powers to succeed
in the learned professions, and naturally inclined to an active life,
turned my attention to commerce, and in the course of business, was
called on to leave "my native land" to sojourn in a far distant one,
and my return was not until after an absence of many years. During
those years of labor and various fortunes, my time and talents devoted
to one ruling object, the acquisition of wealth, (but not, I trust,
influenced by sordidness, or ever induced to employ unworthy means,)
my communications with home had been very rare, and of my early
friends I had received no tidings; but often after reposing from the
toils of the day, when the bustle of occupation was hushed, and the
wearied mind revolted from following up the many schemes of
aggrandizement that so constantly taxed it, memory would roll back to
those halcyon days of my youth, and the images of Heywood and of
Drayton would be mirrored in freshness to my fancy, while I busied
myself in conjectures as to their probable fate and fortunes. Were
they still among the living? Had Heywood fulfilled the promise of his
early youth, and climbed with vigorous step

  "The hill, where fame's proud temple shines afar?"

Had the perseverance of Drayton won for him wealth and respectability
in his profession? More he could not attain to. And amid their busy
struggles, did they ever recur to the friend who was absent, with the
same deep feeling that dwelt in his heart for them?

After many efforts, sometimes crowned with success, and often, very
often marked by adversity, fortune at last smiled upon them, and
placed me in a situation (as I was alone in the world,) of comparative
wealth. I {107} wound up my affairs as speedily as possible, and
embarked for home. My voyage was prosperous: once more I trod the free
soil of the United States of America, and bent my way without delay to
the town of ----, where first I drew my infant breath. It was evening
when I reached it. I found it much altered, enlarged and improved; but
around me were many a memorial of the times gone by;--and as the
slanting rays of the setting sun threw their purple and gold on the
broad summit of the well remembered hills, and played in ever changing
beauty on the ripple of the chrystal stream, I seemed borne back from
the present, when Time had furrowed my brow and sprinkled his snows
upon my hair, to that past, when the smooth forehead and the curly
locks, the long loud laugh, and the joyous leap, were tokens of the
happy boy. In passing along the main road leading to the town, I had
observed at some little distance from it, a very large and handsome
brick edifice, in the midst of highly cultivated grounds, where
formerly there had stood a very indifferent wooden building, on a
neglected farm, the property of an idle and dissipated gentleman. It
was very foolish to do so, and yet I uttered a half sigh at the
change; for although the present state of things was infinitely more
agreeable to the eye, it struck coldly on my heart and jarred the
chord of cherished associations. When I had fairly established myself
at the "best inn," and answered as I pleased, all customary inquiries
as to who I was, whence from, where going to, and numberless other
impertinencies, I commenced querist in turn, and the information I
then and subsequently obtained from other quarters, I am now about to
lay before the reader. Both of my college friends after obtaining
their licenses, had removed to my native town, which then offered the
best field in the state for the practice of the law. Heywood had, as I
was sure he would, commenced his career at the bar with signal
success. His very first appearance, his maiden speech, had given him a
station far beyond his youthful competitors, and indeed among the
foremost ranks of those who had grown gray in their vocation. He had
been entrusted, with others, in the management of a case of great
difficulty, and involving property to a large amount; and in the
examination of the witnesses, had exhibited a knowledge of human
character, and a power to discover and elicit truth, that in one so
young and so unpracticed, seemed absolutely marvellous; while his
familiarity with the abstruse points and technicalities of the law,
appeared as close and intimate as if he had spent years in acquiring
it. He was regarded as a prodigy, and indeed he was one. I have seen
many men in many climes, but never have I met with Heywood's equal in
native genius; and then the godlike mind with which he was endowed,
was set forth and enhanced by a corresponding face and figure. His
stature was tall and his bulk in proportion, but there was no
clumsiness. His limbs were

  "Heaped with strength, and turned with elegance;"

His presence was lordly, with his statue-like brow, crested with short
dark curls, the Roman nose, the sharp cut lips, and the full large
pellucid eye, in which "the lightning played." His was

  "A combination, and a form indeed,
   On which, every god had seemed to set his seal,
   To give the world assurance of a man."

One thus gifted was eagerly sought after, and while business poured on
him from all quarters, his society was every where courted. The
presence of Heywood was an indispensable requisite to any meeting
whose object was pleasure. Nor did he refuse it, or hold himself aloof
from the amusements sought after by others. He could be gay with the
gay, and sedate with the grave, and without an effort; and even in the
midst of what may be termed dissipation, none had cause to complain
that their affairs entrusted to his care were not faithfully attended
to and ably managed. Thus did he go on increasing in usefulness and
reputation, and men looked forward to the time when he would rank
among the master spirits of the day, and perhaps reach the highest
honors his country could bestow. Indeed a new career had now been
opened to him, which promised to lead to such a result. He had been
chosen to represent his county in the state legislature, and there as
at the bar, his success was immediate and brilliant. To him it truly
seemed

  ----------------"an easy leap,
  To pluck bright honor from the pale faced moon;"

and, (to follow up the quotation,) he might fairly hope

  "To wear without corrival all her dignities."

Such then was Morriss Heywood; in years a youth, a man in wisdom--the
possessor of genius, health, reputation and beauty; his career as yet
unchecked by a single obstacle--his hopes undimmed by the shadow of a
fear. There resided at that period in the county of ---- an
individual, who, by a long course of unremitting industry and the most
grinding parsimony, together with less honest, if lawful means, had
amassed an overgrown fortune; and having money at command, had
contrived by lending it to the neighboring farmers, (generally
improvident men,) and exacting high interest for its use, taking
mortgages on their estates as security, to make himself the real if
not nominal owner of half the landed property of the county. Having it
at his will at any moment to strip many of their possessions, he was
vested with a power that (although in their secret hearts all men
detested him, and execrated his very name,) challenged opinion, and
made dangerous as regarded him its public expression. It so happened
that one of those gentlemen on whom his gripe was fixed, and whose
debt, from an originally small sum, had swelled with usury until it
covered his whole estate, had been a patron and valuable friend of
this man, who was originally his overseer--had established him in the
business with which he commenced his career, and aided him both with
money and his name. It is a well established maxim, which hard
experience has gathered from human intercourse, that you insure
yourself an enemy when you bestow a benefit on a bad man. A noble mind
may find an obligation burthensome, and be galled by the sense of
dependence created by it. This feeling, however, does not destroy
gratitude to the benefactor; but the mean and unprincipled hate those
who give to them, from the consciousness that there is an utter
dissimilarity of character between the giver and themselves. It
grieves them that any should possess a virtue which they have not; and
the performance of a good action, even although they themselves are
its object, is gall and wormwood to their souls, from the secret
knowledge that they are {108} incapable of doing the same. This
violence of hatred which the wicked, without apparent motive,
entertain for the good, is forcibly pourtrayed by Shakspeare,
(nature's magician, who applied his "Open Sesame" to that dark cave
the human heart, penetrated its recesses, and explored its most secret
nooks,) when he makes Iago give as a reason for desiring the death of
Cassio,

  "He hath a daily beauty in his life
   That makes me ugly"----

The feelings engendered in the heart of Willis, (for that was the name
of the usurer,) by the kindness of his benefactor, were envy and
bitter hatred. Envy, that he possessed the means to be generous;
hatred, that having them he was so. But his heart rejoiced when he
reflected that this very generosity would betray itself; and as he
counted his own increasing gains, and became acquainted with the
diminished and decreasing resources of his friend, he foresaw the time
would come when their relative situations would be changed--when the
patron would in turn become the suitor, and be dependant on his former
menial's bounty. The time did come. A small loan was requested, and
granted with cheerfulness. "The spider" as Heywood afterwards said,
"had spun his first line." Then came a demand for a larger sum, which
was raised with a pretence of great difficulty. Another thread was
wrapped around the body of the victim. Slowly, silently, cautiously,
these tiny lines were drawn, with a touch so light, that they were not
felt until the web was fully formed--the prey secure--fluttering and
struggling in the toils,--but vainly struggling; for those little
threads had been plied and twisted into a cord of strength to bind the
unshorn Sampson.

Of all the galling miseries that man is heir to, the most intolerable,
the most debasing, the most corroding to the heart, the most
destructive to the mind, is the consciousness of debt without the
means of payment. Oh! what days of humiliation, what nights of nervous
wakefulness, or else of dreaming horror, does he abide, on whose
oppressed spirit is laid the load of payments he cannot meet, of
obligations he cannot cancel. For him, though the sun shines abroad,
there is no beauty in his beams. The earth is clothed with verdure,
and a thousand odorous flowers are scattered in his path. He heeds
them not; their perfume is wasted on him. The moon rides in liquid
lustre, and the myriad stars break forth in light, and the whole
heaven is clothed with exceeding glory; but there is a darkness in his
soul no light can penetrate--a grief at his heart no beauties of
nature can assuage. His energies are dead; they fester beneath the
pall of despair.

When at last every inch of his property was covered by debt, and the
remorseless creditor was about to strip and turn naked on the world,
him from whose hand he once had fed, kind death stepped in and
released the poor old gentleman from his troubles; and what he himself
was too honorable to do, his heirs did without hesitation. They
resisted Willis's claim upon the plea of usury. Heywood was their
advocate. Fired with indignation at the base ingratitude of the man,
he summoned all the powers of his eloquence against him, and so
awfully severe was the attack, that Willis, although in general bold
and impudent, slunk away from the court amid the hisses and groans of
the crowd. The very next day, to his utter amazement, Heywood was
waited on by Willis, who placed in his hands business of great value,
and paid him down a handsome fee.

"You see, Mr. Heywood, I can forgive and forget, as bad as you think
of me, and as much as you have abused me. The fact is, sir, you are
what I call a real clever man, and to my notion the best lawyer I've
met with--so you're the man for my money; and I suppose if I pay you
your fees, you'll do my business as soon as another man's--and I can
make it worth your while, I tell you. You said yesterday, I was a
vampire bloated with the lifeblood sucked in secret from the veins of
my victims. I remember the words, but not in malice. Well sir, when I
see fit I can bleed pretty free myself; and if you'll just consider
yourself my lawyer in all my cases, I'll pay you fifteen hundred a
year, and say done first."

"Mr. Willis," replied Heywood, "I have no hesitation in accepting your
offer, and will to the best of my ability serve you, as I would any
other individual who called upon me. It is my trade, or profession, to
advocate that cause in which I am retained; and although I rejoice
when I find I am on the right side, I have in common with my brethren,
no scruples in doing battle on the wrong."

And so they parted. It may perhaps be thought unnatural that Willis
should have acted in the way he did; but he was a shrewd, worldly wise
man, and could make any sacrifice to promote what he deemed his
interests. Now he had not forgiven, much less forgot. On the contrary,
his hatred of Heywood was deep and concentrated; but he knew him to
possess talents that were formidable when opposed to him, and on which
he could with safety rely when enlisted in his behalf.

The transactions of business necessarily carried Heywood to his
client's house, where one day being detained until the dinner hour, he
was introduced to Miss Louisa Willis, an exceedingly beautiful and
interesting lady of about eighteen. He was much struck with her, and
indeed it was impossible for the coldest disposition to withhold its
admiration from charms seldom surpassed, and then in the very fulness
of their bloom. With a form over whose round and soft proportions
hovered an atmosphere of the most soul subduing voluptuousness, she
was the possessor of a countenance, whose features in themselves
almost faultless, habitually wore the bewitching expression of
confiding love; as if for all she looked upon, there existed in her
bosom a living spring of kindness; and the consciousness of her own
deep charities, taught her to expect a like return from others. She
was the adopted daughter of Willis. Her parents, poor but highly
respectable people, died while she was yet an infant, having been
carried off within a few hours of each other, by one of those
pestilential fevers that sweep whole districts of our country, and
leave in their path the silence of death or the sob of mourning
anguish, where the sounds of merriment had been wont to break upon the
ear. Willis was alone in the world. There was no human being connected
with him by the ties of consanguinity: there was not one whom he had
propitiated by the exercise of kindness: and although the
consciousness that he was hated only served to harden and imbitter his
feelings, there were moments when he felt the loneliness of his
situation, and longed for something that even he could love.

{109} He took the little orphan to his home, and in her found the
object he had sought. Upon her he lavished all his bounty--bestowed
upon her the best education the capabilities of the country
afforded--and at a proper age, placed her in an eligible seminary in
the city of ----, whence indeed, at the time of Heywood's first
interview with her, she had just returned.--Perhaps the disposition of
Miss Willis--that of great sweetness with very little energy or
passion, was particularly calculated to win upon such a man as
Heywood. Himself all passion, burning with the consciousness of
uncommon powers, urged into action by the ever goading stimulus of a
brain that teemed with strong and beautiful thought,--now breaking out
into commanding eloquence--now running over with sparkling wit,--it
was enjoyment to him to find repose in another. His mind self taxed to
its utmost limit, was refreshed, and soothed, and solaced by the calm
and even purity which dwelt within that form of intoxicating
loveliness. Perhaps with persons constituted like Heywood, the same
ardor of passion might be exhibited towards any object, "in whose
fresh cheek" they might "meet the power of fancy;" perhaps their
glowing temperament would vest with beauty both of mind and person,
those who to common eyes had nothing to distinguish them. Be this as
it may, it is certain that he loved Miss Willis, deeply, devotedly,
ardently--with tender delicacy and with manly passion. Whether his
feelings were reciprocated by her, to the extent of which she was
capable, it is not for me to say: that secret lies within her own
bosom. Heywood thought so. He was constant in his attentions to her,
which seemed to be well received, and were certainly encouraged by
Willis. The only annoyance Heywood experienced, arose from his
feelings towards the latter. Greater familiarity with his character
had not, it is true, increased his abhorrence of it; perhaps it had
diminished it;--for as the visual eye becomes accustomed to look
without winking upon the disgusting and even the terrible, so does the
mental, and sad to say, the constant recurrence of deeds of vice,
lessens the sense of detestation which they at first inspired. But
there was something very galling to his pride, in the idea of
connecting himself in so close a manner with Willis as he must
necessarily do, if he married his daughter; only his adopted daughter,
it is true: but still in no action that could evince a parent's
fondness and a parent's care, had he been wanting to her--and he was
unquestionably entitled to a full return of that affection that might
be looked for from a properly disposed child; and as certainly did he
receive it from Miss Willis, whose respectful love for him was without
stint or measure. The struggle between pride and passion, seldom
eventuates in favor of the former, particularly where our feelings are
uninfluenced by the effect our actions may produce upon the minds of
others, and have no reference to a _degrading_ change of situation
that may be produced on us in society. Heywood might by marrying Miss
Willis, excite the sneers of the unsuccessful and the envy of the
disappointed; but he would not be the less loved, esteemed and
respected by the great bulk of his acquaintance, while by many it
would be thought a fortunate circumstance; for in the event of their
obligations falling into his hands, they might look for an indulgence
it were vain to hope from the ruthless usurer. Heywood, as might be
expected, yielded to the suggestions of his heart, and proffered his
affections to Miss Willis. She of course referred him to her father;
and with much embarrassment and hesitation of manner, Heywood
announced to him the fact, and solicited his approbation. He received
the information with a smile of peculiar meaning, of
gratification--but apparently of malicious gratification, as if he
were about to win a triumph he had been long seeking to obtain. He
said but little however in reply, nor was that little, discouraging or
otherwise. He professed himself honored by the proposal, coming as it
did from so distinguished an individual.

"To be sure," he said, "Louisa Willis was not an every day sort of
girl, and she might fairly look for as good offers as any lady in the
country. She had that, or she would have, which was all the same, that
would command them. It commanded every thing else, _he reckoned_, even
talents. She was young enough too, and likely enough, for the matter
of that, and he had had other views for her. Hows'ever, there was no
hurry--he would see about it; he must have some little time to think
before he made up his mind: when he had, he would let Heywood know
what it was."

To talk to such a man of the urgency of one's affections, was
ridiculous. Heywood felt it so, and therefore made no objection to the
delay.

It was about a month after this interview, during which interval there
had been no communication between Heywood and Willis, that the latter,
accompanied by another individual, a Mr. ----, entered the office of
the former. They had called for the purpose of explaining their mutual
understanding of the nature of a conveyance which was to pass between
them, and to request him to draw it out in proper form. He accordingly
made a rough draft of it, read it to the parties, who expressed
themselves satisfied, and Mr. ---- took his leave, with a promise to
return and execute the deed when the fair copy should have been made
out. Willis remained behind. After a few minutes silence, (of
torturing silence to Heywood, for he expected he should now receive an
answer on the subject nearest his heart,) "Mr. Heywood," said the hard
featured old man, "let me see that deed." Heywood disappointed, handed
it to him. He conned it over attentively, as he sat with one elbow
placed upon his knee and his chin resting in the hollow of his hand.

"It is all right?" said Heywood inquiringly.

"Why--ye-es," replied Willis, "but there are one or two little words
here I would like to have changed; that is, I would like to have some
others put in their place. It's of no great consequence, but somehow
they please me better."

"What words are they? Be so good as to point them out."

"Why these," answered Willis, as he shewed them with his finger, and
peered into Heywood's face, over his spectacles, with half closed
eyes. "Suppose now, instead of them, you _was_ to use _such_ words,"
and he mentioned those he wished adopted.

"But sir," rejoined Heywood, "these words that I have used are
technical words, and express in a legal sense what I understand most
positively to be the intention of the parties. Were I to substitute
for them {110} those that you propose, I should make the granter
convey a title it is by no means his wish to do."

"Pray, Mr. Heywood, are you acquainted with Mr. ----, and do you
consider yourself employed by him or me?"

"I am but slightly acquainted with Mr. ----, sir, and it matters not
to me by which party I am employed. It is my business as an honest
man, to execute to the best of my ability, what I consider myself
intrusted by both to perform, and that I have done."

"Then let me tell you Mr. Heywood that I know ---- well, that he has
not had quite as much as either you or I to do with deeds, and that if
you make the alteration I want, it's a hundred to one he will never
find it out to the end of time--so where can be the harm?"

"You surely jest with me, Mr. Willis," quickly answered Heywood; "you
cannot seriously propose to me to do that, which according to my view
of the matter, would be neither more nor less than a legal fraud."

"A fraud, sir! do you mean to say _I_ would commit a fraud, sir?"
cried Willis, in an angry tone and blustering manner.

"I have not said so, Mr. Willis," calmly replied Heywood; "I only
said, that with my knowledge of the law, _I_ should commit one were I
to do what you request."

"Well then," urged Willis, "suppose you let me go for Mr. ----, and
have the alteration made before his eyes. Will that satisfy your
squeamishness?"

"Certainly, if Mr. ---- consents to it, and is made fully aware of the
situation in which he thus places himself."

"But _you_ aint no ways bound to tell him that."

"Pardon me, sir, I am every way bound to do so."

"Very well, sir, very well, we'll drop the matter then--I don't care
much about it; only you aint as much _my_ friend as I thought you
was--that's all. But let that pass, it don't signify no great deal.
And now Mr. Heywood, for what you would call a more interesting
subject." Heywood's heart beat quick. "You told me t'other day you
loved my daughter, and would like to marry her. Now, sir, suppose you
had a daughter, and you could afford to give her as much as would make
the best men in all the land snap at her--and suppose there was one
man who despised you in his heart, though he was willing to work for
your money, and who had abused and insulted you in the public court,
and refused to befriend you, in a small way, when you wanted his
friendship, and _he_ of all men in the world was just to pop up and
say, Give me your daughter and a fortune,--what would you say to him?
Would'nt you tell him, certain, and thankee to boot, sir? Would'nt it
please you to the heart to have a son-in-law, who if he could help
himself, would'nt speak to you when he met you, nor shake hands with
you, if there was any body by to see him do it? Now just answer me
that, Mr. Heywood; you're a mighty ready man with your bills and
answers--answer me that if you please."

"Mr. Willis," stammered Heywood, "this is not--a fair way to--treat
me."

"Aint it? Now I think it is--so there we differ again; any how it's my
way, and I can afford to have my ways as well as most folks.
Hows'ever, since you don't seem to fancy those questions, I'll try
again. Do you _really_ love my daughter, for herself alone mind you,
and will you marry her if I tell you, and I am in earnest, that if you
do, you never shall, nor she either, touch a farthing of money or an
acre of land that belongs to me."

"Most readily, most willingly, and think myself but too happy in
maintaining her by my own humble efforts."

"Money is not a thing to be despised, Mr. Heywood, and it would be a
heap of it I can tell you, and as you partly know, that you would be
giving up; you'd better think again."

"This is not a matter of reflection and calculation with me, sir. It
is a feeling deep and durable, and I cannot hesitate to choose between
what I esteem my happiness and my misery. With her, portioned or
unportioned, I shall be happy--without her, though Croesus' wealth
were showered on me, I know I must be miserable."

"Say you so, sir," shouted Willis, with an air of vindictive triumph.
"Then be miserable, for I would see her, gladly see her, and I love
her too, a rotting corpse in her winding sheet--or worse, a common
beggar in the public road, for all the world to spit on if they
choose, before you should call her wife. I am glad that you love her
too. If you loved her ten thousand times better than you do--if you
went mad for love, as they tell me some fools do, I should like it all
the better. I wanted you to love her, and I saw you would love her,
and I sort of encouraged you to do so, just that when you were fairly
fixed, I might have the satisfaction to tell you that you should not
have her; and now I think we're quits. You dared to tread upon me--to
flout me in the open court-house, before a whole crowd of people, when
you could have all the talk to yourself, and my mouth was shut and my
hands as good as tied. But my turn has come, and if I have'nt paid you
back, and with a stinging interest, my name is not Abraham Willis; and
so good morning to you. You need'nt write no notes, nor send no
messages to my daughter. She knows my mind, and she is satisfied with
it. She wants no man for a husband who has abused her father. Once
more, good morning to you." And with another of his demon like smiles,
he departed.

Heywood remained as a man stupified, without change of position or
movement of a muscle, every feature rigidly fixed as if cut out of
marble, his whole appearance more like a breathing statue than a
living creature. Yet who shall say what torturing thought was pressing
on that brain--what stormy passions struggling in that bosom. Did the
uprooting of his heart's affection, the total prostration of his
hopes, the utter destruction of his anticipated bliss, smite him to
despair; or did his powerful mind confront the evils that beset him,
and although deeply wounded, rise in triumph from the conflict? It is
only by the effects we can judge, and these to common observation were
not remarkable. It is true, he resigned his seat in the legislature,
and altogether withdrew himself from social intercourse, and save when
necessitated by his professional duties, rarely left the solitude of
his rooms. There his time was devoted to study; not confined to the
acquisition of legal knowledge, but of literature in general. He
collected about him a noble library, and made himself master of its
contents; but though he {111} heaped up knowledge such as few possess,
and added daily to his mental stores, it was even as a miser gathers
pelf, to gloat upon the heap in private, but impart to none its
benefits. Still, although he thus secluded himself, when he did appear
abroad, there was nothing of gloom about him, or marked reserve in his
manner to his fellow men. He might even sometimes have been thought
gay. He would jest himself, and laugh at other's jests; but all this
was but "outward seeming." There was no joy of the heart--no "flow of
soul"--no living sympathy with mankind, teaching him to be glad when
they rejoiced, to sorrow when they mourned.

There were none to whom he imparted his feelings, none to whom he
communicated his sentiments. On none of the usual topics of
conversation among men, whether of politics or literature, were his
opinions ever expressed--not even on legal points, unless when sought
for professionally. He lived strictly alone, concealing thought and
passion within the impenetrable recesses of his unfathomable mind.

Here for the present I will leave him, to give a short account of
Drayton's career, connected as it is with the main interest of my
narrative.

With the assiduity, industry and application for which he had been
distinguished at college, he pursued his professional studies; and
although denied the gift of eloquence, or rather I should say,
embarrassed by a slow and hesitating manner of speaking, it was
obvious enough that his knowledge of the law was sound, and that he
perfectly understood its application to the point he might be
advocating. If too, he lacked the graces of oratory, and could distil
no honied words into the ears of his auditory, he possessed that happy
manner, which imposes on society the opinion that there is a fund of
wisdom and learning to be drawn on, whenever the exigency of the case
might require its use. He had a serious, business like look, and if he
walked abroad for exercise, he seemed to have a deeper motive for the
action. His progress was nevertheless very slow in the commencement;
still he advanced by degrees, and his patience was inexhaustible.
Drayton had another advantage too, that to him amply compensated for
the want of purely professional business, and even the glitter of
fame. A relation had bequeathed him a few thousand dollars, and this
enabled him to make occasional advances to a needy client, where the
claim was eventually secure, and also to carry on a traffic in bonds,
exchanging one for another at a large discount, and thus in a short
time doubling his original capital. One or two lucky hits in land
speculation returned him large profits; and people beginning to find
out his merits, as they perceived these accessions to his worldly
wealth, in course of time his practice became respectable and
lucrative. Between Heywood and Drayton there continued the same
kindness of feeling they had mutually entertained at college, up to
some short time before the philippic delivered by the former against
Willis. But about that period a coolness grew between them. This arose
from no misunderstanding or quarrel, but simply from a dislike Heywood
entertained to the very obsequious manner Drayton exhibited towards
all men who were superior to him in private wealth or public station;
and the former could not refrain from telling him one day, after some
display of the sort, that he reminded him of Sir Pertinax McSycophant,
in the "Man of the World," who never in all his life could stand
straight "in the presence of a great mon." Drayton was conscious that
there was truth in the application of the sarcasm, and although he
made no reply, he was hurt, and thenceforth avoided one who could and
would tell him disagreeable truths. After the rupture between Heywood
and Willis, the latter transferred his business to Drayton, who
received from Heywood all the papers in his possession, with the
necessary information and instructions, which were given to him with
perfect freedom, and without the slightest manifestation of chagrin or
resentment. This perhaps was not exactly pleasing to him. He would
have liked on Heywood's part some small exhibition of a consciousness
that he was deprived of a considerable advantage.

"This should be a valuable business I have had the good fortune to
fall into, Mr. Heywood," said he; "Mr. Willis's concerns must be very
extensive, and require much legal advice, as well as other matters in
our way. I fear he will be hardly content with my poor management,
after the able assistance he has derived from you."

"You will certainly find the business profitable," replied Heywood;
"Mr. Willis pays liberal fees, and it depends upon yourself to make
larger gains than I have done. I congratulate you on having obtained
it."

"I suppose I shall be so unfortunate as to have you opposed to me
occasionally, and if so, I trust you will not be quite so hard on my
poor client as you once were," said Drayton with an insinuating smile.

"Circumstances, sir," answered Heywood, "have put it out of my power
to speak of Mr. Willis as I think of him. You need entertain no
apprehensions for your _poor_ client; he is safe at least from my
invective."

Some few months after this conversation, rumor babbled of the
particular attentions paid by a certain lawyer, to a very wealthy
young lady, and in the course of a year, the babble was confirmed by
the marriage of Charles Drayton, Esq. to the all accomplished, &c.
Miss Louisa Willis. Drayton was now become a very wealthy and of
course a very influential man. He was sent to the legislature, then to
the state senate, thence to congress, and finally having been created
a judge, he took up his residence near ---- on a farm given him by
Willis, where he built the handsome brick house, I had observed on my
return home. Two or three days after I had fixed myself at ----, I
fell in with Drayton, whom I found much altered. He had grown quite
fat, and had a very justice-like rotundity of body. His manner was
kind enough though somewhat pompous, and he had the air of one who was
on especial good terms with himself. I dined with him and was
introduced to his family, consisting of his wife and four children;
the eldest, a handsome lad of seventeen, the others girls, the
youngest about eight years old. Mrs. Drayton, was very pale and
apparently in bad health. I endeavored to converse with her, but found
her little disposed to talk. Willis was there. He was a tall, lean
man, with very sharp features--small grey eyes somewhat inflamed, and
almost hid by long bushy, wiry eye-brows, a pinched, sharp pointed
nose, thin, pale lips, much drawn in and compressed, and a projecting
chin. He endeavored to assume ease in his manners, but his vulgarity
was very apparent. There were two other {112} gentlemen of the
neighborhood there, and on the whole, my time was not spent so
pleasantly then, or afterwards, as to induce me to repeat my visits
often, although I occasionally called in as an old acquaintance of the
master of the house. Heywood's name was of course, never mentioned
there. I once did make some inquiries of Drayton, when only he and I
were together. "Ah poor fellow, yes," said he, "he has been absent
from ---- for some time, went up the country to his brother's, who I
hear is lately dead. Heywood turned out badly sir with all his
genius,--thrown himself completely away--no prudence--ruined himself
to pay his brother's debts, and took to drinking--little better, if
any, than a common blackguard." "So much for early friendship,"
thought I, as I turned away in disgust.

The marriage of Drayton to Miss Willis seemed not to affect Heywood;
if he felt, his feelings were perfectly concealed. When he met
Drayton, he congratulated him on the event, without the slightest
awkwardness or embarrassment, although the former exhibited much of
both; to all appearance he had entirely conquered his ill fated
passion. His studies, however, became more and more intense, and his
seclusion closer than ever. He scarcely eat or slept, and took no
exercise. He gave up the practice he had hitherto pursued in the
adjoining counties, and confined himself to that of the one he lived
in. This mode of life could not fail to injure his health. He grew
pale and thin, and experienced great languor: to remedy the latter,
instead of resorting to the only proper mode, a change of habits, he
applied to artificial stimulants for temporary relief. They naturally
increased the evil, by leaving behind them when their momentary
excitement had worn off, a greater degree of depression than they had
been employed to remove. He was probably aware of this, but he changed
not his course. On the contrary he increased the dose, and repeated it
the more frequently, until gradually his libations amounted to
intoxication, which after a while became daily. This, at first, was
confined to the after part of the day, but by and by he was frequently
found in an unfit state for business, by those who called upon him in
the morning. Still, so great was his reputation as a lawyer, and so
powerful were the displays he made when he appeared at the bar, that
men continued to employ him, although they were put to the
inconvenience and expense of associating other counsel with him, who
would attend to the minutiæ and drudgery of their cases. About this
time, his brother (whom I did not know,) a careless, extravagant man,
with a large family, became entirely insolvent, and the farm on which
he lived was exposed to sale. Heywood became the purchaser, for the
wife, and nearly exhausted his own means in doing so; for though he
had received large sums of money in his profession, and might with a
little economy, have been very independent, if not rich, he had not
retained much of his hard earned gains, and money had never been to
him an object of solicitude. Besides, his library had cost him no
contemptible fortune. By degrees, as the vile and fatal habit he had
acquired, grew upon him, he became more and more unfit for business,
and his clients were reluctantly compelled to abandon him, and
transfer their cases to others. Finally, (what he had never done
before,) he was compelled to run in debt. He raised money on his
books, a paltry sum in proportion to their value; that was soon
exhausted, and they were forced off at auction at an enormous
sacrifice. Hitherto, his intemperance had been confined to the privacy
of his chamber, but now he commenced frequenting taverns, where he was
frequently to be found in a state of beastly drunkenness.

When I arrived at ---- he was absent, as Drayton stated, at the
brother's whom I have mentioned, and did not make his appearance for
several months. One evening as I returned from my accustomed walk, I
entered the bar-room of the inn where I lodged, for the purpose of
making some inquiries of the landlord. A man was sitting at a table,
with his back towards me. He was dressed in a rusty black coat,
coarse, dirty, white trowsers; shoes and stockings that were covered
with the dust of the road, and a worn out straw hat, around which was
a piece of ragged, soiled crape. I naturally took him for some common
vagabond, and paid no farther attention to him, but commenced my
business with the landlord, who was standing at the bar door with a
pint decanter of common whiskey in his hand, intended, no doubt, for
his _genteel_ looking customer; who, growing somewhat impatient at the
delay I occasioned by my conversation, called out in a hoarse voice,
"Mr. Tomlins, do you mean to bring me that liquor or no? I tell you I
am dying of thirst." "Certainly, sir," said Mr. Tomlins. "Excuse me a
moment, sir," addressing me, as he proceeded to the table with the
spirits, a pitcher of water and a glass. The man poured into his glass
about a gill of spirits and drank it off at one gulph, taking a little
water after it,--and then, without stopping, proceeded to take a
second dose. I gazed at him with mingled emotions of contempt and
pity. The landlord touched me on the arm. "You have frequently
inquired of me, sir, about Mr. Heywood; that is _him_." "Great God!" I
exclaimed aloud, "that Heywood?" He turned immediately on hearing his
name, and I hastened to him, extending my hand. "You are familiar with
my name, sir," he said, "and act as if you had a claim upon my
recognition, but I have no recollection of your countenance."

"Have you entirely forgot then, your old friend S----."

"S----," he exclaimed, and he rose and took my hand in both of his,
and gazed with earnestness some moments in my face. "Thirty
years--yes, thirty years have fled since last this hand was clasped in
mine. They are nothing in Time's record, but much to us poor,
three-score-and-ten mortals, and they have shown their power on us
both. S----, my friend, for _you_ were my friend, and I loved you even
with the warmth of a brother's love, I look in vain for the marks by
which I once knew you. The fair cheek of youth, the laughing eye, the
bold, self-confiding air, have fled. Age is a sad destroyer of good
looks, is it not? It has not been over lenient with me; but never
mind; our hearts are filled with hot blood yet, though sometimes I
think mine is growing cold: it will be cold enough by and by, and
yours too, S----; the more's the pity, for there are men, my friend,
and you are one, who should never die; they should live to redeem
mankind from the charge of utter selfishness; to save this Sodom and
Gomorrah of a world from the curse of an outraged and offended
Heaven."

{113} "Heywood," said I, interrupting him, "come with me--come to my
room; I have much to say to you, and this is no place for it; I cannot
talk to you here. Come where we will be private and uninterrupted."

"Not now, not now; I have just got here, after walking all day, for I
am compelled to take exercise on foot for the benefit of my health as
well as from poverty;" and he smiled bitterly. "I am fatigued and
soiled with dust, and unfit for conversation."

"These are paltry excuses between friends--I cannot admit them. What!
be thirty years apart, and when we meet have five minutes conversation
in a public bar-room. That will never do."

"Well, well, then, allow me a little time to step to my room, and I
will join you in an hour at farthest." This I could not refuse,
although I parted with him with very great reluctance, as from the
avidity with which he swallowed the spirits in my presence, I was
apprehensive he might render himself unfit for rational conversation.
There was a dreadful change in his appearance. I have described him as
a remarkably handsome man, both in face and person. He was no longer
so. I found him much emaciated, though his features were bloated; his
hair was entirely gray; and in the place of the freshness and manly
ruddiness of complexion for which he had been distinguished, his
countenance was overcast with a sickly yellow hue; and those eyes,
once so clear and expressive, were bloodshotten and dull. Age might,
and would, no doubt, have made an alteration for the worse in his
looks; but the prime agent in the destruction I witnessed, was
habitual intemperance. That insatiate fiend, on whose bloodstained
altars reeks the sacrifice of myriad hetacombs, whose worshippers, in
the frenzy of their zeal, yield up all that is valuable in life; the
world's respect, health, fortune, fame, domestic ties, their present
good, their future hope; and whose reward is racking disease, infamy,
an early and dishonorable grave.

Before the appointed time, Heywood returned. He had undergone a
purification, which somewhat improved his looks, and he bore no
evidence of having increased his potations. We had a long, and to us
highly interesting conversation; but Heywood was not the man he had
been; the mind--that glorious mind had suffered in the wreck. It is
true he was occasionally eloquent, grand in his conceptions, pouring
out burning thoughts, and exhibiting amazing knowledge; but there was
a want of solidity and continuity in his discourse, and there were
abrupt starts from deep pathos, when he touched upon his situation, to
a wild and reckless jocularity that made me shudder. I had determined
in my own mind, difficult and delicate as I felt the task to be, to
strive to the utmost to reclaim him. It was a sacred duty devolving on
me as a friend; it was a conscientious duty belonging to me as a man;
and I felt if I could turn such a being from the path of evil, and
lead him once again to the high and honorable station he was by his
talents so eminently entitled to, it would be a deed whose reward even
here would be inappreciable, and might plead against a thousand errors
at the judgment seat of a righteous God. It required great tact,
however, to approach the subject, for his sensitiveness was very keen,
and I knew if I offended him there, I should lose my hold upon him;
therefore I waited until he himself should give me an opportunity of
entering on the subject. None occurred that night. Occasionally, as I
have said, he would advert to himself and his present miserable
situation, but in such a manner as deprived me of courage to speak
upon the subject. At one time he observed, when Drayton's name had
been mentioned, "It is somewhat strange S----, that man seems to have
been born to supplant me. Who would have thought it? The quiet, easy,
dull Charles Drayton, to supplant Morriss Heywood! Why, in the
exuberance of my youthful vanity, I should have thought my wings beat
an atmosphere too refined and rare, to sustain his heavy weight; that
my eyes looked unwinking on a light that would have seared his duller
optics. And yet he reached me, and he passed me. And while I descended
in rapid whirls, until I grovelled in the very dust, he sustained his
flight and held aloft his station. Yes, he supplanted me in my
profession--supplanted me in public life--supplanted me in love. Ha!
ha! ha! It is a strange tale to tell. What would our college mates say
to it? What _does_ the world say to it? I know what it says. No
matter,

  'They can't but say I had the crown;
   I was not fool.'

And yet I was a fool, a miserable fool; but as it is a great approach
to wisdom to know our own weakness, I am in a fair way to become a
Solon, and should not be surprised, if ere long, public honors were
decreed me. They must hurry them tho', or it will be to my senseless
ashes they will bow, and hang their laurel wreaths upon my urn. But it
grows late, my friend, and I must leave you. We are neither of us the
boys we were, when we could stare the rising sun in the face, as he
peeped upon our protracted revels. We will meet again soon." "Soon!" I
exclaimed; "yes, tomorrow; I have not exhausted the half of what I
have to say to you." "Faith, I have given you but little chance," said
Heywood; "I am in truth a sad talker. Good night, or rather morning,
for 'methinks I scent the morning air.'" And he left me, not without a
promise however, with difficulty obtained from him, that he would join
me at dinner on the morrow. He was punctual to his engagement, and I
was much pleased to find that he was free from all artificial
excitement. After we had dined, and I had discussed my usual allowance
of wine, (in which Heywood did not join, alleging that it did not
agree with him,) I proposed to him to take a stroll, for I felt as if
I could make the effort I had determined upon, with more ease in the
open air, than when seated in a small room _tete a tete_. After we had
cleared the skirts of the town, I commenced making my approaches from
a wary distance, to the subject I was anxious to enter upon. "To-day
was the first of the sitting of the superior court for this term, I
believe, Heywood; were you there?"

"No, not I; what should I do there? I have always made it a rule not
to thrust myself into a place where I have no business."

"Have you entirely given up the practice of the law?"

"No, but the practice has entirely deserted me."

"How happened that? I have heard your legal attainments spoken of in
terms of the highest praise."

{114} "I neglected it, as I have neglected every thing else; health,
reputation, my obligations to society, and my duty, if not my
reverence to God. This is a painful subject, S----; let us quit it. If
I dwell upon it, it will unman me, and I shall then break through a
resolution I this day made, and fain would keep."

"Will you tell me what that resolution is?"

"I had rather not;

  'Be innocent of the knowledge,
   Till thou applaud the deed.'"

"Heywood! will you let me act towards you as one friend should act
towards another?"

"How? in what way? explain yourself."

"It is in your power to be all you have been--nay, more; for many men
rise to eminence, but how few when once they have sunk, have energy
and firmness to regain the proud height from which they fell. It may
be a work of time to you--it must be one of unbending resolution; but
with such a mind and such attainments as your's, it will require
nothing more. In the meantime, you shall not be harassed by debts, nor
tortured by poverty. I have means, my friend--ample means; wealth
beyond my hopes or wishes. It is useless to me, for my habits are
frugal, and my expenses do not reach a fourth of my income. I will
place in your hands the requisite sum to free you from all
incumbrance, and enable you to pursue the plan I propose; and it shall
be a debt between us, to be repaid when you are once more in
prosperous circumstances. If this place be disagreeable to you, remove
to some other; I will accompany you: all places now are the same to
me. Do this Heywood, I conjure, I implore you; and you will confer on
me a degree of happiness which nothing I have ever yet compassed could
equal. What say you?"

"I say as Nero said--'It is too late.' You speak of my mind and my
attainments. It must be plain to you as it is to me, that whatever
that mind may have been in the flower of my youth and the pride of my
manhood, it is now weakened, broken, dropping to decay; and what
avails knowledge, learning, the deep research into ancient wisdom, the
unwearied study of modern science? When the judgment that should
direct their use is fled, they become a pile of worthless lore. No, I
am a lost, degraded wretch--a mockery and a byword--

  'A fixed figure for the time of scorn
   To point his slow, unmoving finger at.'

There is nothing left for me but to die and be forgotten."

"Heywood, you do yourself injustice. A steady course of life, as it
will remove the cause of your depression, (for your mental malady is
nothing more,) so will it the effect, and I feel confident that it
requires but exertion to regain all you have lost, and even to surpass
your former excellence. Come; be a man. Call your philosophy to your
aid--rouse from your lethargy, and start once more upon the race of
honor." He placed one hand upon my shoulder, and pointed forward with
the other: "Behold," he said, "yon blasted pine; its giant limbs have
been snapped in twain, and its lordly trunk clove from the summit to
the root by the forked lightning,--while around it in the green hues
of health, full of pride, vigor and beauty, are congregated its
glorious brethren of the forest. Bid that stricken tree drink in the
life sap, shoot out its rough red boughs, clothe them with their
feathery foliage, erect its noble crest, and stand once more
pre-eminent in loftiness and grace; and what would be its answer, as
its shattered body creaks to the passing breeze? 'There is no other
spring for me.' And that reply is mine. Therefore torture me no more;
for it is torture to me to recur to the past, or dwell upon the
present. _One_ favor I will ask of you. When I am dead, and I feel a
certainty that time will soon arrive, if you are near and survive me,
bury me in some private place, and do not raise even a mound, much
less a stone, to mark the spot; but let the grass grow over and
conceal it--for even as lonely and obscure as my latter days have
been, so would I have my grave. Will you promise me this?"

"I will--I do," I replied, much affected.

The remainder of our walk was passed almost in silence; and when
Heywood left me, which he did immediately upon our return to town, he
pressed my hand to his heart, and sobbed, "God bless you."

The next day upon my inquiring for him, I found he had left town early
that morning, saying that it was uncertain when he should return. This
I regretted extremely; for although disappointed in my first attempt,
I was not without hopes I might still succeed in bringing him back to
the paths of virtue and of honor, from which he had so unfortunately
strayed. I determined at all events to remain where I was until I had
again seen him, and make another appeal to his friendship and his
pride. Days and weeks passed however, and he came not. It was now the
latter part of the month of May; the weather was delightful. I got
tired of the solitude of my chamber, and walked out to enjoy the
balminess of the air and the freshness of nature, as yet unscorched by
the ardent beams of the summer sun. I took the road that led to
Drayton's, and when I reached his gate, paused, as I had many a time
before, to admire a noble oak that formed one of the gate posts. This
splendid tree was at its base full five feet through, and its trunk
shot up a height of forty feet before it gave out a branch. Thence its
boughs spread out to an immense distance, forming a canopy over the
road, beyond the opposite side of which they extended, and mingled
with those of the trees growing there. It looked like a patriarch of
the primeval forest, and seemed destined to stand while all around
might decay. I sauntered along a mile or two, until I reached a
favorite and secluded spot, well known to me when I was a boy, and
which remained unchanged, while all else was changed or changing.
There I seated myself on a moss covered rock, under the shade of a
thick leaved birch, and while the bright waters rippled at my feet,
passed in review before my mind some of the scenes of a busy and
adventurous life. About an hour had elapsed in this pleasing
melancholy of reverie, when I became conscious that a change had taken
place in the weather. The refreshing breeze had died away, and the air
become close and sultry, with that heavy suffocating feeling I had
observed in high southern latitudes, as the invariable precursor of
the coming hurricane. I made what haste I could to reach my home,
which was full three miles distant, by the shortest path I could
choose. I reached the upper part of Drayton's enclosure, where {115}
there was an open field on either side, and paused as well from
fatigue, as a desire to ascertain whether I could probably outstrip
the approaching storm, or should be compelled much against my
inclination to seek for shelter at Drayton's abode.

As I looked up, I perceived that the heavens were embossed with dark
clouds that hung heavily in the atmosphere, scarcely moving their
stations, or varying their forms, so completely stilled was the
breeze--not a leaf trembled on the slenderest twig. Presently, on the
extreme verge of the horizon to my right, a small, jagged cloud arose,
that rested as it were a moment on the summits of the trees, and then
darted high up the sky and emitted a brilliant flash of lightning,
accompanied by a quick, sharp crash of thunder--as if this had been a
signal summons, from all quarters of the heavens, seemingly by
voluntary impulse, the hitherto inert vapors rushed with eagle speed
to the spot, like mailed warriors to the battle field; concentrating,
and condensing their huge forms into one, vast, deep, substantial
looking body of impervious gloom, heaving to and fro with a mighty
sound, like unto the rush of liberated waters that have broken down
their rocky barrier. As I gazed in horror on this awful sight, there
gradually descended from the centre, mass on mass of clouds, as if
enormous folds of blackest velvet had been lowered down, narrowing in
their descent until they almost formed a point: and then amid the
lightning's incessant flashes, and the music of its own appalling
roar, that drowned the loudest thunder; and the groans of the forest,
as its mightiest trees were uprooted, or twisted from their stems, as
a child would break a straw; the tornado marched on its appointed path
of desolation. No words, at least none I can command, avail to
describe its horrid majesty, its incalculable power. It was as if the
very demon of destruction had clothed himself in robes of hellish
grandeur, and came in the pride of his unimaginable strength, to strew
with ruins the world's fair orb, and revel amidst his fiendish sport.
I have in the course of my journey through life, encountered many a
peril, and looked on many a sight that might strike the coward with
despair, and blanch the cheek of the bravest. The appalling cry of
fire has broken upon my ear, when my bark was rolling in the midst of
the wide spread ocean, and the apparent choice was to leap into the
wave, or perish by the flames. I have been with a crew, when the match
was held by a resolute hand that would in an instant have hurled us in
the air, rather than become the prey of the remorseless pirate. The
storm upon the sea, the hurricane on land, and the terrors of battle
upon both, I have beheld; but never did there weigh upon my heart such
a feeling of unmixed dread, such a consciousness of utter
helplessness, as now--still, I was not entirely deprived of my
presence of mind--I was aware that the force of the tornado, although
it might be extended to many miles, would probably be confined within
narrow boundaries; and if I could ascertain its course, I might place
myself beyond its influence. At this moment, however, it was difficult
to conjecture to what point its fury would be directed: for as I have
said, it was a perfect calm; the winds seemed to be enclosed within
the lurid bosom of that horrible prodigy. Its approach was certainly
in a line towards myself, but how soon it might swerve from that
route, I could not tell; so that I dare not trust to flight. While I
stood thus hesitating how to act, a horseman passed me at full speed.
My attention had been so fully absorbed, and so deafening was the
voice of the cloud, that I had not heard his approach, and barely
caught a sufficient glimpse of the face to recognise it as that of
Willis, and that it was overspread with an ashy paleness. He had not
passed me a hundred yards, when as if by magic a strong wind burst
from the north west, encountered the tornado, and turning it from the
direction it had hitherto pursued, drove it obliquely in front of
Drayton's house at about a quarter of a mile from it, and immediately
towards the gate and the oak, I have spoken of. It now moved with
immense velocity from me, and feeling that all personal danger was
past, I could observe its appearance and effects with greater
accuracy. The interior of the lower part was illuminated by _flames_,
I may call them, of lightning; for so incessant and continuous were
the flashes, that they appeared as one; and I could distinguish in the
centre, large limbs of trees, and trees themselves suspended, tossed,
and whirled about like feathers. Its wake was defined by the upturned
ground, as if many ploughshares linked together had passed over it.
Whatever lay in its track was instantaneously destroyed. It drove full
upon the giant oak, and the forest Titan on whom many a storm had
harmlessly broken, whose noble head was scarcely bowed in recognition
of the furious gale, was wrenched, and severed from its trunk, and
dashed upon the ground; that trembled as it received the enormous
weight, as if an earthquake shook it. The destroyer passed on, and I
stood watching it, until its noise was lost upon my ear, and its form
had faded from my sight. Slowly then I bent my steps forward, mentally
returning thanks to a gracious providence, for my escape from so
imminent and appalling a danger. Suddenly, the recollection of Willis
rose upon me, and a strong presentiment that he must have been
overtaken by the cloud pressed upon my mind, and filled it with
horror. The presentiment was destined to be realized. I quickened my
steps, and as I approached the gate, I found the road so much impeded
by the broken boughs and scattered fences hurled about in every
direction, that I was compelled to make a considerable circuit in
Drayton's field, to enable me to overcome the various obstacles that
obstructed my passage. As I saw no trace of Willis, I began to hope he
might have escaped, although it seemed scarcely possible; at all
events, I thought it would be but proper for me to step to the house,
a distance of some five hundred yards, and see if he had arrived in
safety. I had, it is true, no respect for him, and perhaps his death
could scarcely be deemed a calamity; but he was one of the great
family of man, and what right had I to sit in judgment on my fellow
creatures?

I found Drayton at home, standing at the front door, surveying the
ravages committed on his estate. He greeted me, and commenced a
harangue on the terrible phenomenon he had witnessed, which I cut
short by inquiring if Mr. Willis was within--"within! No he had not
seen him for several days." As briefly as I could, I then informed him
of Willis' passing me on the road, of the obvious danger he had
incurred, and requested he would accompany me with some of the
servants, with axes and other implements, that might be necessary in
prosecuting our search. He hastened to comply with {116} the request,
and we soon set forward with some dozen assistants. We commenced our
disagreeable undertaking, at the gate on the lower side of the
prostrate oak, which lay obliquely across the road, endeavoring every
now and then, to peep through the confused mass of tangled and
shattered boughs that lay in heaps about us. Presently, one of the
negroes uttered an exclamation, and pointing with both hands, cried
out that he saw a man under the tree. We immediately gathered around
him, and looking in the direction indicated, could perceive not only
the object he had discovered, but also the prostrate body of a horse.
There was now little doubt that Willis had here met his wretched fate.

The sun, which had come forth, was about an hour high, but we had
great difficulties to overcome before we could reach the spot, where
the body lay. One of the men was despatched to the house for further
assistance, and we soon had all the efficient laborers of the estate
at work; while the boys and women, whom curiosity brought there, were
employed in holding torches, for the evening shades had fallen, before
we got half through with our labor. At length, we succeeded in freeing
Willis's body from the superincumbent load that pressed upon it. Life
was totally extinct; his death had doubtless been instantaneous, for
his bones were broken in many places, and the scull driven in, until
its sides almost met. We hastily constructed a hand-barrow on which we
laid the mangled remains, and were about to move off, when one of the
boys came running to us from the wood on the opposite side to the
gate, and with terror in his looks, informed us there was another man
lying dead there. We hastened to the spot, which there was little
difficulty in reaching, for the individual lay just on the skirt of
the prostrate trees, and had probably been struck down by an upper
bough as it fell. His face was towards the ground, and his hands
outstretched. The back of the head had received a severe wound. We
gently turned the body over. My heart sunk within me and a faintness
came over my senses, as the light of the blazing torches revealed to
my view the pallid face of Heywood. I soon recovered, however, and
stood and gazed upon the features of the corpse, those features that I
had so often seen lit up with intelligence, now rigid in death. Those
eyes, whose piercing beams once reached the very hearts of men, and
gazed upon their secret motives, had lost their "speculation," and
those lips whose surpassing eloquence once filled his hearers with
deep delight, ruling them with a master spell; now rousing apathy into
action, now stilling passion in its wildest mood; were hushed in
eternal silence. Before us was the motionless form of clay, the
immortal spirit had ascended to its God. Both the bodies were removed
to the house. The remainder of that night, I sat by the corpse of
Heywood. The next day, I procured a plain coffin, and taking with me a
couple of assistants, proceeded to the place where I had reposed after
my walk on the preceding afternoon. At the foot of the birch tree we
dug his grave, and heaped the earth upon the coffin to the level of
the plain, and over it we spread the verdant turf: and there, in his
"narrow and obscure bed," sleeps the misguided son of genius; while a
splendid mausoleum marks the spot where the bones of Willis lie, and a
marble slab records his thousand virtues.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

The study of poetry has been to me its own exceeding great reward: it
has soothed my afflictions; it has refined and multiplied my
enjoyments; it has given me (or at least strengthened in me) the habit
of wishing to discover the good and the beautiful in all that meets
and surrounds me--_Coleridge_.

STANZAS.


  It is the Fall! the season now,
    Of rustling airs--of fading flowers;
  And Nature with a saddened brow,
    Sits brooding o'er her leafless bowers.
  Yet Autumn's reign was aye to me
  A season of felicity!

  I'm standing in a dark recess
    Of a vast, dim, primeval wood,
  And on me is the consciousness
    That springs from such a solitude.
  No sounds are nigh save those I love--
  No scene my heart's content to move.

  A streamlet, gushing from above
    Goes dancing past me wild and free,
  As the fond boy is said to rove,
    Commission'd by Love's Deity.
  But _he_ in cities gaily flaunts,
  While _this_ seeks only nature's haunts.

  And as it tracks the forest's maze,
    Through greensward alleys wand'ring wide,
  Affects not Folly's treach'rous ways,
    Nor looks to Fashion for its guide.
  How lulling to my sense its song,--
  As thus it sweeps its course along!

  The winds are also stirring now,
    In murm'ring tones, yon stately pine,
  Whose giant branches tend to throw
    A deeper shadow o'er this shrine--
  This nobler shrine than priest or king
  Is wont to use for worshipping.

  But lo! 'tis sunset--and the dew
    Is settling fast on herb and tree;
  Darkness will soon be shrouding too
    Each object in obscurity.
  My steps again I therefore turn,
  _To mix with man, and inly mourn!_

* * *




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SONNET.


  There is a splendour in these southern skies,
  Ofttimes at sunset, which I've nowhere seen,
  Wide as my range about the world hath been,
  Save on Italian shores; and there the dyes
  Have less of magic in them!--Who that tries,
  (Artist or Bard,) to paint such glowing hues
  As, in the west, mine eye this moment views,
  But must confess how passing far it lies
  Beyond his utmost skill?--High o'er my head
  A blue intense fades into purplish gray;
  And this anon to richer tints gives way,
  Of yellow--orange--then of deepening red,
  Until at length, in his all gorgeous bed,
  Proudly sinks down the monarch of our day.

* * *


{117}


ORIGINAL LITERARY NOTICES.


POEMS BY A COLLEGIAN, Charlottesville, Va. Published by C. P.
McKennie. Printed by D. Deans & Co. 1833.


A neat and unpretending volume of poems, with the above title, was
issued last year from the Charlottesville press. As a Virginia
production _altogether_, and the first fruits of poetical genius,
emanating from the University of Virginia, the collection deserves
honorable mention in the pages of the Southern Literary Messenger.

Criticism might be disarmed of some of its wonted severity, when it is
known that all the poems contained in this volume, were written by the
author between the ages of sixteen and nineteen. This fact, however,
only increases our favorable opinion of his talents, and induces us to
estimate still higher his natural powers of mind.

We propose, instead of an analysis of the volume before us, and a
regular review of its contents, to extract specimens of the POETRY,
which struck us as displaying that fire of genius so necessary to
constitute a true POET. Our readers we are sure will agree with us in
the favorable opinion we have expressed, after they have perused these
specimens.

One of the best and most spirited of the poems, is the Address to
Constantinople on its anticipated fall, written on receiving
intelligence that the Russian army was on its march to that capital in
1829. We give the two first stanzas.

  "Thy plumes are ruffled now, proud bird!
       O'er land and ocean, forest, solitude,
   The echo of thy last, sad shriek is heard!--
     The glance of majesty
     Is quailing now from thy fierce eye,
       And the deep wailing of thy scattered brood
   Is dying to a murmur. Sadly dark
     Is thy soiled plumage, and thy gilded crest
     Has fallen--so often fall the loftiest and the best.
               Hark!
   To the tread of the devouring foe!--
   But ere thou art laid low,
   Shall not one last avenging blow
     Be struck? Rouse thee, proud bird!
   Thy voice of triumph 'mid the nations, yet
   May swell from mosque and minaret--
     May with the bravest and the first be heard!

   Stamboul! proud city of the East!
   Sister of Rome!--old mistress of a world--
   Wilt thou from thy high state be hurled?
     Shall not thy sinewy arm be strung
   With its accustomed power?--at least
   Gird on thy mail, and let thy dirge,
   If thou _must_ die, upon the battle's verge,
     Amid the shock of arms, be sung!"

The energy of the language and the appropriateness of the figures,
appear to us worthy of high praise.

We have several beautiful descriptions of calm and quiet scenery. What
follows, contrasts admirably with the lines we have just quoted.

  "I look upon the stars sometimes--I love
   To watch their twinkling in the azure ground
   Of Heaven's o'er-arching canopy, where move
   Ten thousand worlds--which, starting with a bound--
   Plough with fiery track, the unseen waves
   Of fathomless immensity; to see,
   Age after age, that sky hung o'er the graves
   Of buried nations, as a tapestry--
   A funeral canopy when dyed with gloom;
   That sky, which, robed in majesty, looked bright
   Upon Columbus, when he sought the tomb
   Of all his hopes, or strove to snatch from night,
   And claim the birthright of a world. 'Tis when
   I view the stars, bright handmaids of the moon--
   Who walks among them as a virgin queen--
   That, with those stars to riot, seem a boon
   From Heaven; I love to see that moon's pure beams--
   Like lightning shot upon the watery waste,
   Which like a mine of living diamonds gleams--
   Each sparkling but an instant--as in haste
   To hide its liquid lustre in the wave--
   A jeweled bathing place--a starlit home--
   Fit--ay, beautifully fit to lave
   The light of worlds in upper air which roam."

There is much of that highly romantic and poetical imagery in this,
which must please every reader of taste. A stanza of similar style is
in the lines to page 32.

  "And when the stars were breathing out
     Their holy light to earth,
   And diamonding the glad blue sky
     For the young moon's queenly birth,
   I've gazed upon some lovely one,
     And thought that it might be
   A glorious home in the afterworld,
     In which to live with thee."

And this at page 82.

  "The air is like a tideless sea
     Of pure and silvery light,
   And the waters glance transparently,
     Illumed by the queen of night.

   The crested waves as they dash on high,
     And dissolve in pearly beads,
   Appear as a carpet spread gaudily,
     Where the giant sea-god treads."

There is much, too, in the following lines, which comes over the
senses "like the sweet south."

  "Evening is stealing with her nectared breath,
   Slowly and calmly down to kiss each flower
   That pouteth in rich beauty from beneath
   Its emerald colored guardians--the bright leaves--
   ('Tis strange what solace brings that magic hour
   To every heart that hopes, or loves, or grieves--
   It is the fitting time for fervent prayer,
   Which rises holily on kindred air--
   For then the air _is_ holy--'tis the time
   For love--the only time to gaze and die
   Beneath the lustre of a diamond eye;
   Yet strange to tell, it is the hour for crime!)
   In golden majesty the glorious sun,
   With light too pure for eye to gaze upon,
   Is sinking slowly in the gorgeous west--
   A monarch going proudly to his rest.--
   He's gone, and mellow twilight creeps along
   As gently as the cadence of a song,--
   Twilight, to whom each poet in his day,
   Hath breathed melodious and impassioned lay,
   While o'er his soul thy witchery was stealing,
   As sweetly as the whispered tones of feeling.

   Evening--'tis then the o'er fraught heart doth pour
   Its wealth of pious incense at the shrine
   Of deity--the spirit then may soar
   Into those regions where the angels twine
   Wreaths for the glorious of our earthly race;--
   'Tis then that we can see, and feel, and trace
   His glory in the realms of starry space!"

We were pleased with the lines to ----, commencing thus:

  "Memory! Memory!--'tis like the talisman
   We read of in the page of Eastern story,
   That magi used the inmost soul to scan
   Of friends or foes; or oft mayhap to call {118}
   From his bright crystal, gold, or diamond hall,
   Some brother in his supernatural glory--
   The talisman of feeling, that doth bring
   Back on the heart the deeds of other days,
   With all their dark or glorious coloring--
   The wizard of the soul, whose wand can raise
   The disembodied spirits of the dead
   Palpable as it were to touch;--impress
   The face of such as long ago have fled
   Into their state of holy blessedness,
   Upon the mind."

The poem, with which the volume opens, "To My Country," contains many
brilliant passages;--and throughout the work, the reader will linger
at almost every page to dwell upon something which must please his
fancy. Indeed the extracts that we intended to have made have so
multiplied upon our hands, that we have not now space to give place to
them all. We trust, however, that what we have given will suffice not
only to show that our own opinions are correct, but to bring the
public, and especially the Virginia public, better acquainted with the
author and his work. In a future number we may adorn the columns of
the Messenger with further extracts from the POEMS BY A COLLEGIAN.

In the preface, the author states that his motive for preserving his
poems in their present form, was his desire "to leave among those who
have taken an interest in his welfare, and with whom he has been in
habits of daily intercourse, a slight memorial of himself, ere more
important duties urge their claims to consideration." We know that his
Alma Mater will always be proud of such a son, and that his friends,
with him, under her instruction will long cherish the "memorial." A
favorable opinion of it will, however, not be confined to them alone.
A discerning public will see and appreciate its excellence.




MY NATIVE LAND, AND OTHER POEMS. By Frederick Speece. Philadelphia:
Printed for Augustine Leftwich, Lynchburg, Virginia. 1832.


Having been obligingly furnished with a copy of these poems, we take
pleasure in introducing them to the notice of the public. We are
somewhat surprised to learn that although published two years since in
Lynchburg, they have attracted no notice in that quarter, either of
applause or censure. It is perhaps, more agreeable to an author, that
his works should come under the lash of satire, than that they should
pass altogether without observation. The chilling neglect of the
public however, furnishes no stronger proof of a writer's demerit,
than do the too frequent carpings of illiberal criticism. Some of the
greatest poets have been doomed whilst living, to indigence and
obscurity, and owe all their honors to posthumous fame; and it is
asserted of Homer especially, that seven cities claimed the honor of
his birth, not one of which perhaps would have furnished a morsel to
save him from starving.

We design not to raise extravagant expectations respecting Mr.
Speece's poems--nor can we hazard the conjecture that the praise of
future times will compensate him for contemporary injustice. We do not
hesitate however, to recommend his work as incomparably superior to
much of that glittering trash which passes under the name of poetry.
There is a vein of good sense,--of just and honest feeling--of tender
melancholy--and sometimes of rich imagination--which runs through his
volume, and which cannot fail to delight such readers as have any soul
for poetical composition. His versification for the most part, is
sweet and melodious--though occasionally there is a little inattention
to syllabick quantity, which produces rather an unpleasant effect upon
the ear. There are other faults too--but they are inconsiderable when
compared with the many redeeming beauties which shine through the
volume. The poem of "My Native Land," in its general tone and harmony
of verse, brings to recollection Goldsmith's Deserted Village--and the
"Sketches," which are also descriptive of the pleasures of juvenile
life and the picturesque scenery of his native hills--contain many
fine passages. In the "Juvenalis Redivivus"--the author has pointed
the arrows of satire against men and manners with no little
severity--so much so, that he has found it necessary in his preface to
acknowledge that time had softened much of the harsh coloring which he
had thrown into his pictures. Many of his minor pieces abound in
beautiful thoughts, expressed in smooth and flowing numbers--and upon
the whole we think if Mr. Speece had been sufficiently encouraged in
early life to persevere in the delightful but unprofitable task of
poetical authorship--he might have reached a highly respectable rank.
The following passage from "My Native Land," will probably remind the
reader of Cowper's touching address to his mother's picture.

  "My mother! Melancholy was the morn
   That found me orphaned, and almost forlorn.
   My friend! My guide! Oh, could not mercy save
   Her for her child, or lay me in her grave!
   Why cheer my drooping and unsheltered head,
   When to the skies her gentle spirit fled?
   Why bid me live, since riper years must pay
   Their long arrears to that lamented day?
   I had a mother, tender, kind and true,
   Her virtues many and her failings few;
   With warm solicitude and watchful eye,
   She taught me what to follow, what to fly;
   And warned me disappointment and distress
   In life must be my portion, more or less;
   That fierce disease would often banish health;
   Pride point the insolence of power and wealth;
   Folly and vice allure; pretended friends
   Abuse my confidence for private ends;
   And fears and sorrows, hovering round my head,
   Pursue me to my last and narrow bed.
   Yet would she say, in Virtue's path was found
   A balm to heal the bosom's deepest wound:
   Winged my young thoughts to better worlds above,
   There to repose my confidence and love.
   Her fond affection never would deceive,
   But these were things I could not then believe.
   Yet though her warnings vanished from my mind,
   Her precepts left a faithful trace behind;--
   In memory's careful records still remain,
   And long experience proves they were not vain."

The same poem concludes in the following lines--being a farewell
tribute to the place of his nativity.

  "Adieu! Perhaps forever! Should it be,--
   'Land of my Fathers! I will think of thee,'
   Long as its motions last, and vital heat,
   Within my heart, thy lovely name shall beat.--
   Tho' rude thy piny hills, a thankless soil,
   Whence scanty products meet the tiller's toil,
   Tho' thy wild scenery, and thy fickle clime,
   Exhibit little beauteous or sublime;--
   And timid Superstition's witching tales, {119}
   And Gothic ignorance linger in thy vales;
   The charms that could my infant love engage,
   Have fixed the feelings of maturer age.
   So strongly linked to joys and sorrows past--
   I loved thee first--loved long--will love thee last.
   Whether, where Beauty taught me first to feel,
   And mutual passion fixed the sacred seal
   On treasures, Heaven reserved for me alone,
   A friend, a bosom dearer than my own,
   On Staunton's banks my wandering feet shall rest,
   Or in some Eden of the rosy West,
   In Alabama's ever verdant clime,
   Or where the wild Missouri rolls sublime;
   Or, 'mid the Bedford hills, whose limpid streams,
   Pay scanty tribute to the mighty James.--
   Land of my birth! and where my fathers sleep,
   Oft shall remembrance turn to thee and weep,
   And though my steps be doomed to wander far,
   Affection tremble to her Polar Star,
   Till the last throb shall lay this bosom low,
   Where _Memory_ and _Affection_ cease to _glow_."

We select a passage at random from the satiric poem, as a fair
specimen of the author's style and manner.

   "There was a time, our good old fathers say,
  (Perhaps it was so in their better day,)
  When coats and gowns were patch'd without disgrace,
  And men wore hats that cover'd all the face;
  When ragged virtue was not kick'd aside,
  Nor worth and equipage identified,
  Nor taste and genius by possession squared,
  Nor merit sold, like riband, by the yard.
  Temperance and charity were then esteem'd,
  And men and women were just what they seem'd.
  Labor and health with vigor strung their arms,
  Themselves less cultivated than their farms.
  No smart young master, impudent and vain,
  Play'd with his cue, or silver-headed cane,
  Forsook his grammar ere he learn'd the rules,
  To pilfer pins, or rifle reticules;
  Nor beardless hero boasted laurels won,
  From maids deceived, or jilted, or undone.
    The rosy girls, content with native bloom,
  Sought not the flowing robe and waving plume;
  Nor wish'd to gain the empire of a heart,
  Where half the victory was achieved by art.
  No wanton fashion taught with lace to deck,
  The shorten'd waist, and lengthen down the neck.
  No everlasting clack of slanderous tongues,
  Raised sad solicitude for female lungs;
  Nor had the sex divided all their cares,
  To sorting silks and mangling characters."

If Mr. Speece were at this time a younger man than we presume him to
be, we should take the liberty of pointing out some of his
defects--but various allusions in some of his minor pieces, authorise
the inference that his affections are now almost alienated from the
once charming society of the muses. Domestic sorrow seems to have had
no inconsiderable share in producing this result. His "Apology to A.
L. Esq."--is full of the poet's as well as the father's anguish at the
sudden death of a favorite son sixteen years old. We give the whole to
the reader.

  "The generous friend may justly claim
     The offspring of my musing,
   But to excite the Muse's flame
     No more obeys my choosing.
   Life's warmest hopes, its light and pride,
   Fail'd with my darling when he died.

   My harp, that once in rapture rung,
     Full-toned to joy and gladness,
   Lies all unheeded and unstrung
     Beneath the cloud of sadness;
   Vain were the task, the effort vain,
   To wake its thrilling notes again.

   Once skill'd to wreath poetic flowers
     Around the brow of Beauty,
   My hand has now forgot its powers,
     Nor heeds that gentle duty;
   Fled is their bloom; the task were vain,
   To wreath those wither'd flowers again.

   The heart that feels the mortal stroke,
     The bosom anguish-riven,
   Sinks hopeless as the blasted oak
     From the fierce bolt of Heaven:
   The oak no genial season feels;
   The wounded bosom never heals.

   Youth may regain its honors reft,
     And bloom again in gladness;
   Age, when bereaved, has little left
     But ever-during sadness;
   And gathering years and grief dissever
   Hope from the heart that bleeds forever."




A VISIT TO TEXAS: Being the journal of a traveller through those parts
most interesting to American settlers. With descriptions of scenery,
habits, &c. &c. _New York:_ Goodrich & Wiley. 1834.


The proximity of Texas to the United States,--the facilities of
intercourse between the two countries--and the migratory habits of our
citizens,--are sufficient to invest with more than ordinary interest
every thing which relates to that part of Spanish America. The volume
before us, is an unpretending and agreeable narrative, and is
calculated we think to do good, by pointing out the mischiefs and
inconveniences of emigration to the Mexican republic, and especially
by calling the public attention to the many ingenious frauds which are
practised by land companies and speculators. The author was a
purchaser of twenty thousand acres from the Galveston Bay and Texas
Land Company through their agents at New York, and full of golden
dreams about this new Eldorado of the south west, he embarked in
person at New Orleans, in order to take possession of his splendid
principality. His disappointment and vexation may be easily imagined
at finding himself on his arrival totally deceived on the subject of
his title! It was not worth the parchment on which it was written, and
after all his fruitless expense, anxiety and hardship, he did not
enjoy even the melancholy satisfaction on his return to New York of
obtaining from the trustees their sympathy, much less remuneration.
Our traveller might indeed have acquired "a quarter of a league of
unappropriated land, on condition of professing the Roman Catholic
religion, becoming a citizen of the Republic of Mexico, and residing
on the soil for six years, receiving his title from the
government;"--but he was too conscientious and honorable to submit to
such requirements. The truth is, that whilst there is much in the
climate and soil of Texas to allure the settler, there are also
numerous objections which ought to discourage the rash experiment of
emigration. Our own country, particularly in its new states and
territories--holds out sufficient inducements to such as find it
either convenient or necessary to change their abodes; and there are
no superior advantages in a residence on the Brassos or Colorado to
compensate for the sacrifices of friends and connexions,--free
government and the rights of conscience. It seems to us therefore to
be little short of fatuity, especially in the present unsettled state
of the miscalled Republic of Mexico, for a citizen of the United
States to abandon for a settlement in that {120} quarter his native
land, unless indeed, he be a violator of its laws and a refugee from
punishment.

In truth, it appears that this desperate class of men constitute no
inconsiderable portion of the population of Texas;--and our author
relates that on one occasion he sat at the same table with no less
than four murderers who had fled from justice. True, there is a large
portion of the country extremely beautiful and fertile, and the labors
of the planter and herdsman are richly rewarded;--but these advantages
are greatly counterbalanced by the insecurity of the government and
laws--the intolerance of religious bigotry--and the absence of most of
the elements which constitute a virtuous and happy community. Minor
evils and inconveniences are also felt. The spacious plains and
luxuriant prairies--though they furnish abundance of food for horses
and cattle, are scantily supplied with wood, and altogether destitute
of stone;--and the usual incidents of southern latitudes,--bilious
fever,--poisonous reptiles and insects, and alligators of enormous
size, serve to fill up the revolting picture.

We have no fears therefore, notwithstanding the enchanting coloring
which even the temperate feelings and chastened imagination of our
author have thrown around a Texas landscape--that there are many
persons of sober minds, when they shall have balanced the good with
the evil, will be much enamoured with the thought of a permanent
"visit" to that region. The book, therefore, may be recommended as a
tolerably certain antidote to any lurking desire for a ramble across
the Sabine,--and if perchance the spirit of migration shall have
become too obstinate for cure,--it may still have the effect of
confining the wanderer's steps within the limits of our own republic.

There are many things in our author's narrative both curious and
amusing--and not among the least so, is the account he gives of that
intractable animal, the _mustang_, or wild horse of the country. With
one of that strange species he was necessarily obliged to cultivate an
intimate acquaintance, having no other means of transportation between
different parts of the country. The manner in which they are reduced
to subjection, and the untameable perverseness of their nature, are
thus related:

The first thing to be attended to, was the purchase of a horse; and
this was easily effected. The small horses of the country, called
_mustangs_, introduced by the Spaniards, and now numerous in the more
northern prairies, run wild in droves over these parts of Texas, and
are easily taken and rendered serviceable by the inhabitants. When
caught, it would be a problem to a stranger to confine them, where
there is neither tree nor rock to be found: but the Mexicans put on a
halter, knot it at the end, dig a hole about ten inches deep, put in
the knot, and press the earth down upon it. The pull being sideways is
at a disadvantage, and the horse is unable to draw it out. They are
driven to market, purchased for three or four dollars, branded,
hobbled, turned out again, and entirely abandoned to themselves until
they are needed. Whenever a vessel arrives, some of the inhabitants
send into the woods and cane brakes for such a number as they suppose
may be wanted by the passengers; and this I found had already been
done in anticipation of the wants of those who came in the sloop
Majesty. In the log stable belonging to Mr. Austin, at whose house I
lodged, I saw a number of them, with all the wild look which might be
expected from their habits of life. They are small, generally about 13
hands high, well formed, rather for strength, and of different colors.
I saw others in several other stables; and at length made choice of a
white one; and having paid for him a doubloon and four dollars, (a
handsome advance on his original cost,) stuffed a pair of saddle bags
with a few articles of food as well as clothes, and was soon ready for
my journey.

As the brands on horses afford the only evidence of their identity,
and the property of their owners, the rules observed in respect to
them are very strict.

These horses are very useful in the country, and may perhaps become at
some future time a valuable article of export, as they are
innumerable, and cost only the trouble of catching. This is done with
a strong noosed cord, made of twisted strips of raw hide, and called a
_lazo_, which is the Spanish word for a band or bond. It has been
often described, as well as the manner of throwing it, as it is in
common use for catching animals, and sometimes for choking men, in
different parts of America inhabited by the descendants of the Spanish
and Portuguese. A man on horseback, with a rope of this kind coiled in
his left hand, and one end of it fastened to the horse, whirls the
noosed end in the air over his head as he approaches the animal he
intends to seize: and, on finding an opportunity, throws it over its
head or horns, and checks his horse. The noose is instantly drawn
tight, and the poor creature is thrown violently down, without the
power of moving, and generally deprived of breath. They are sometimes
badly injured, and even killed, by bring dashed to the ground; but
generally escape with a severe practical lesson on the nature of this
rude instrument of civilization, which they afterwards hold in great
respect all their lives, yielding immediately whenever they feel it
again upon their necks.

The mustangs often carry to their graves evidence of the violent means
adopted by the Mexicans in breaking them to the bridle. Many of them
are foundered, or otherwise diseased. A horse which has been lazoed is
blindfolded, mounted by a rider armed with the heavy and barbarous
spurs of the country, after having their terrible lever bits put into
his mouth, a moderate pull upon which might break his jaw, and if he
runs is pricked to his speed, till he falls down with exhaustion. He
is then turned in the opposite direction, and cruelly spurred again.
If he is found able to run back to the point from which he started, he
is thought to have bottom enough to make a valuable horse: otherwise
he is turned off as good for little or nothing. The process is a
brutal one; and the agony inflicted by the bits is extreme: as blood
flows freely from the mouth which is often greatly swollen; and the
animal yields to mere force.

In the morning we mounted our horses and proceeded to the river, where
the ferry boat, a large scow, was lying near the shore. I dismounted,
and taking the bridle in my hand, attempted to lead my horse in after
me. Most fortunately I was looking at him, and was better prepared
than I was sensible of being, to make one of those sudden instinctive
motions, which sometimes prove essential to our safety. Had I been
turning the other way, or a little less active, I should probably have
lost my life, or at least have been seriously injured: for instead of
following me into the boat, as an honest horse should, and as I had
expected him to do, he fixed his eyes upon me with a malicious
expression, and sprung at me like lightning, clearing the ground
entirely, and making a leap of about eight feet. I jumped aside, and
barely in time to avoid his feet, with which it seemed to me he
designed to beat me down. I do not know that I ever had experienced
such feelings as this occurrence excited in me. It betrayed a degree
of spite mingled with craft which I had never seen in an animal of his
species; and laid the axe at the root of all that confidence and
attachment which a traveller loves to exercise towards his horse. I
have been thus particular in mentioning this little occurrence,
because the wit of the country appears to be largely invested in the
horses; and this was the beginning of my white mustang.

Some other particulars of our traveller's own rebellious steed may
also be extracted. He was not indeed "a Tartar of the Ukraine
breed"--but he was as wild, mischievous and wicked an animal as ever
pranked.

It was our intention to proceed to Bingham's that day: for one of my
companions, who had travelled the road a short time before, had
calculated that his house would afford us a very comfortable lodging
after a good day's ride. We rose therefore to proceed on our journey.
But I had a chapter or two more to read on the character of mustangs
before I was destined to leave the place. I had never been informed of
one particular propensity which they have, that is, to draw back and
pull violently when approached in front, and therefore walked up to my
white horse rather hastily to untie and mount him. He sprang back
{121} and pulled for a moment so hard upon the sapling to which I had
fastened him, that it came up by the roots; and after a few leaps and
kicks, which freed him from my saddle bags, and broke the bridle, he
made off towards the middle of the prairie at full speed, with his
head and tail both raised, and in a state of exultation which formed
quite a contrast to my own feelings.

My companions threw off their valises, mounted immediately, and gave
chase to the pestilent runaway, which, after a short gallop, had
halted, and with the most provoking coolness began to eat grass from
the prairie. As they approached him, however, he flew off again as
fast as his legs would carry him; and thus he led them to a great
distance, on a chase apparently hopeless. I watched them till I was
tired, coursing over the prairie here and there, now on this side, now
on that, at such a distance that they looked no bigger than cats, and
anon further diminished to mere mice. My white mustang led them up and
down, round and crosswise, as if he delighted in worrying them,
occasionally stopping, as coolly as before, to crop the grass, and
then off in a new direction, like a wild creature as he was. This
chase lasted without intermission for four hours, at the end of which
they succeeded in driving the little white animal towards the house.
Mr. Bailey, seeing him approaching, despatched a messenger to a
neighboring farm for assistance; and a man soon came hurrying down on
horseback, provided with a lazo: a rope with a noose at the end as
before described. He joined in the pursuit with the spirit and skill
of one practised in such employment, and soon got within about eight
or ten feet of my horse, when, with a dexterous fling, he suddenly
threw the noose over his head. Having the beast now completely in his
power, he was prepared to choke him into submission; and the noose was
on the point of closing its grasp round his neck. But here the
intelligence and experience of the mustang stepped in with customary
promptitude: for as soon as he felt the rope round his neck, he
stopped stone still, and yielded as submissively as a lamb. Like an
accomplished rogue at last fairly in the gripe of justice, he seemed
in haste to submit, plead guilty and repent, in order to secure as
much leniency as possible; and in a few moments I was again on the
back of this little flying brute, jogging on as quietly as if he had
never rebelled in his life. There was a great deal of farce in all
this: but we had been put to too much inconvenience by the perverse
trick to enjoy the joke: for our loss of time, we foresaw, would put
it out of our power to perform all our intended day's journey.

It was nearly dark when we reached Hall's: a habitation of which I had
heard, but at which we had not originally intended to stop, as it was
only thirteen miles from Bailey's. I here found that horses in Texas
are always turned out loose to feed, even if a traveller stops but for
the night, which would have ensured another chase, with perhaps even
more unfavorable results than that I had witnessed, but for an
expedient which was recommended to us. This was to "hobble them" after
the fashion of the country: which consists in tying together their
fore legs with a short cord, and not one fore and one hind leg
together, as we do at the north. This operation instantly changes the
movements of a horse, as he is obliged to make every step a fair leap:
and it excited the greatest merriment in me, when I saw the horses of
my companions practising a gait so different from common, under a mode
of constraint which I had never witnessed before. Fully satisfied that
such confinement would be sufficient even for my white mustang, I
began to tie his legs together, which to my surprise he submitted to
with the utmost cheerfulness, without raising his head, for he had
already began to graze on the fine grass. Although so recently
accustomed to run at large in the Brazos forests, he had evidently
been familiar with the hobble: for as if he perfectly concurred in my
opinion as to the propriety of his being bound, whenever he wanted to
move he carefully raised both fore feet together, so as not to
interfere with my task, and made a gentle spring to a knot of fresh
feed. Surely, thought I, I have got a steed sagacious enough to figure
in one of Æsop's Fables.

Our traveller had not proceeded far on his journey, before his
vexatious mustang refused to eat, and gave signs of great weariness
and exhaustion. Unable however to supply himself with another, he
resolved after an interval of rest to pursue his way.

We took our departure accordingly; and I had much difficulty in
getting my horse out of the town. In a short time, however, he began
to cheer up, and gradually quickened his pace until his strength and
spirits were quite restored, and he travelled remarkably well. However
strange it may seem, there was every appearance that the whole affair
had been a mere trick of the wily brute; and my opinion was confirmed
by several inhabitants to whom I afterwards recounted the story. They
told me that the sagacity and duplicity of the mustang is well known
among them, and that he is capable of almost any thing, which
ingenuity or malice can invent. So ungrateful a return for all my
kindness and care, under such vexatious circumstances, and aggravated
by such persevering imposture, added to my previous dislike of the
animal which had been guilty of it.

One would be almost tempted to think that these provoking yet
sagacious quadrupeds were regular descendants from the race celebrated
by Swift, and which that eccentric satirist endowed with superior
intelligence to men.

From our author's account, Texas would undoubtedly furnish its full
quota of contributions to a cabinet of natural history. The feathered
tribes luxuriate there, especially on the coast, in great abundance
and variety. The wild fowl congregate in prodigious flocks, and the
ornithologist might find almost every order, genera and species in
creation. The tenants of the forest are not less numerous,--there
being an ample supply of wolves, bears, panthers, wild cats, wild
hogs, foxes, rackoons and squirrels. The waters too, furnish their
finny, testaceous and crustaceous treasures,--the red fish, buffalo,
cat, drum, pearch, oysters, crabs, &c. Nor is there any want of those
amphibious annoyances, crocodiles and alligators--and to crown the
whole, there is an anomalous species called the
alligator-garr,--consisting not of the fanciful compound of half horse
and half alligator--but of the actual and bona fide admixture of one
moiety of fish, and the other of alligator. We must not forget either
in enumerating the zoological curiosities of that region, one which we
do not recollect to have seen described by naturalists. We give the
words of the author.

One of the prettiest little animals I ever saw, is the "horned frog;"
which, notwithstanding its name, is far from being amphibious, as it
is found on the prairies at a distance from water. Indeed it bears
little or no resemblance to a frog, appearing more like a lizard, with
rather a long and graceful form, a tail, and legs of nearly equal
length, so that it runs swiftly and never leaps. I had often occasion
to notice them, both here and on other prairies. They run with such
agility, that although they do not take alarm until you have
approached very near them, they dart off, and generally disappear
immediately. One might often mistake them for quails, while in motion.
They are of a yellowish color, mottled, and have horns about half an
inch long, projecting from the front of the head. Several were caught
and kept for some time in a barrel at Anahuac, and though it could not
be perceived that they ate any of the various kinds of food which were
offered them, they lived and continued active for a considerable time.

That formidable reptile the rattlesnake, is also found in the grassy
prairies of Texas. Our traveller killed one of the "largest and
noblest" of that venemous family--it being five or six feet long and
about six inches in circumference. It was provided however with only
eight rattles, whereas others which had been killed a few days
previously of hardly half the size, were furnished with as many as
thirteen;--from which the author takes occasion to contest the common
opinion that the number of rattles is an indication of the reptile's
age. We have heard the same fact asserted, and the same conclusion
drawn from it by others, whose opportunities for careful and actual
observation were undoubted.

Notwithstanding the many and formidable objections {122} to a
permanent residence in Texas,--there are beauties in its scenery,
which, despite of its unvarying monotony--must fill the beholder with
delight. We give a description of one of the few fine estates in
regular cultivation.

We were received with great hospitality by Mr. McNeil and his family,
in which we found every disposition to welcome us. They set before us
the best products of the soil, which is indeed a land flowing with
milk and honey, in a more unqualified sense of the expression than any
I had ever seen. Our exercise had sharpened our appetites; and we were
soon cheered with the sight of an excellent and plentiful meal: for
our hosts, without making a single allusion to the subject, had
immediately given directions, on our first arrival, that our wants
should be provided for, and we soon sat down to a well timed repast.
It consisted chiefly of venison and a fine turkey, and was accompanied
with excellent coffee. The daughter of our host was a very intelligent
and well educated young lady, and had recently returned from the
Northern States, where she had just completed her education.

After eating, we took a view of the charming scene around us. The
house in which we were, constructed of logs, and on the plan common to
the country dwellings of farmers in Texas, is well sheltered from the
sun and the winds by the wood, in the verge of which it is situated:
and when the beautiful China trees around it shall have attained a
greater size, the spot will be rendered still more agreeable. The
mansion fronts upon the estate: a fine, open prairie, over which the
eye ranges with pleasure, no wild or barren spot occurring to
interrupt the universal aspect of fertility and beauty, and no
swelling of the surface being perceptible, which might in any degree
interfere with the clearest view of every part. The only interruption
is caused by clusters of trees of different forms and sizes, scattered
at distant intervals here and there. These clumps and groves,
apparently possessing all the neatness and beauty which could have
been given them if planted by the hand of man, and tended by his
greatest care, added the charm of variety to the eye, while they
promised thick and convenient shelter from sun and storm to man or
beast. Without such variety and such a refuge, the aspect of the
prairie, with all its verdure, would have been monotonous to the
sight, and disheartening to the traveller. It would be almost
impossible for a person who has never seen them, to imagine the
appearances of these groves. Although they are wholly the work of
nature, they often present all the beauty of art: for the trees are of
nearly equal size, and grow near together, without underwood, and
present outlines perfectly well defined, and often surprisingly
regular. Some appear to form exact circles or ovals, while others are
nearly square or oblong. It is no uncommon thing to see a continued
line, running perfectly straight, for a mile or more in length, with
scarcely a single tree projecting beyond it: so that I found it
difficult to divest myself of the impression, that much of the land
had been lately cleared, and that these were but the remains of the
forest.

Those groves are called islands, from the striking resemblance they
present to small tracts of land surrounded by water. Nothing can be
more natural than the comparison. The prairie assumes the uniform
appearance of a lake, both in surface and color; and in the remoter
parts the hue melts into that of distant water; and it requires no
very great effort of the imagination, especially in certain states of
the weather and changes of the light, to fancy that such is the nature
of the scene.

The landscape was bounded on the right by a long and distant line of
woodland, which concealed and yet betrayed the course of the river San
Bernard, and about three miles off, and on the left by a similar
limit, which formed the "bottoms" of the Brazos. Between these the
prairie extended its broad, unbroken level before us about ten miles,
beyond which we saw the Gulf of Mexico, reaching off to the horizon.

I stood long contemplating this charming picture, which, as I before
remarked, is entirely overlooked from the door of our hospitable
friend; and what greatly added to its interest, was a vast number of
cattle feeding in all parts of his wide domain. How different a sight
was here presented, from any of the rural scenes with which my eyes
had ever before been familiar! How different was all the system of the
farmer from that prevailing in those regions of my own country which I
had lately visited! I was one moment struck with surprise at the vast
extent of land under the care of a single proprietor, and the few
human hands required to perform the necessary labor; and the next I
was filled with admiration at the various advantages afforded by a
mild and benignant climate, a soil of extreme fertility, and a surface
best appropriate to its use, when subjected to a system of culture to
which it is best adapted. The cotton field and garden, with their two
hundred acres, lay on the one hand, effectually secured against all
encroachment with the most substantial fence I had ever seen, which
stretched off a mile on one line; and around and beyond it lay the
almost boundless prairie, variegated with its numerous islands,
spotted with a scattered herd of six hundred cattle, all belonging to
our host. The breed is larger than those common in the north, with
longer and straiter limbs, broader horns and smoother coats. They all
appeared well fed, active and vigorous, and spend their lives through
winter and summer in the open air. The only attention bestowed upon
them, is merely to mark them when young in such a manner that if they
stray they may be distinguished from the cattle of any other
proprietor. Of course no housing is necessary in such a climate, and
no provision of food for them is to be made, in a country where there
is perpetual green. They feed during the winter in the bottoms, and as
yet do not require salt, for some reason unaccountable to me. One
might expect that cattle left thus to herd together in such immense
droves, without the care or control of man during their lives, would
contract habits of timidity or of fierceness; but I was assured that
they are in one respect more manageable than the tame cattle I have
seen: for a horseman can always readily separate such as he chooses
from a herd, by riding after them one at a time, though this is a task
of great difficulty with our northern cattle, even where they have
roads and fences to restrain them.

We shall conclude by extracting another portion of the work, which in
the simple and unpretending language of the author, presents a picture
of such striking beauty, that the eye of a poet might almost mistake
it for Elysium.

I had never been at all prepared for the indescribable beauty of a
Texas prairie at this season of the year, which I now could not avoid
admiring, even under such unpleasant circumstances. The wild flowers
had greatly multiplied, so that they were often spread around us in
the utmost profusion, and in wonderful variety. Some of those which
are most cultivated in oar northern gardens were here in full bloom
and perfection, intermingled with many which I had never before seen,
of different forms and colors. I should despair of giving my reader
any adequate idea of the scenes which were thus so richly adorned, and
through which we often passed for acres in extent, breaking for
ourselves the only path perceptible on the whole prairie. Among the
flowers were the largest and most delicate I had ever seen, with
others the most gaudy. Among them were conspicuous different species
about six inches in diameter, presenting concentric zones of the
brightest yellow, red and blue, in striking contrasts. In more than
one instance these fields of flowers were not only so gay and
luxuriant as to seem like a vast garden richly stocked with the finest
plants and abandoned to a congenial soil, but extensive almost beyond
limitation: for it was sometimes difficult to discover whether they
stopped short of the horizon. It was singular also that patches were
here and there overspread by mimosas, which, as our horses passed
through them, drew up their leaves and dropped their branches whenever
they were brushed by their feet, thus making a withered trace on the
surface, which was but gradually obliterated as these timid plants
regained their courage, raised their stems again and expanded their
withered leaves. The plants whose sensitiveness had thus been
overcome, were rendered distinguishable to the eye from others, by the
exposure they made of the lower side of their leaves when they folded
them up: that side being of a much lighter hue than the upper. There
was a phenomenon connected with this striking appearance, which I was
at the time unable to account for, and could hardly credit. That was,
the shrinking of the delicate plants a little in advance of us, before
we had quite reached them. A friend who had witnessed the same thing,
accounted for it by supposing that they received a shock through the
long horizontal roots which connect them together.

One of the first flowers which appears to deck the prairie in the
spring, is the prairie rose, which in blossom and fragrance, resembles
some of our rich red roses, though the shrub is quite different. As
for others, I know not what a botanist might make of them: but I am
certain that many of them would be exceedingly admired in our own
country, as rich and new; and as to {123} the scenes over which they
were spread, it is impossible to describe or to imagine their beauty
and attraction. After looking on the rich and ever varying display, I
felt a high degree of pleasure and admiration, so that I thought I
could almost give my mustang his liberty, throw myself on the ground
and spend the whole season among them. Occasionally too a light breath
of wind would rise, and blow the mingled perfumes into my face, giving
an enjoyment no less pure and refined, and most difficult to express.




VIRGINIA HISTORICAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL SOCIETY.

We select the following from the "_The Western Monthly Magazine_," a
very neat and ably conducted periodical, published at Cincinnati. We
are gratified at the favorable notice taken of the first labors of the
_Historical and Philosophical Society_;--a society which, of all
others ever established among us, ought to stir up every Virginian who
possesses a particle of state pride. Why, in the name of every thing
that is dear to us, do we not unite our efforts to establish something
like a literary and scientific character for the Old Dominion. Is
there not something, besides politics, worth living for? We shall
devote some pages of our future numbers to the interests of this
excellent institution.


COLLECTIONS _of the Virginia Historical and Philosophical Society_; to
which is prefixed an Address spoken before the Society, &c. by
_Jonathan P. Cushing_, A.M., President of Hampden Sidney College. vol.
i. Richmond, T. W. White, 1833.


The Society from whose labors this pamphlet has been produced, was
originated in the winter of 1831; but owing to the fatal epidemic
which prevailed in that country, in common with other parts of the
United States, and other adverse causes, effected but little during
the two first years of its existence. The interesting publication now
before us, however, affords an earnest that the rich hoard of ancient
lore, treasured in the public archives, or private records, of the
ancient dominion, will not be suffered to lie concealed any longer
from the public eye.

We hail the establishment of this Society, at the head of which we
perceive the name of the venerable Chief Justice of the United States,
as an event highly auspicious to the literature of our country.
Notwithstanding all that has been published, the older states of the
Union abound in fragments of traditionary history, of the most
interesting and valuable character, many of which will soon be lost to
posterity, unless they shall be rescued from oblivion by the efforts
of zealous and learned associations. Virginia especially, is rich in
the materials of history. From the day when the intrepid Smith first
wandered in search of adventure, along the wooded shores of the
Chesapeak, and when the gentle Pocahontas gave to the world an example
of female heroism and affection, more touching than any thing recorded
upon the pages of romance, down to the present era, her annals have
been filled with events of thrilling interest, and high importance.
Long before the revolution, her scholars and statesmen were known to
fame, and her soldiers were distinguished in the colonial wars.
Mistress of the wide expanse of the unknown west, her sons began early
to explore the wilderness, and to lay the foundation of a new empire
in this enticing region. From that state came the pioneers who subdued
the enemy, in the forests of Kentucky, and to whom America owes a
large debt of gratitude. The war for independence, was not fought by
our gallant forefathers upon the shores of the Atlantic only. While
our armies were contending there, the British had turned loose the
savage hordes of the west upon the frontiers, and the backwoodsmen
were successfully repelling the incursions of the barbarian, while
Washington was employed in fighting their regular armies. When we
recal those events, when we recollect the services of Virginia, in
defending the western settlements, and her magnanimity in yielding up
to the general government the broad lands of this Great Valley, the
larger portion of which were her own by right and by possession, it
will be seen that there is no state to whom the inhabitants of this
region owe so much, and none whose history is so nearly connected with
our own. We witness, therefore, with no small degree of gratification,
an attempt to place on record the existing reminiscences of the
patriotic and hardy deeds of the noble generation which preceded our
own. And we hope it will be successful. Abounding as Virginia does, in
all the elements of greatness, there is no reason why she should not
perpetuate the fame of her own sons. Containing within her limits so
many men of genius, education, and comparative leisure, she has at
command the most ample means of collecting and preserving every bright
relic which has been scattered along her career, by the hand of time.

The first article in the pamphlet before us, is the address of
President Cushing, of Hampden Sidney College, in which he sets forth
the objects of the Society, and presses them earnestly upon the
attention of the members. They are such as are usually embraced in the
plans of similar institutions, including not only historical and
biographical details, but facts in relation to the natural history and
actual condition of the state.

The next article is a "memoir of Indian wars, and other occurrences,
by the late Colonel Stuart, of Greenbrier"--a paper which sheds
considerable light upon the events which transpired upon the western
portion of Virginia, during the thirty years succeeding the year 1749.
The writer participated in the eventful scenes of that interesting
period, and was not only a soldier, but a man of strong mind, who has
recorded his recollections in a clear and easy style. The following
anecdote is quite characteristic:

About the year 1749, a person who was a citizen of the county of
Frederick, and subject to paroxysms of lunacy, when influenced by such
fits, usually made excursions into the wilderness, and in his rambles
westwardly, fell in on the waters of Greenbrier river. At that time,
the country on the western waters was but little known to the English
inhabitants of the then colonies of America, being claimed by the
French, who had commenced settlements on the Ohio and its waters, west
of the Alleghany mountains. The lunatic being surprised to find waters
running a different course from any he had before known, returned with
the intelligence of his discovery, which did abound with game. This
soon excited the enterprise of others. Two men from New England, of
the name of Jacob Marlin and Stephen Sewell, took up a residence upon
Greenbrier river; but soon disagreeing in sentiment, a quarrel
occasioned their separation, and Sewell, for the sake of peace, quit
their cabin and made his abode in a large hollow tree. In this
situation they were found by the late General Andrew Lewis, in the
year 1751. Mr. Lewis was appointed agent for a company of grantees,
who obtained from the governor and council of Virginia, an order for
one hundred thousand acres of land lying on the waters of Greenbrier
river,--and did, this year, proceed to make surveys to complete the
quantity of said granted lands; and finding Marlin and Sewell living
in the neighborhood of each other, inquired what {124} could induce
them to live separate in a wilderness so distant from the habitations
of any other human beings. They informed him that difference of
opinion had occasioned their separation, and that they had since
enjoyed more tranquillity and a better understanding; for Sewell said,
that each morning when they arose and Marlin came out of the great
house and he from his hollow tree, they saluted each other,
saying--good morning Mr. Marlin, and good morning Mr. Sewell, so that
a good understanding then existed between them; but it did not last
long, for Sewell removed about forty miles further west, to a creek
that still bears his name. There the Indians found him and killed him.

Colonel Stuart gives a very detailed account of the campaign of
General Lewis in 1774, which resulted in the battle at Point Pleasant.
That battle was, in fact, the beginning of the revolutionary war; for
it is well known that the Indians were induced by the British to
commence hostilities, for the purpose of confounding and terrifying
the American people. It was thought that an Indian war would prevent a
combination of the colonies for opposing the measures of parliament,
and would turn their thoughts from resistance to the government, by
engaging them in the defence of their homes. The Shawanese, a fierce,
warlike, and numerous tribe, were employed on this occasion, and they
were a tribe not to be despised--for by them, with their allies, have
the most conspicuous battles in the West been fought. It was chiefly
the Shawanese that cut off the British army under Braddock in 1755,
and defeated Major Grant and his highlanders at Fort Pitt in 1758. It
was they who defeated an army composed of the flower of Kentucky at
Blue Licks--who vanquished Harmer and St. Clair, who were beaten by
Wayne, and conquered by Harrison.

The army sent against these formidable savages by Governor Dunmore,
was composed of Virginia volunteers, led by General Andrew Lewis, a
gentleman of whose military abilities General Washington entertained
so high an opinion, that when the chief command of the revolutionary
armies were tendered to himself, he recommended that it should be
given to General Lewis. He was the companion of Washington in the
fatal campaign under Braddock, and was a captain in the detachment
which fought at Little Meadows in 1752. He commanded a company of
Virginians, attached to Major Grant's regiment of Highlanders in 1758,
and on the eve of the battle in which the latter was so signally
defeated, was ordered to the rear, with his men, in order that he
might not share the honor of the expected victory. There he stood with
his brave Virginians, impatiently listening to the reports of the
musquetry, at a distance of more than a mile from the battle
ground--until the Europeans were defeated, when, without waiting for
orders, he rushed to the scene of slaughter, and by his coolness and
skill, turned the scale of victory, drove back the savages, and saved
the regulars from massacre. "When he was advancing," says the
narrative before us, "he met a Scotch Highlander under speedy flight,
and inquiring of him how the battle was going, he said 'they were a'
beaten, and he had seen Donald McDonald up to his hunkers in mud, and
a' the skeen af his heed.' Grant made his escape from the field of
battle with a party of seven or eight soldiers, and wandered all night
in the woods," but surrendered himself to the enemy in the morning,
while the Virginians marched home in triumph. This was the same
Colonel Grant who figured in the British Parliament in 1775, when he
had the impudence to say, he knew the Americans well--he had often
acted in the same service with them, and from that knowledge would
venture to predict, that they would never dare to face an English
army, being destitute of every requisite to constitute good soldiers.

We regret that we have not room to make further extracts from this
narrative. We shall have attained our object, however, if the remarks
we have made, shall be the means of attracting attention to this
interesting era in our history.

The last article in this pamphlet is a very curious document, being an
exact copy of the "Record of Grace Sherwood's Trial for Witchcraft, in
1705, in Princess Ann County, Virginia." On another occasion we shall
present an account of this singular procedure to our readers.




THE LITERARY JOURNAL.


M. M. Robinson, Esq. editor of the Compiler, has issued the first or
specimen number of a new periodical to be published weekly in this
city, with the title of the "LITERARY JOURNAL." Its contents will
consist of _selections_ from the mass of contemporary literature,
American and foreign. We should rejoice in Mr. Robinson's success,
even if his paper was likely to conflict with the interests of the
"Messenger." In truth however, the two periodicals ought to flourish
together, and be mutually beneficial. Whilst the "Journal" will be
filled _exclusively_ with _selected_ matter, the "Messenger" will
_chiefly_, though not entirely, consist of _original_ articles. The
_former_ will improve the taste and enrich the mind of the reader, by
culling from inexhaustible sources whatever may contribute to his
gratification and amusement; whilst the _latter_ will furnish the
means of exercising the talents of _our own writers_--of imbodying our
own conceptions, and reducing to _practical use_, the knowledge which
we acquire. Whilst in order to write well, much reading is absolutely
necessary, so all the reading in the world will avail but little,
unless the free and familiar use of the pen is also obtained. We
certainly never shall become a literary people unless we learn to use
the treasures we accumulate from books; no more than the theory of
military tactics will ever make an accomplished soldier in his
closet--or the study of jurisprudence constitute a lawyer of one who
never appears at the bar.

The first number of the "Journal" is filled with reviews of foreign
publications, and other articles, which appear to have been
judiciously selected. We take the liberty of making one suggestion
however, and that is, that the source from which each article is
derived ought to be designated. If the name of the writer cannot be
given, that of the Quarterly or Monthly from which it is extracted,
ought by all means to be furnished. It would moreover be doubtless
gratifying to the reader to understand whether he is indebted to an
American or British author for the pleasure he receives.

Mr. Robinson will, it is hoped, be successful in his enterprise.




EXTRACT FROM LACON.


Nothing is so difficult as the apparent ease of a clear and flowing
style: those graces which from their presumed facility encourage all
to attempt an imitation of them, are usually the most inimitable.


{125}


EDITORIAL DEPARTMENT.


The two preceding numbers of the "Messenger" having been, as far as we
can learn, favorably received by its patrons, we have endeavored in
this to keep pace with expectation, by presenting a rich variety of
original matter, and a few interesting selections. Among the most
important duties of those who have any concern in the management of
such a work--it is not the least to be watchful of an enlightened
public opinion--to profit by the suggestions of others, and even to
receive with patience well-intended rebuke. It is precisely in this
latter spirit that we have noticed in the letters of one or two
correspondents, as well as in the public prints, some animadversions
upon the editorial remarks in the last number. We have been censured,
and perhaps justly, for bestowing too much praise on the contributions
of our friends. However great the error, it was at least honestly, if
not prudently committed.

It was believed that a little commendation was not only justly due,
but might stir up generous minds to increase their efforts in behalf
of an infant and laudable enterprise. We should always prefer erring
on the side of indiscriminate praise, rather than undeserved censure.
The true path, indeed, is to avoid both extremes,--but it is much
easier to prescribe good counsel than always to follow it. We have
been admonished too by a very sensible and judicious correspondent, in
whose judgment we entertain great confidence, that we have imposed
inconvenient and impolitic restrictions upon the writers for the
"Messenger," by limiting the subject matter of their contributions. We
are told that we have circumscribed too much the field of their
labors, by objecting to such materials as are drawn from foreign
character and manners,--and we are gently reminded of an apparent
inconsistency, between our professed attachment to domestic subjects,
and the admission into our columns of copious extracts from an English
novel. We are moreover informed from the same intelligent source, that
our denunciation of all such fictions as are founded upon fairy
mythology, is not very reasonable,--inasmuch as these may imbody the
conceptions of imagination and genius--and may serve to illustrate and
display Virginia talent and literature.

Now, with due deference to these various suggestions, which we know to
originate in perfect good will--it is proper in the first place to
remark, that we do not perceive any inconsistency between our
objection to "the trammels of foreign reading"--and the admission into
our pages of good selections from foreign publications. The
"Messenger" is designed chiefly to encourage the practice of literary
composition among our own writers of both sexes,--and of literary
composition there are great varieties,--some founded on fact and
personal observation, and some which are moulded exclusively out of
the creations of fancy. A writer who will give us facts or sketches of
the character and manners, or scenery of a foreign country, derived
either from his own observation or authentic sources, will render an
acceptable service;--but, in a pure tale of fiction, or in descriptive
narrative, founded for the most part upon the mere inventions of
genius--why is it necessary or proper to slight the familiar materials
which every where surround us, and resort to those hackneyed and
frequently distorted pictures of transatlantic manners, of which we
can only form just conceptions through the secondary medium of books?
If we must have foreign tales for our amusement and instruction, had
we not better take them from those who copy from life, and are more
likely to present faithful and finished sketches! Let foreign writers,
therefore, give us pictures of their own,--and such, as we like we
will publish; but let our own adventurers in the paths of literature,
prefer rather to stand upon ground with which they are acquainted. Let
them weave their garlands with flowers plucked from our native wilds,
or our own cultivated gardens, and not rely, as too many do rely, upon
exotic ornaments wherewith to embellish their pages. It is true that a
_strict_ observance of any such rule as this is not to be expected and
is perhaps not practicable--and we are perfectly aware, that
illustrious examples may be found in our own, as well as in other
countries, of a departure from its letter if not from its spirit.
These examples for the most part, however, will be found on
examination, to rest on peculiar circumstances. The genius of a Scott,
may soar amidst the grandeur of Alpine scenery,--or may depict the
curious superstitions and simple manners of the Shetland
Islanders;--but minds like his,--of such incomparable vigor and
fertility, are neither bound by the confines of space or time. They
have a kind of exclusive privilege to transcend ordinary rules,--and
those who would plead their example, ought at least to shew something
like extraordinary merit to entitle them to the same exemption. If we
look to our own country, it is well understood, that Mr. Cooper owes
his reputation as a writer of fiction principally to those fine
romances, which are founded upon native character and scenery--and
that, if that reputation has suffered at all, it is in consequence of
his desertion of a field so wide and magnificent, for the beaten and
monotonous track of European character and customs. Mr. Irving is
undoubtedly most indebted for his literary fame to such of his
productions as are purely American; and it is probable that in the
future estimate which will be formed of his powers and genius, his
Bracebridge Hall, and the Tales of the Alhambra, will hold no
comparison in the scale of merit with his Knickerbocker, or
Salmagundi. But why amplify our illustrations? We will present no
absolute rule on the subject,--but rather choose to throw out these
opinions and suggestions to our readers and contributors, as matter
for their consideration.

In respect to the Legends of Fairy land,--which give such illimitable
scope to the fancy--and operate so feebly, if at all, in imparting
either rational amusement or instruction,--we confess that our
opinions are more decided and our objections more insurmountable. We
think that the day has past when such kind of reading will either be
relished or endured. In this age of comparative mental
sobriety,--aliment like that, is not likely to satisfy the
intellectual appetite; no more than the spectre tales of the last
century would suit the rational and regulated taste of the present
time. This opinion it is not necessary to enforce by a train of
reasoning. We think that a large majority of our readers will concur
in the sentiment.

We are also informed from more than one quarter, that we awarded too
liberal and dangerous a compliment in our last number, to one article
especially, to wit--the "_Recollections of Chotank_;"--that we have
thereby, without intending it, given a sanction to vices {126} which
were once fashionable, but now no longer so: that we have offended
against the laws of that chaste empress, TEMPERANCE,--who sits
enthroned in so many hearts, and who will not countenance the
slightest inuendo against her sovereignty; and that we have actually
been guilty of the sin of commending a paper, which contained enticing
references to the social excesses and abuses of ancient hospitality.
To all this we reply, that we spoke of the "_Recollections of
Chotank_" as a _literary_ composition,--and that we had no more
design, in the tribute which we paid to its merit, to recommend the
vices of "gambling and drinking," than we believe the author himself
had, when he sat down to sketch his reminiscences of by-gone days. We
hope that the most fastidious will be content with this disclaimer.

It is impossible that the "Messenger" can always please each one of
its readers. Its contents must be necessarily varied--and it will
often happen, that an article which will dissatisfy one person, will
be particularly acceptable to another. So it is on the stage, at the
forum, and in the pulpit. Some will loath that very part of the
performance, the argument or doctrine, which will inspire others with
delight. As we cannot possibly please all, we must endeavor to satisfy
the greater number, and in so doing we may probably please ourselves.
There is one thing of which our readers and patrons may rest assured,
that we shall never knowingly countenance any thing either false in
taste, or wrong in morals;--and we hold--that purity in both, is
necessary to the dignity and value of literature.

We have been gently reprimanded by some of our friends for not
confining ourselves exclusively to _original matter_, whilst others
have thought, that a few more good _selections_ would add to the value
of our pages. Such is the "incurable diversity of human opinion." Our
own view of the subject is so much better expressed by a distinguished
writer, than we can do it--that we shall give below in the "_Extracts
from the letters of our correspondents_," a full quotation from his
letter.

But what shall we say of the contents of the present number?--shall we
say nothing, least peradventure we may say too much? Must we be
altogether silent, in order that our patrons may judge for themselves,
unbiassed by our own humble opinion? We cannot in conscience be so
uncivil as not to return the kindness of our friends, with the simple
expression of our thanks; and if perchance we should so far suffer our
good feelings to master our judgment, as to bestow praise where none
is due, we feel confident that the superior discernment, and more
enlightened taste of our readers, will correct the error.

Let us therefore take a rapid survey of the feast which we have
spread. Perhaps our bill of fare may tempt curiosity and whet the
appetite.

The article entitled "_Sketches of the History and Present Condition
of Tripoli_," will be read and admired, not only for the style, but
the really valuable and interesting information it contains. The
source from which it comes may be fully relied on.

The domestic grievances of "_Belinda_" are we hope not without remedy.
Time and strict regimen may perhaps restore her dyspeptic consort to a
more equable frame. His humors have at least had the effect of
supplying us with a good article.

The "_Reporter's Story, or the Importance of a Syllable_," is by a
practised writer,--whose pen is humorous, caustic and brilliant, as
occasion requires. We should be glad to secure his constant
assistance.

The "_Cottage in the Glen_," is by a lady not unknown as a writer.
There are few who will not admire the simplicity and beauty of her
narrative; and to such as are of a serious or religious cast of mind
it will be particularly interesting. We hope that the authoress will
often favor us with the productions of her pen.

The "_Alleghany Levels_," is by a gentleman of scientific acquirements
and classical taste. It is with peculiar pleasure that we insert in
the "Messenger" such articles as his and "_The Cyclopean Towers in
Augusta County, Virginia_." They develope some of those rare
curiosities and remarkable features in the scenery of our state, which
have hitherto been undescribed. The latter article is by one who
possesses a cultivated taste for the beautiful in art and nature.

The story of "_My Classmates_," will be read when it is known to
proceed from the author of "An Extract from a Novel," which was
inserted in the last number of the Messenger. The space which the
story occupies will be its greatest recommendation; it is one of
thrilling interest, and told in powerful language.

We know not how all our readers will relish "_Cupid's Sport_," but
there are some passages in it which Yorick himself would not have been
ashamed to write, even with "the high claims and terrifying exactions"
of the widow Wadman's eyes to inspire him.

"_Pinkney's Eloquence_," it will be seen is from the pen of "Nugator."
His pieces need no commendation from us; we are charmed with every
thing about them except the signature.

The "_Leaf from the Journal of a Young American Tourist_," we noticed
in our last number. It is a graphic sketch, from the port-folio of an
accomplished young traveller.

The "_Dandy Chastised_," will be relished by all who desire to see
that anomolous species lampooned out of countenance.

The _selections_ in the present number are accompanied by prefatory
remarks. "_The Letters from New England_," the first of which is
inserted, though originally published in the Fredericksburg Arena,
have been revised and corrected by their author expressly for the
"Messenger." They deserve a more enduring record than the columns of a
newspaper.

The suggestion has been made to us by one entitled to respect, that in
the present condition of the public taste, too much space has been
allotted in our columns to the productions of the Muse. We humbly hope
that our friend is mistaken in this opinion. Nothing would grieve us
more than the conviction that, among southern readers generally, there
was not felt a lively concern and growing interest in the successful
cultivation of that charming branch of literature; and indeed if this
were the proper place, we think we could easily demonstrate that
poetry exercises a most potent, diffusive and abiding influence upon
the interests and happiness of society. Our present number will be
found to contain some precious gems, which fully establish the claims
of southern genius to high capabilities in the tuneful art. We forbear
however to discriminate, confident that the taste of our readers will
readily discern all that feeble language could express.


{127}


EXTRACTS FROM THE LETTERS OF CORRESPONDENTS.


FROM PENNSYLVANIA.

_Philadelphia, Nov. 4, 1834_.

"I thank you truly for your obliging attention in sending to me the
two numbers of your 'SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER,' which I have read
with much satisfaction. I look with a deep interest and pleasure upon
every effort to raise up the literary character of our country; to lay
the foundations of a pure and sound taste, and to stimulate our native
genius to develop and strengthen its powers. In the encouragement of
these attempts, we should all act and feel as the citizens of the
American republic, disregarding sectional divisions, and undisturbed
by questions of state rights and constitutional scruples and
constructions. Here we should be a consolidated people, and whether
the candidate for fame be a native of the north or south, the east or
west, we should claim him as our own, belonging to all alike. When I
hear of the establishment of a seminary of learning; of a scientific
or literary publication; of an invention in the arts; in short, of any
thing which sheds abroad the light of American genius and power, its
particular location is, with me, quite a secondary consideration,
scarcely, indeed, considered at all. It is enough for me that I can
say to the supercilious European, _this is American_.

"With these sentiments, you may be assured that I wish success to your
endeavor to rouse the spirit of the South in the cause of literature;
to draw its intellectual energies from the everlasting and monotonous
discussion of politics, which has run the same round of topics and
arguments for forty years, and to allure her favored sons and
daughters to the kinder and brighter fields of science and letters. If
you shall be able to continue as you have begun, your subscribers will
be amply remunerated for their patronage, and your contributors may be
proud to see their lucubrations on your pages. It is well that you do
not confine yourself to original compositions, but mix them with
judicious and interesting selections from works of established
reputation. Repeated experience has shewn that an editor cannot depend
much upon the voluntary contributions of our own writers, however
friendly to his design, who are too much occupied with their own
concerns and the serious business of life, to be relied on as the
support of such an enterprise as yours.... We have not yet a class or
body of _authors by profession_; writing is the occupation of hours
snatched from business, or the amusement of the few who have leisure
for indulgence."


FROM THE VALLEY OF VIRGINIA.

"I look with much anxiety to your _Launch_, (which I wish had been the
title of your work)--the first of any promise in Virginia, heartily
desiring it God-speed--yet fearing that you may meet with some
inaptitude or distaste to mere literary contribution from the educated
of our citizens. This, however, cannot last long; you may feel it at
the outset, but it will soon end; for I doubt not that the Messenger,
as one of its best effects, will draw into literary exercise the
talents which now lie fallow throughout the community, or which have
long extravasated in politics and professions. The mind of Virginia is
unquestionably a quarry from which much that is precious may be
extracted; and you may and I hope will be able to expose its strata to
the light, as the huntsman of the Andes exposed to the eye of the
world, at the foot of the yielding shrub which he had seized upon for
support, how rich and vast was the treasure which an unexamined
surface had concealed."


FROM SOUTHERN VIRGINIA.

"Be assured no effort on my part will be wanting to extend the
circulation of the Messenger, and nothing would give me more unfeigned
pleasure than being instrumental in the promotion of so laudable an
enterprise. Your periodical is truly a pioneer in the cause of
southern literature; and reasoning from the general character of the
southern people, no other conclusion can be legitimately drawn, than a
highly enlarged, extensive and honorable patronage. That this may be
the case, permit me to add an ardent hope to my unqualified belief. We
have been too long tributary to the north; it is time, high time, to
awake from our lethargy--to rise in the majesty of our intellectual
strength, put on the panoply of talents and genius, and _strike_ for
the 'prize of our high calling' in literature. If the object of your
labors be attained, of which there can be no reasonable doubt,
posterity will be more grateful to you than to thousands of the
_political exquisites_ of the day, whose memory will last just so long
as their ephemeral productions."


FROM EASTERN VIRGINIA.

"I shall endeavor to avail myself of the offer of your columns, and
if, as you propose, your periodical shall be issued monthly, I may
probably contribute my full quota to every number. In doing so, I
shall try to remember that I am writing for a _literary_ work, and one
which leans much on the support of light readers. I shall therefore
endeavor to treat grave topics with as little gravity as the nature of
the case may admit of; drawing my reasons less from authority than
from common sense and the nature of things, and addressing them to the
untaught feelings of the heart, rather than to what is falsely
contradistinguished as reason and judgment. I say _falsely_, because
when the mind is once broken in by the discipline of a spurious
philosophy, it is too apt to throw out its view all considerations
incapable of being established by any regular chain of reasoning. Yet
these are often entitled to be regarded as first principles; and their
proof is found in nature, and in the universal acquiescence of
mankind, the more conclusive, because it does not rest on reason, but
on a sort of moral instinct. If men wrote less for fame and more for
effect, I am persuaded they would find it rarely necessary to conduct
the reader through a long process of ratiocination, and that the
important end (conviction) would be often best accomplished by those
striking exhibitions of truth which make it manifest at a glance. Such
is the case with most of those great truths on which the rights, and
duties, and happiness of men depend. On such subjects truth vindicates
her title to respect by her very presence. 'She walks a queen,' and
the heart gives its homage, and compels the acquiescence of the
understanding, without stopping to look into her patent of royalty.
Does any man doubt such truths? No. Can they be proved? No; and
_therefore_ {128} they are the more certainly true. The fact that they
are universally accepted, is a _fact_ to reason from; and it is the
philosophy that teaches to overlook such facts that I call false.

"How often, when a man takes up his pen to elaborate a long course of
reasoning, does he find himself attempting to lead his reader along a
track that his own mind did not travel. Can he wonder that his reader
will not consent to be so led? Does he think that he alone has the
privilege of travelling the high road of common sense, which levels
mountains and lifts up vallies, and that others will permit themselves
to be led a roundabout way, picking their steps with painful accuracy
along the dividing ridge between 'right hand extremes and left hand
defections?' And why does he attempt this? Merely to show that he is
too profound, and too philosophical to take any thing for granted."


"Accept my thanks for the Southern Literary Messenger. Its contents I
have perused with pleasure. Its execution is not to be surpassed in
accuracy and neatness. Can a discerning public withhold encouragement,
especially when the benefits will be mutual? Indeed I consider the
advantages more likely to be on the side of the public provided a
liberal spirit prevail, and the well stored minds of the South
contribute to establish, through the Messenger, that high literary
reputation which is within their power to erect. The pride of the Old
Dominion should respond to your appeal by a generous contribution of
subscriptions and mental effusions. Please consider me a subscriber."


"The reception of your Literary Messenger gave me much pleasure, and I
thank you for your polite attention in sending it. The cause you have
in hand is one very dear to my heart, and I sincerely wish you
success; I must not omit, however, to testify my zeal in a more
substantial way, and accordingly send you five dollars, and desire to
be considered a subscriber, and promise to use every exertion to
procure you others."


FROM MIDDLE VIRGINIA.

"... Taking now as many papers as I can well pay for, I am induced to
support the Messenger nevertheless, from the great anxiety which I
feel for the progress of literature in the South, and to show to the
country that the soil of the Old Dominion, so fertile in the
production of patriots and statesmen, can also support and rear to age
the bright scions which adorn smoother and more ornamented fields. I
feel that this is a solemn duty, which the youth of Virginia owe to
the memory of their fathers,--the mantles of whose patriotism have
descended upon them unsoiled; to men who were cast upon so rough a sea
as to have little time to think of any thing else save the dangers
around them: their whole lives having been spent in bringing the noble
vessel, freighted with every thing dear to American bosoms, into a
safe harbor, where she has ever since continued to ride triumphantly
in prosperity and glory, it can be nothing more than sheer justice in
us to raise this 'tardy bust' to buried merit. As almost the pioneer
in this noble undertaking, I bid you God speed, and I trust that the
success of your paper may not only blot out the only spot on the
escutcheon of Virginia, but in every way equal your most sanguine
expectations."


FROM A SOUTH CAROLINIAN.

"The objects you have undertaken to accomplish, and which, judging
from your prospectus and the character the public have given of your
paper and yourself, will most certainly be attained, are highly
meritorious and praiseworthy. Such a periodical has been long desired
at the south, whose literary reputation is far inferior to that of the
north--to awaken the dormant faculties--to arouse the ambition, and
direct and concentrate the energies of a people, whose abilities are
_at least equal_ to those of any class of men on earth. Incitement is
all that is wished, and your paper, southern in its principles, and
established in a southern city, will produce it, if any thing can.
Capacity it is well known is not deficient. Only bring it fairly into
play, and your columns will, and a hundred such would be filled with
the most valuable matter--with the most finished efforts in every
branch of literature."


FROM THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA.

"I have yours, with the several copies of the Literary Messenger,
which I will dispose of to the best advantage, and shall be happy if I
can be instrumental in circulating extensively in the West, a
periodical that promises so much, and in its first number presents
evidences so flattering, of the genius and refined taste of
Virginians. I hope you will find ample encouragement to persevere in
your work. The pride of Virginia,--_the mother of states_,--will
surely not allow a work such as yours to fail for the want of
patronage."




ACKNOWLEDGMENTS TO CONTRIBUTORS, &C.


We regret that various articles of merit both in prose and verse are
necessarily excluded from the present number. Among the former,
"_Hints to Students in Geology_"--"_Eloquence_"--"_The March of
Mind_"--and the "_Description of a Fourth of July Celebration_," shall
certainly appear in December. Among the latter, "_Lines to D----_," by
a lady--"_Beauty and Time_"--"_Autumn Woods_"--"_Powhatan_;" and
"_Lines Suggested on Viewing the Ruins of Jamestown_," shall be
published.

So also shall appear "_The Invocation to Religion_," and other pieces
by our esteemed correspondent "L."

We hope that our talented friends of Mobile and Tuscaloosa will be
patient. We could only delight our readers with a part of their
contributions in the present number. We greet the literary spirit of
our young sister of the southwest.

We regret being obliged to decline the publication in the present
number of the lines on "_The Creation of the Antelope_," being unable
to decipher some of the words in the copy sent. Can we be favored by
our correspondent "C" with another copy?

We have placed _Mr. French's Grammar_ in the hands of a skilful
philologist for examination.

We have been favored with a sight of the _Poetical Manuscripts_ of the
late excellent and lamented _Mrs. Jean Wood_, and we shall take the
earliest opportunity to present some selections from them to the
notice of our readers.

The essay on "_Luxury_" was received too late for the present number.

We are unable to decipher the manuscript of "_Alive_."


{129}


SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. I.]  RICHMOND, DECEMBER, 1834.  [NO. 4.

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




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY

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

No. II.


From the year 1551, when Tripoli was taken by Dragut, to the early
part of the eighteenth century, it continued to form a part of the
Turkish empire; and as such, but little is known respecting it.
However, though governed by a Pasha appointed from Constantinople, and
garrisoned exclusively by Turkish troops, it did not entirely lose its
nationality, and appears to have been much less dependant on the
Sultan, than the other parts of his dominions; for we find upon
record, treaties between Tripoli and various European powers concluded
within that period, in which no mention whatever is made of the Porte.
That with England, was negotiated in 1655 by Blake, immediately after
his successful bombardment of Tunis; it proved however of little
value, for ten years after, Sir John Narborough was sent with a fleet
against Tripoli, on which occasion the celebrated Cloudesley Shovel
first distinguished himself, in the destruction of several ships under
the guns of the castle.

At length a revolution was effected in the government; the allegiance
to the Sultan was thrown off, and his paramount authority was reduced
to a mere nominal suzerainty. In the year 1714, Hamet surnamed
Caramalli, or the Caramanian, from a province of Asia Minor in which
he was born, while in command of the city as Bey or lieutenant during
the absence of the Pasha, formed a conspiracy among the Moors, by
whose aid, the city was freed from Turkish troops in a single night.
Three hundred of them were invited by him to an entertainment at a
castle a few miles distant from Tripoli, and were despatched as they
successively entered a dark hall or passage in the building; of the
others, many were found murdered in the streets next morning, and but
a small number escaped to tell the dreadful tale. A Moorish guard was
instantly formed, strong enough to repel any attack which could have
been expected; and Hamet was proclaimed sovereign, under the title of
Pasha. The new prince did not however trust entirely to arms, for the
security of his title, but instantly sent a large sum to
Constantinople, which being properly distributed, he succeeded in
obtaining confirmation, or rather recognition by the Sultan. He
moreover solemnly adopted Abdallah the infant son of his predecessor
and declared him heir to the throne; but he altered these views, if he
had ever entertained them, when his own children grew up, for his
eldest son was made Bey or lieutenant at an early age, and afterwards
succeeded him; Abdallah, however, lived through nearly three reigns,
as Kiah, or governor of the castle, and was murdered in 1790, by the
hand of the late Pasha Yusuf.

Hamet seemed really desirous to advance the true interests of his
dominions, and for that purpose endeavored to make friends of the
European nations. Within a few years after his accession, he concluded
treaties with England, the United Provinces, Austria and Tuscany, one
of which alone, contains a vague proviso, respecting the approval of
the Sultan. The stipulations of these treaties are principally
commercial, or intended to secure the vessels of the foreign power,
from capture; no mention is made in them of any payments to Tripoli,
but it is generally understood that considerable sums were annually
given by the weaker states for the purpose of obtaining such
exemption, and by the more powerful in order to encourage the
piracies. By these means the commerce of the country was increased;
the manufactures of Europe were imported for the use of its
inhabitants, and for transportation into the interior, by the
caravans; in return, dates, figs, leather, &c. were exported from
Tripoli, and cattle from the ports lying east of it. One of the most
valuable articles sent to Europe, was salt, brought from the desert
and the countries beyond, where it is found in abundance, of the
finest quality, either as rock-salt or in sheets resembling ice on the
sand. Soda was likewise exported in great quantities, principally to
France; but the facility with which it is now obtained from common
salt, has much lessened the value of that substance and the quantity
of it carried from Tripoli.

This commerce was carried on exclusively in foreign vessels,
principally English, Dutch and French; those of Tripoli being all
fitted out as cruisers, and engaged in piracy. None of its vessels
indeed could venture to leave the place without being armed and manned
to an extent which the profits of a trading voyage would not warrant;
for in addition to the Spaniards, Venitians, Genoese and other
maritime states, with one or other of which the Tripolines were
generally at war, they had a constant and inveterate enemy in the
Knights of Malta, whose gallies were ever hovering about the port, and
who in the treatment of their captives, improved upon the lessons of
cruelty taught by their Barbary neighbors.

These cruisers were charged to respect all vessels belonging to powers
with which Tripoli had treaties; but such charges were occasionally
forgotten, when a richly laden ship was encountered by a Corsair
returning perhaps from a fruitless cruise; and the Pasha who was
entitled to a large portion of each prize, sometimes shewed less
alacrity than was promised by his treaties in causing the damage to be
repaired. A mistake of this kind with regard to some French vessels,
provoked that government in 1729, when it was at peace with England,
to send a squadron to Tripoli, for the purpose of demanding
satisfaction. The result of this display was a treaty, the terms of
which were dictated by the French Admiral de Gouyon. The Pasha in the
most abject manner acknowledged his infractions of the former treaty,
and accepted with gratitude, the pardon and peace which the Emperor[1]
of France was pleased to grant {130} him--all the French prizes taken
were to be restored, or indemnification made for those which were lost
or injured--the French captives were to be released, together with
twenty other _Catholic_ prisoners to be selected by the
Admiral--Tripoline cruisers were to be furnished with certificates
from the French Consul, who was to take precedence of all other
Consuls on public occasions--French vessels with their crews were not
to be molested--together with many other provisions, calculated to
give to France immunities and advantages, not enjoyed by any other
nation. As an additional humiliation, all stipulations made or that
might be made with the Porte, were to be observed by Tripoli; and the
treaty was to remain in force one hundred years.

[Footnote 1: The King of France is always styled Emperor in
negotiations with the Oriental Powers.]

This treaty is one of the many evidences of the want of common sense,
which formerly presided over diplomatic negotiations, and rendered
their history a record of unjust pretension on the one hand, of
duplicity and subterfuge on the other. Exclusive advantages for a
period which might as well have been left indefinite, are arrogantly
extorted from a petty state, without reflecting, that supposing the
utmost desire on its part, they could be observed only until some
other strong power should demand the same for itself. The Barbary
states have long known the absurdity of this, and have profited by it;
to the force of the greater nations, they have merely opposed the
_Punica fides_, and when availing resistance cannot be made, they sign
any treaty however humiliating, trusting to Allah for an opportunity
to break it profitably.

The inutility of these exclusive stipulations was soon proved; for in
1751 Tripoli became involved in difficulties with Great Britain, from
circumstances similar to those which had provoked the ire of France.
The quarrel terminated in a similar manner; a fleet was sent, and a
treaty dictated, less humiliating in style to the weaker and less
arrogant on the part of the stronger, than that with France, but
giving to Great Britain in effect, all the exclusive or superior
advantages, and to her consul the same precedence of all other
consuls, which had already been solemnly guarantied to the French. As
a matter of course the latter sent a squadron soon after, to require a
renewal of the treaty of 1729 with stipulations still more in their
favor, to which of course the Pasha consented. The same plan has been
pursued by these two great nations, with regard to the other states of
Barbary; and the court of each Bey, Pasha or Emperor, has been a
perpetual theatre for the intrigues and struggles for influence of
their consuls.

In the early treaties with these states, we see no provision against
piracy in general, no protest against the principle;--Tripoline
cruisers shall not make prizes of our vessels, nor appear within a
certain distance of our coasts--thus much they say; but nothing else
appears, from which it might be gathered, that Tripoli was other than
a state, respectable itself and complying with those evident duties,
which compose the body of national morals. In fact Great Britain and
France, each keeping a large naval force in the Mediterranean, which
could immediately chastise any offence against its own commerce, not
only had no objection to the practice of piracy, but even secretly
encouraged it; as the vessels of the weaker states were thus almost
excluded from competition in trade. The abandonment of this despicable
policy is one among the many triumphs of principle and feeling, which
have marked the advance of civilization during the last twenty years,
and which authorize us in hoping that a desire to promote the general
welfare of mankind, may in future exert an influence in the councils
of statesmen.

In addition to his acts of pacific policy, Hamet extended his
dominions by force of arms; he conquered Fezzan, a vast tract of
desert, sprinkled with _oases_ or islands of fertile soil, lying south
of Tripoli and which has until lately been held by his successors;
this conquest was important from the revenue it yielded, and from the
advantages it afforded to caravans to and from the centre of Africa.
He also reduced to complete subjection, the intractable inhabitants of
the ancient Cyrenaica or part lying beyond the Great Syrtis; and upon
the whole displayed so much energy and real good sense in his actions,
that viewing the circumstances under which he was placed, he may be
considered fairly entitled to the appellation of _Great_, which has
been bestowed on him by the people of Tripoli. Sometime before his
death, he became totally blind, which affliction was believed by the
more devout of his subjects, to have been sent as punishment for an
act of tyranny, such as daily practised in those countries. In one of
his visits to a mosque in the vicinity of the city, he chanced to see
a young girl, the daughter of the Marabout or holy man of the place,
whose beauty made such an impression on him, that he ordered the
father to send her that evening richly drest to the castle, under
penalty of being hacked to pieces, if he should fail to do so. She was
accordingly conveyed to the royal apartments, but the Pasha on
entering the room, found her a corpse; in order to save herself from
violence, she had acceded to the wish of her father and taken a deadly
potion. It is needless to relate what were the torments inflicted upon
the parent; while writhing under them, he prayed that Allah would
strike the destroyer with blindness; and his prayer was granted, it is
said, as soon as uttered. However this may have been, a blind
sovereign cannot long retain his power in Barbary; and Hamet probably
felt that his own authority was less respected; for without any other
ostensible reason, he deliberately shot himself in presence of his
family in 1745. At least such is the account of his end given to the
world.

After the death of Hamet the Great, the usual dissensions as to who
should succeed him, for sometime distracted the country; his second
son Mohammed at length established his claim, and with singular
magnanimity, permitted seven of his brothers to live through his
reign, which ended with his life in 1762.

Ali, the son and successor of Mohammed, was not so indulgent, and
accordingly his uncles were soon despatched. One of them, a child, was
however believed to have escaped, and a man was for many years
supported at Tunis, whom the politic sovereign of that country
affected to consider as the prince. The pretensions of this person
were even favored by the Sultan, who, ever desirous of re-establishing
his power over Tripoli, adopted this means of keeping the country in a
ferment, and the Pasha in alarm. However, after this first bloody
measure, which is considered as a mere act of prudence in the East,
Ali passed his reign, not only without any show of cruelty, but
actually exhibiting in many cases a degree of culpable kindness. He
seems indeed to have been a weak and really amiable man, possessing
many negative virtues, and even a {131} few positive; among the latter
of which, were constancy and real attachment for his family. He had
but one wife, who doubtless merited the devoted respect with which he
always treated her; and when we read the details of their family life,
as recorded in the agreeable pages of Mrs. Tully,[2] it is difficult
to imagine that such scenes could have taken place within the
bloodstained walls of the castle of Tripoli.

[Footnote 2: Narrative of a Ten Year's residence in Tripoli, from the
Correspondence of the family of the late Richard Tully, British Consul
at Tripoli, from 1785 to 1794.]

But if Ali received pleasure and consolation from his faithful Lilla
Halluma, the mutual hatred of their three sons rendered the greater
part of his existence a horrible burden. Hassan, the eldest of the
princes, was a man of much energy, together with a considerable share
of generosity and good feeling. He was at an early age invested by his
father with the title of Bey, which implies an acknowledgement of his
right to succeed to the throne, and moreover gives him the command of
the forces, the only effectual means of substantiating that right. In
this office he soon distinguished himself during many expeditions
which he commanded against various refractory tribes; and under his
administration, the army and the revenues of the country began to
recover from the miserable state in which the supineness of his father
had permitted them to languish. Indeed, upon the whole, he gave
promise of as much good with as little alloy, as could possibly have
been expected in a sovereign of Tripoli.

Hamet, the second son of the Pasha, inherited the weakness of his
father, without his better qualities, and exhibited throughout life
the utmost want of decision; in prosperity ever stupidly insolent; in
adversity the most abject and degraded of beings, the slave of any one
who was pleased to employ him. An improper message sent by the Bey to
his wife, soon after their marriage, provoked a deadly hatred against
his elder brother, which only exhibited itself however in idle
vaporing threats of vengeance. The distracted parents did all in their
power to produce a reconciliation, but in vain; the Bey was haughty,
and Hamet implacable; neither trusting himself in the presence of the
other, unless armed to the teeth and environed by guards.

Yusuf, the youngest son, was the reverse of Hamet; brave, dashing and
impetuous, he had scarcely reached his sixteenth year, before he
openly declared his determination to struggle with the Bey for the
future possession of the crown, or even to pluck it from the brow of
his fond and tottering parent. Hassan at first regarded this as the
mere ebullition of boyish feelings, and endeavored to attach him by
acts of kindness; but they were thrown away on Yusuf, who apparently
siding with Hamet, acquired over him an influence which rendered him a
ready tool. The whole country was engaged in the dispute, and daily
brawls between the adherents of the opposing parties rendered Tripoli
almost uninhabitable.

The report of this state of things produced much effect at
Constantinople; the Sultan wished to regain possession of Tripoli, and
he had reason to fear lest its distracted state should induce some
christian power to attempt its conquest. It was therefore arranged in
1786, that an attack should be made on the place by sea, while the Bey
of Tunis should be ready with a force to co-operate by land if
necessary. The Capoudan Pasha or Turkish High Admiral, at that time
was the famous Hassan, who afterwards distinguished himself in the
wars against Russia on the Black Sea, and against the French in the
Levant, particularly by the relief of Acre in 1799, while it was
besieged by Buonaparte. He was the mortal enemy of Ali, and was
moreover excited by the hope of obtaining the sovereignty of the
country in case he should succeed in getting a footing. A large
armament was therefore prepared; but its destination was changed, and
instead of recovering Tripoli, the Capoudan Pasha had orders to
proceed to Egypt, and endeavor to restore that country to its former
allegiance; the Mamelukes having succeeded in establishing there an
almost independent authority.

The Tripoline Princes had been somewhat united by the news of the
projected invasion; but this change in the objects of the Porte, again
set the angry feelings of the brothers in commotion, and a severe
illness with which their father was seized at the time, gave
additional fury to their enmity, by apparently bringing the object of
their discord nearer. As the old Pasha's death was expected, the Bey
called the troops around him, and every avenue to the castle was
defended; Yusuf and Hamet on their parts assembled their followers,
and declared their resolution to overthrow Hassan or perish in the
attempt, being convinced that his success would be the signal of their
own destruction. Their tortured mother prepared to die by her own
hands, rather than witness the dreadful scenes which would ensue on
the decease of her husband. Ali however recovered, and things remained
in the same unsettled state for three years longer; the mutual
animosity of the Princes increasing, and the dread of invasion causing
every sail which appeared, to be regarded with anxiety and suspicion.

Yusuf had now reached his twentieth year, and had acquired complete
influence over the mind of his father; a quarrel about a servant had
raised a deadly feud between him and Hamet, and the Bey feeling more
confidence from the success of several expeditions, was rendered less
cautious than he should have been. Lilla Halluma made every effort to
produce unity of feeling among them, and at length prevailed upon
Hassan to meet his youngest brother in her apartments. The Bey came
armed only with his sword, and even that defence he was induced to lay
aside, by the representations of his mother. Yusuf appeared also
unarmed, but attended by some of his most devoted black followers; he
embraced his brother, and declaring himself satisfied, called for a
Koran on which to attest the honesty of his purpose. But that was a
signal which his blacks understood, and instead of the sacred volume,
two pistols were placed in his hands; he instantly fired at the
luckless Bey, who was seated next their mother; the ball took
effect--the victim staggered towards his sword--but ere he could reach
it, another shot stretched him on the floor; he turned his dying eyes
towards Lilla Halluma, and erroneously conceiving that she had
betrayed him, exclaimed, "Mother, is this the present you have
reserved for your eldest son!" The infuriated blacks despatched him by
an hundred stabs, {132} in the presence not only of his mother, but
also of his wife, whom the reports of the pistols had brought to the
room. Yusuf made his way out of the castle, offering up as a second
victim the venerable Kiah Abdallah, whom he met with on his passage;
he then celebrated the successful issue of his morning's achievement
by a feast. This happened about the end of July, 1790.

Hamet was absent when the murder took place, and on his return was
proclaimed Bey, but not until the consent of Yusuf had been obtained,
which the miserable Pasha had been weak enough to require. The two
brothers then swore eternal friendship, accompanying the oath with the
ceremonies considered most solemn on such occasions. But oaths could
have but little weight with men of their respective characters; they
could give no security to Hamet, nor act as restraints upon Yusuf. In
a short time the brothers disagreed; the Bey fortified himself in the
castle, while Yusuf established his quarters in the Messeah, or plain
which lies on one side of the City, and raised the standard of revolt.
A number of discontented Moors and Arabs were soon assembled in his
cause, and he formed a partial siege of the place.

Meanwhile the Sultan was again at leisure to carry into effect the
long projected plan against the country. A squadron was prepared, and
one Ali-ben-Zool, a notorious pirate, was placed in command, and
furnished with a _firman_ or commission as Pasha. This squadron
entered the harbor of Tripoli on the night of the 29th of July, 1793,
and during the confusion that ensued, the Turks having got possession
of the gates, were in a short time masters of the town. The _firman_
was then read, and the Pasha was summoned to deliver the castle to the
representative of his sovereign. The poor old man was struck almost
senseless with the news; his wife and family finding that resistance
was impossible escaped, carrying the Pasha more dead than alive out of
the city, where they at first were protected by an Arab tribe. Yusuf
seeing when too late the misery which he had brought on his family, at
length begged forgiveness from his father, and the Princes uniting
their forces, endeavored by an assault on the town to retrieve their
fortunes; but it proved unsuccessful; the Pasha's party was betrayed,
and the Turkish power was for a time established. Every species of
cruelty was then committed by Ali-ben-Zool, for the purpose of
extorting money from the wretched inhabitants, and scenes were acted,
which it would be shocking to relate. The unfortunate Lilla Halluma
soon died of grief; her husband and sons retired to Tunis, where they
were received and generously assisted by the Bey.

The Porte at length was induced by the cruelties of its agent, to
withdraw its support, and leave was given to the Caramalli family to
regain their dominions. Ten thousand troops accordingly marched from
Tunis in the spring of 1795, under the command of Hamet and Yusuf; ere
they reached Tripoli, Ali-ben-Zool had evacuated the place, and
retired to Egypt. This ruffian was afterwards made Governor of
Alexandria in 1803, subsequently to the expulsion of the French, where
he pursued the same course of cruelty and extortion as at Tripoli,
until he was at length murdered by his guards.

It is not to be supposed that Yusuf took all these pains merely to
establish his brother quietly in Tripoli; the rude soldiery who decide
matters of that kind in Barbary, could not but see a difference
between him and Hamet, which was by no means in favor of the latter.
Of this disposition Yusuf took full advantage, and so ingratiated
himself with the troops, that when at length the news of old Ali's
death reached the city, he was unanimously proclaimed Pasha; his
brother, who was absent at the time, on returning, found the gates
closed against him, and received an order from the new sovereign to
retire to the distant province of Derne, and remain there as Bey.
Hamet having no other resource, went to his place of banishment, and
remained there for some time; but finding that his brother was daily
making attempts to destroy him, he at length in 1797 retired to Tunis,
where he was supported by the Bey.

The earliest act of Yusuf with regard to foreign intercourse, was the
conclusion of a treaty with the United States, which was signed on the
4th of November, 1796, Joel Barlow then American Consul at Algiers and
Colonel David Humphries, being the agents of the latter party. Its
terms are generally reciprocal; passports are to be given to vessels
of each country by which they are to be known--"As the Government of
the United States is not in any sense founded on the christian
religion, and has in itself no character of enmity against the laws,
religion or tranquillity of Mussulmen, no pretext arising from
religious opinions shall ever produce an interruption of the harmony
between the two countries"--the Pasha acknowledges the receipt of
money and presents, "in consideration for this treaty of perpetual
peace and friendship, and no pretence of any periodical tribute or
farther payment is ever to be made by either party." Finally, the
observance of the treaty is "guarantied by the most potent Dey and
Regency of Algiers, and in case of dispute, no appeal shall be made to
arms, but an amicable reference shall be made to the mutual friend of
both parties, the Dey of Algiers, the parties hereby engaging to abide
by his decision."

To the terms of this treaty it would be difficult to offer any
objection; the United States were anxious that their commerce in the
Mediterranean should be undisturbed; their naval force was inadequate
to its protection, and it was then considered inexpedient to increase
that force. Presents were given in compliance with a custom generally
if not always observed, and it was certainly the more manly course to
have the fact openly stated in the treaty, with the proviso annexed,
that none others were to be expected. The treaty between the United
States and Algiers was on terms less equal, as it contained a
stipulation on the part of the former to pay an annual value of
twenty-one thousand dollars in military stores.

Thus secured from interruption, the American commerce in the
Mediterranean rapidly increased, and the Tripoline corsairs were daily
tantalized by the sight of large vessels laden with valuable cargoes,
which were to be passed untouched, for no other reason than because
they sailed under the striped flag and carried a piece of parchment
covered with unintelligible characters. This must have been the more
vexatious to the corsairs as they never met with ships of war
belonging to the nation which they were thus required to respect.

{133} Reports of this nature did not fail to produce their effect upon
Yusuf; his cupidity was excited, and he doubtless feared that his
popularity might suffer, if his subjects were longer prevented from
pursuing what had always been considered a lawful and honorable
calling in Barbary. He had collected a small maritime force, estimated
in 1800 at eleven vessels of various sizes, mounting one hundred and
three guns, and thus considered himself strong enough to give up the
further observance of a treaty with a power which appeared so
incapable of enforcing it. In this idea he was encouraged by his naval
officers. The chief of these was a Scotch renegade, who had been
tempted to exchange the kirk for the mosque, and his homely name of
Peter Lyle, with his humble employment of mate to a trading vessel,
for the more sounding title of Morat Rais, and the substantial
appointment of High Admiral of Tripoli. Rais Peter is represented by
all who knew him as destitute of real talent, but possessing in its
stead much of that pliability of disposition which is supposed to form
an essential characteristic of his countrymen; however that may have
been, he for some time enjoyed great credit with the Pasha, and
employed it as far as he could against the interests of the United
States. Whether this arose from any particular enmity, or from the
hope of enjoying a share of the anticipated spoil, is uncertain; but
to his influence was mainly ascribed the proceedings which led to a
rupture of the peace. Another abettor of the war was the Vice Admiral
Rais Amor Shelly, a desperate ruffian, who was most anxious to be
engaged where there was such evident promise of gain. Hamet Rais, the
minister of marine, was of the same opinion, and probably of all his
councillors, Yusuf placed the greatest confidence in him; he is
represented as a man of great sagacity and energy--such indeed, that
Lord Nelson thought proper in 1798, to send a ship of the line, with a
most overbearing letter, demanding his exile, which the Pasha
promised, but after the departure of the ship thought no more about
it. The only friend of the United States in the regency, was the Prime
Minister Mahomet d'Ghies, whom every account represents as an
honorable and enlightened gentleman.

Thus fortified by the assurances of his counsellors, and farther
induced by his success in bringing Sweden to his terms, Yusuf
commenced his proceedings against the United States in 1799, by making
requisitions of their consul; these were resisted, and to a proposal
from Mr. Cathcart (the consul) that reference should be made to the
Dey of Algiers, as provided in such cases by the treaty, the Pasha
replied that he no longer regarded the stipulations of that
convention. His intentions became more clearly defined in the ensuing
year, when Rais Shelly returned from a cruise, with an American brig,
which he had brought in under pretence of irregularity in her papers;
she was indeed restored, but not until after long delay and the
commission of numberless acts of petty extortion, accompanied by hints
that such lenity would not be again displayed. Considerable time
having elapsed without any answer from the United States, the consul
was informed that the treaty with his country was at an end; that the
Pasha demanded two hundred and fifty thousand dollars as the price of
a new one; and that it must contain an engagement on the part of the
United States, to pay an annual tribute of twenty-five thousand
dollars for its continuance. No reply having been made to this, war
was formally declared by Tripoli on the 11th of May, 1801, the
American flag staff was cut down by the Pasha's orders on the 14th,
and Mr. Cathcart left the place a few days after.

A swarm of cruisers instantly issued from the port of Tripoli, and
spread themselves over every part of the Mediterranean; two of them
under Morat Rais arrived at Gibraltar, with the intention of even
braving the perils of the unknown Atlantic, in search of American
vessels. In the course of a few weeks five prizes were taken by the
corsairs; but the consul of the United States had long foreseen the
danger, and given timely warning, so that interruption of their
commerce was almost the only evil afterwards suffered.

As soon as the news of these exactions arrived in Washington,
President Jefferson caused a squadron, composed of three frigates and
a sloop of war, to be fitted out and despatched to the Mediterranean,
under Commodore Dale; it entered that sea about the end of June, 1801,
and was probably the first American armed force seen in its waters.
This squadron was sent with the hope that its display would be alone
sufficient to bring the Pasha back to the observance of the treaty;
the Commodore was therefore instructed to act with great caution, so
as to repress rather than provoke hostilities; and he was made the
bearer of letters to each of the Barbary sovereigns, couched in the
most amicable terms and disclaiming all warlike intentions. The
squadron touched first at Tunis, where its appearance somewhat
softened the Bey, who had begun the same system of exactions from the
American consul; it then sailed for Tripoli, before which it appeared
on the 24th of July.

The sight of such a force was very disquieting to Yusuf, who sent a
messenger on board to learn what were its objects. The Commodore
replied by asking what were the Pasha's views in declaring war, and on
what principles he expected to make peace? To this Yusuf endeavored to
evade giving a direct answer, and he hinted that his principal cause
of complaint was the dependence on Algiers implied by the terms of the
first and the last articles of the treaty, which he considered
humiliating. The American commander not being empowered to negotiate,
remained for some days blockading the harbor, until having learnt that
several cruisers were out, he thought proper to go in search of them.
One only was encountered, a ship of fourteen guns, commanded by Rais
Mahomet Sous, which after an action of three hours, on the 1st of
August, with the schooner Enterprize, struck her colours; the
Americans lost not a man, the Tripolines had nearly half their crew
killed or wounded. As orders had been given to make no prizes, the
cruiser was dismantled, and her captain directed to inform the Pasha,
that such "was the only tribute he would receive from the United
States." Notwithstanding the desperate valor displayed in this action
by the Tripolines, Yusuf thought proper to ascribe the result to
cowardice on the part of the commander; and poor Mahomet Sous, after
having been paraded through the streets of the city on an ass, exposed
to the insults of the mob, received five hundred strokes of the
bastinado. This piece of injustice and cruelty however, produced an
{134} effect the reverse of that which was intended; for after it, no
captain could be induced to put to sea, and those who were out
already, on learning the treatment experienced by their comrade, took
refuge from the Americans and the Pasha, for the most part among the
islands of the Archipelago. The two largest vessels which had been
arrested at Gibraltar on their way to the Atlantic, by the appearance
of the United States' squadron, were laid up at that place, their
crews passing over into Morocco.

The American commerce being thus for the time secured from
interruption, a portion of the squadron returned to the United States;
the remainder passed the winter in the Mediterranean, and were joined
in the ensuing spring (1802) by other ships. Nothing however was
attempted towards a conclusion of the difficulties with Tripoli by any
decisive blow; the American agents in the other Barbary states were
instructed to procure peace if possible, on condition of paying an
annual tribute; and partial negotiations were carried on, principally
through the mediation of the Bey of Tunis. They however proved
ineffectual, as Yusuf demanded an amount far beyond that which the
American government proposed. The operations of the squadron were
limited to mere demonstrations; a simple display of force being
considered preferable to active measures. On one occasion however, the
Constellation frigate, while cruising off the harbor of Tripoli, was
suddenly becalmed, and in this defenceless situation, was attacked by
a number of Tripoline gun-boats; their fires would soon have reduced
her to a wreck, had not a breeze fortunately sprung up, which enabled
her to choose her position; several of the gun-boats having been then
quickly destroyed, the remainder were forced to retreat into port.

The system of caution and forbearance by which the foreign policy of
the American government was then regulated, renders the history of its
transactions in the Mediterranean during the first four years of this
century by no means flattering to the national pride. There was a
disposition to negotiate and to purchase peace, rather than boldly to
enforce it, which must have been most galling to the brave spirits who
were thus obliged to remain inactive; and it certainly encouraged the
Barbary governments in the opinion that the Americans were disposed to
accept the more humiliating of the two alternatives, paying or
fighting, which they offered to all other nations. It would not
perhaps be just at present to censure this patient policy; the
institutions of the country were then by no means firmly established,
and the utmost circumspection was necessary in the management and
disposition of its resources. There was also great reason to apprehend
that a decided attack on one of the Barbary powers, would produce a
coalition of the whole, aided by Turkey, which might have given a
blow, severe and perhaps fatal, to the commerce of the United States
in the Mediterranean. The Americans may however at least rejoice, that
a more dignified system can now with assurance be pursued, in the
conduct of all their affairs with foreign nations.

       *       *       *       *       *

The length of this article renders its conclusion in the present
number inconvenient; the remainder will appear in our next.




REVIEW

of Governor Tazewell's Report to the Legislature of Virginia, on the
Deaf and Dumb Asylum.


The late Chief Magistrate of Virginia, Governor Floyd, in his message
of December, 1833, called the attention of the Legislature to the
condition of that unfortunate race of beings for whom it has been
reserved, under Providence, to the present age, to provide a suitable
system of instruction, by which they should be elevated to the
condition of moral and accountable creatures. The Governor says: "The
deaf, and dumb, and the blind, are objects of sympathy with all
classes of society, and from which no family can claim exemption. An
asylum for these unfortunate beings is suggested, where proper
attention and instruction can be given at public expense--where they
can be taught to read and write, and learn something of the useful
arts; where even the blind can be taught something to alleviate the
long and wearisome night which is allotted to them. I appeal to you in
their behalf with the more confidence, as it is a subject which stands
wholly unconnected with the business of life, from which they are
excluded; and without voice, like the eloquence of the spheres,
applies to the heart of all, from which they will not be spurned by
the good and the just."

These humane and benevolent suggestions were referred, by special
resolution, to the Committee of Schools and Colleges, by which
committee a very able report was made on the subject to the House of
Delegates, concluding with a resolution, "that it was expedient and
highly important to provide immediately for the establishment and
endowment of an asylum for the deaf and dumb of the state of
Virginia."

At the same session of the Legislature, it appears that a memorial was
presented by the trustees of the deaf and dumb asylum at Staunton, an
association incorporated in March 1833, setting forth that sufficient
funds had been provided to purchase a suitable site for a
building--and praying that the Legislature would make an annual
appropriation in aid of their benevolent purposes. This memorial is
written with ability, and presents in a strong light the necessity of
some legislative action on the subject. The Legislature, it seems
however, was not prepared to act definitively, even with all the
lights before them; but as if unwilling that an object so vastly
important, and involving so many high considerations, should entirely
be lost sight of,--the House of Delegates, a few days before the close
of the session, adopted a resolution requesting the Governor "to
communicate to the General Assembly at its next session such facts and
views as he might deem pertinent and useful, relative to the best
plan, the appropriate extent, the most suitable organization, and the
probable cost of an institution for the instruction of the deaf and
dumb, to be located in some healthy and convenient situation in this
state; and that he be further requested to accompany his communication
by such information as he might be able to impart relative to similar
institutions in other states, together with an estimate of the
probable number of the deaf and dumb who would repair to such an
institution, to be located within the limits of this Commonwealth."

In compliance with this resolution, Governor Tazewell, whose term of
office commenced on the 31st of March last, made a report to the
Legislature at its {135} present session--a report which we regret to
say is entirely at variance with all the views heretofore entertained
on this interesting subject--a report which, so far as such high
authority can wield an influence, is calculated to repress the efforts
of the friends of humanity in the prosecution of so noble a cause. We
shall examine this document with the respect which is due to the high
character and eminent talents of its author--at the same time with
that freedom which belongs to the right of discussion--especially when
we believe that the interests of humanity are deeply concerned in the
issue.

The report, after a few preliminary remarks, sets out as follows: "In
differing from those who may be in favor of establishing within this
state a seminary for the education of the deaf and dumb _at this
time_, I hope I shall not be considered by any as being opposed to the
accomplishment of an object so truly benevolent in its character. The
very reverse of this is the fact. It is only because I ardently desire
to see this laudable object attained by the best means practicable,
that I do not concur with those who may desire to effect it by the
creation of such an institution within this Commonwealth _at this
time_." Now with great deference to his Excellency, we humbly conceive
that all the reasons which he assigns against the establishment or
endowment of an asylum _at this time_, apply with equal force to any
_other time_. If there be any force in his arguments, they will
continue to operate, at least in a very essential degree, _for a long
period of years_. What are his reasons?

"Schools for the instruction of the deaf and dumb differ from all
other seminaries of education in this particular--that they can never
prosper, except by means which may suffice to bring together, at one
point, a sufficient number of pupils to commune with each other in
their own peculiar mode, and to concentrate the interest necessary to
be felt, and the efforts necessary to be used by those engaged in
their instruction. No expense can accomplish the desired object,
unless by the attainment of these means. Then, the question seems to
be resolved into this: Can the Legislature of Virginia reasonably
promise itself, that by the employment of any means which it ought to
use, it may concentrate at any point within this state, sufficient
inducements to draw thither the proper number of such pupils and of
such instructers? I do not think this can be done."

We shall forbear answering this part of his Excellency's report, which
we think is very easily done, until we spread still more of his
reasons before the reader.

"The whole number of white persons in Virginia, of all ages, who were
deaf and dumb, is shown by the last census to have been then four
hundred and twenty-two only. The annual increase of such unfortunates
(as shown by the calculations made upon the population of other
countries less favorably situated in this respect than Virginia,) does
not amount to more than about fifteen in a million--a number
approaching so nearly to the annual decrease by natural causes, that
the annual augmentation here must be very small indeed. Of the whole
number of deaf and dumb in any state, even in those where the most
liberal means have been employed to attract to their long established
asylums all of that class who might be induced to resort thither, the
proportion does not exceed one fifteenth. Thus in Connecticut, where
the number of mutes, as shewn by the last census, was two hundred and
ninety-five, there were not at their asylum, according to the last
report of that institution which I have seen, more than eighteen
persons of that number; and this after a period of sixteen years had
elapsed since the commencement of this establishment. Yet in
Connecticut the population is dense, and the inducements held out to
send all their deaf and dumb to this asylum are very great indeed. So
too in Pennsylvania, where the last census shews the whole number of
mutes to have been seven hundred and twelve, the number of these at
their excellent asylum, according to the last report, was only
forty-eight, after this seminary had been opened fourteen years.

"If then," continues the Governor, "in Connecticut, where there are
two hundred and ninety-five mutes, there cannot be collected at such
an institution, after sixteen years, more than eighteen of that
number; and if in Pennsylvania, where the number of mutes is seven
hundred and twelve, only forty-eight of that number can be induced to
avail themselves of the advantages held out by its admirable
institution, after ---- years; it is unreasonable to suppose that the
sparse population of Virginia could supply a sufficient number of
pupils to attain the great object had in view by the establishment of
a seminary here like that proposed. For it must not be overlooked,
that the supply of pupils to every school will bear some proportion to
the expense of maintaining them while there, and that in older
institutions, this expense will be necessarily much less than in those
of more recent origin."

The Governor would have shed much more light upon this branch of the
subject, if he had expressed his opinion as to the precise number of
pupils which it was necessary to bring together, in order that they
might "commune with each other in their own peculiar mode;" and which,
according to his view of the subject, is necessary to the existence
and prosperity of all such institutions. That opinion however he has
not indicated; but has left us to infer that as not more than one in
fifteen has ever been induced, according to the experience of other
institutions, to resort to them for instruction, even by the
employment of the most liberal means,--that proportion of the whole
number of free white deaf mutes in Virginia, would not be sufficient
to justify the commencement of such an establishment here. One
fifteenth of the whole number in Virginia, at the last census, would
be twenty-eight. That number, however, will not suffice, and we must
wait longer. How long, it is impossible to tell--inasmuch as from his
Excellency's reasoning, the increase must be very
inconsiderable--being not more than at the rate of sixteen annually
for every million of inhabitants; and from this must be deducted the
decrease from natural causes. Let us suppose then that the annual
increase in Virginia is sixteen, and that the annual decrease is
twelve, leaving a yearly increment of four to the whole number in the
state. Now as, according to Governor Tazewell's views, not more than
one in fifteen of the whole number can be induced to attend a school
of instruction, it requires not the aid of Cocker to demonstrate that
several years must elapse before even an additional pupil can be added
to the twenty-eight above {136} stated. Candor compels us therefore to
declare that we think this part of his Excellency's report very
unsound in its reasoning. He seems to have founded his argument upon
the supposition that the deaf and dumb pupils to be educated at the
proposed asylum in Virginia, are to be maintained from their own
resources, or the private liberality of their friends; whereas, the
very object of applying for Legislative aid, is to enable many of
these indigent children of misfortune to obtain instruction at the
public expense. If this was not the ground of the Governor's
reasoning, why does he suppose that not more than one-fifteenth of the
whole number of deaf mutes could be induced to resort to a seminary
for instruction? Does he mean that a larger proportion could not be
obtained if the public expense were proffered for their education and
subsistence? If he does, then we humbly think that his Excellency is
most egregiously mistaken.

Strange as it may seem however, whilst the Governor in the part of his
report which we have quoted, seems to reason upon the idea that
Legislative aid is desired for the sole purpose of endowing an asylum
at the commencement, and that the annual cost of supporting and
educating the pupils is to be drawn from private sources,--he
nevertheless suggests as the preferable mode, that the Legislature
should annually appropriate a sufficient sum for the maintenance of a
given number of pupils at the institutions of Connecticut or
Pennsylvania. Let him speak in his own language:

"If the benevolent purpose of instructing the deaf and dumb be the
great object of those who desire the establishment of a seminary of
this kind in Virginia at this time, the principal question must be, by
what means can such an object be best attained? The considerations I
have mentioned will probably suffice to shew, that much proficiency
cannot reasonably be expected from a school of this kind created here
now, nor for many years yet to come, except at a cost to the public
very far exceeding any public benefit that could possibly be derived
from it. The benevolence of the object might perhaps justify such an
expenditure for its accomplishment, if no other means existed. But
when other means are open, by which the same benevolent purpose may be
attained, even better, and at much less expense, it seems difficult to
assign any reason why the better and cheaper mode should not be
preferred. This better mode seems to me to be, to appropriate a
portion of the sum it must require to create and to perpetuate such an
establishment here, to the advancement of the same object in some
other seminary already established in one of the other states. All the
eastern states (except Rhode Island, I believe,) have pursued this
course in regard to the seminary at Hartford, in Connecticut; and I
understand that New Jersey, Delaware and Maryland have adopted the
same plan with respect to the seminary in Pennsylvania."

In what way, let us ask, is this annual appropriation which the
Governor recommends, to be expended? Upon the indigent of course--upon
those to whose intellectual night the providence of God has superadded
the gloom of poverty; and these objects of public sympathy and bounty
are to be selected we presume from various parts of the commonwealth,
according to some equitable rule hereafter to be established. Now we
humbly think, that whatever inducements could prevail upon the friends
of these unfortunates, to send them from three to five hundred miles
abroad, in order to partake of the state's charity, would operate with
much greater force if the place of their destination were somewhere
within our own limits. Of this fact we presume there can be no
question. The father or guardian of an indigent deaf mute in one of
the border counties of this commonwealth, would vastly prefer
Richmond, Staunton or Charlottesville as the place of his education,
to either of the cities of Philadelphia or Hartford. There are,
moreover, many strong and obvious reasons why a _state institution_
should be patronized, in preference to any other. The public funds
would be expended on our own soil, and among our own population. The
state would be even richer, by the introduction among us of that
peculiar science, which reveals the mysterious intercourse of human
minds deprived of the usual inlets to the understanding. The Governor
himself seems to be aware that the encouragement of every good thing
among ourselves, rather than to be dependent upon others for their
enjoyment, is an honest, natural and patriotic prejudice; and
accordingly he takes some pains to encounter and overthrow it. Hear
him.

"Although I will not admit that there is a single citizen within the
limits of Virginia more desirous than I am to domesticate here every
thing needful to the well being of the state, yet I neither consider
many of what are called modern improvements as coming within this
description, nor do I regard it as wise to attempt such domestication
prematurely. It is among the wise dispensations of Providence, that
all things really necessary to man are placed within the grasp of
every community composed of men, and that much of what is not
necessary, but convenient only, is of easy acquisition in every
civilized society. But when you ascend higher in the scale, and seek
to teach or to learn all the sublime and long hidden truths of modern
science, it is perhaps fortunate for our race that there are not many
any where who feel the inclination to become scholars, and very few
indeed who are qualified to teach such lessons. Such science may truly
say she is of no country; for no single country on the habitable globe
could fill the chairs of the instructers, or the forms of the pupils.
Accident generally lays the foundation of such seminaries, and the
contributions of the civilized world are required to erect and
preserve the edifice. Does any country grudge to pay her quota to the
common stock, or seek to pluck from the wing of science the particular
feather which such country may claim as her own?--each will do so in
its turn--and the bird which might have soared to a sightless height,
when stripped of its plumage, will but flutter on the surface, unable
to wing her way on high."

Now we confess that we do not understand to our entire satisfaction
this extract from the report. The figure of the bird with the plucked
plumage, neither strikes us as in very good taste nor very
intelligible; but as we have more to do with his Excellency's
arguments than his rhetoric, we shall leave the latter to those who
are better skilled than we are in following "the mazes of metaphorical
confusion." The governor proceeds:

{137} "If this is the case with science, in what may now be considered
its higher departments, how much stronger is the appeal humanity makes
in favor of benevolence and christian charity. These are of no
country, certainly. They but sojourn on earth, teaching frail man to
do his duty to his maker, in providing for the wants of his
unfortunate fellows, so far as is practicable. To them it must be of
little consequence indeed, whether the mute by nature is made a
rational being by arts employed in his education, either in one place
or another. So far as regards the unfortunate mute, the only inquiry
is, where can he be best taught? The only inquiry of the benevolent
ought to be, where can he be so taught at the least cost? This last is
an inquiry suggested not less by benevolence than the former; for as
the means of even charity are necessarily limited, that application of
them is best which promises to do the greatest good with the least
expenditure.

"To all this let me add, that if there is any thing better calculated
than any other to cement our union, and to keep bright the chain which
I trust will bind these states together while time lasts, it will be
found in the contributions of each to the advancement of objects
approved by all, without any jealous regard to the actual spot at
which such a general good may commence. If a generous spirit of this
sort is but once manifested, its effects will be soon seen and felt by
all. Acts of kindness will not fail to induce forbearance and to
generate sympathy. When each state shall feel, that for the aid it
requires to accomplish any object of general utility, it may rely
confidently on its co-states, there will be no more applications to
the federal government to pervert the language of the constitution, in
order to accomplish the unholy scheme of robbing a minority to enrich
a majority. Then, those who contend but for the spoils of the
vanquished, may be safely left to the contempt which such a motive
cannot fail to inspire with all the generous and the good. It would
have been worthy of Virginia to set such an example: it is worthy of
her to imitate that which others have already taught."

It is in these passages that we think lurks the fallacy, and we might
add, the mischief of the Governor's views. He sets out first by
deprecating all legislative interference on the subject. "Let us
alone" is his cardinal maxim, and the maxim of the school of political
economists to which he belongs.--Let individuals take care of
themselves and of each other, but let not government presume to thrust
its paternal care upon the community. In the next place, however, if
the State, according to his Excellency's notions, will officiously
obtrude into these private matters--why then let the funds of the
Commonwealth go abroad and enrich some sister State.--These kind
offices will brighten the chain of union which binds the States
together. They will teach us all to rely more upon each other, and
less upon the general government. This is the sum and substance of the
Governor's reasoning; and dangerous and fallacious as we believe it to
be, we feel the stronger obligation, coming from the high quarter it
does, to resist and refute it if we can. It may be justly asked, if
there be any thing sound in this specious appeal to the generous
feelings of the States, why have not the States carried out the
doctrine themselves? Why has North Carolina for example, proverbially
styled the Rip Van Winkle of the South, been so blind to her own
interests and duty, as not to send her deaf and dumb children to
Hartford, instead of erecting an asylum at home? Why have Ohio and
Kentucky been guilty of the similar folly of founding institutions
themselves? We think we can answer these questions in the only way in
which they can be answered, and that is, that these younger
States--these (for the most part) daughters of the Old Dominion, are
wiser in their generation than their venerable mother. They have
discerned their true interests, in fostering their own establishments.
Did any one ever dream that Kentucky had given cause of offence to her
sister States, by erecting an asylum for the poor mutes? We apprehend
not. The truth is, that his Excellency the Governor, is entirely
mistaken in his views upon this subject. State pride,--State
sovereignty,--State independence,--jealousy of the federal
government,--whatever you please to call it, is best preserved by each
individual State taking care of its own resources, and building up its
own establishments. What a ridiculous business it would be, if
twenty-four families in the same neighborhood, were to act upon the
principle that each was to take care of all the rest in preference to
itself? How will the twenty-four States ever be strong, unless each
State will attend particularly to the developement of its own latent
powers and capacities--unless each will apply its own energies for its
own benefit? Pursue the Governor's doctrine to all its remote
consequences, and see to what absurdities we are driven. The
University of Virginia was a most palpable violation of the courtesy
and good feeling due to our sister States. Besides, according to his
Excellency, would it not have been _cheaper_ to send our sons as usual
to Cambridge, and Princeton, and Yale, rather than incur the enormous
expense of erecting a splendid establishment from the State Treasury?
The University, by the way, furnishes a very strong case, favoring, in
many of the views in which it may be regarded, the positions and
doctrines of Governor Tazewell; yet what Virginian regrets even the
lavish expenditure by which that institution has been endowed?--Who
does not rather rejoice, that in his native State, at the base of
Monticello, the domes of science have been reared, to scatter its
light to the present and future generations?

The truth is, and most melancholy is the truth, that many of our
leading men in Virginia, perhaps the far greater number, are inclined
to acquiesce in this fatal doctrine of State apathy--this most
paralyzing policy of passive inertness,--whilst the world at large,
and many other portions of the Union, are marching in advance of us,
with a celerity which defies calculation. Governor Tazewell might well
have applied his figure of the bird despoiled of its plumage, to our
poor, old and venerable mother. Her daughters, and sisters, and
brothers--almost the whole family--no doubt with the best intentions
in the world--are practising, in one way or other, on the old lady's
kind feelings and generous principles. Our worthy and excellent
friends East of the Hudson, send us their notions--their long
provender, their vegetables and brooms, and beg us, by all means, to
buy them, because it is _cheaper_ to do so, than to divert our labor
from our valuable staples. They send us also their excellent cottons,
and other fabrics of their looms, which we take liberally, although we
have a good deal of surplus labor, and the finest water power in the
{138} Union.--Our near neighbor and almost twin sister Maryland, is
pushing, with a degree of enterprise which does her credit, her
internal improvements into the heart of our own territory--and
we----we have too much grace and politeness to say to her, that it is
rather an intrusion. Our most filial and amiable daughters to the
West, send to us their hogs, horses and cattle--and we pay them, at
least so says the buyer, most tremendous prices. All these drains from
our prosperity, and many more which might be enumerated, we submit to,
with a degree of patience and composed resignation that even Job might
have envied. Our Eagle is indeed stripped of its plumage, to adorn
others more fearless and adventurous on the wing.

But to return to the Report. The Governor thinking it probable that
the Legislature might not concur in his views, either to give the
whole subject of a deaf and dumb asylum the go-by, or to adopt the
alternative of sending the indigent pupils into other States, presents
various views touching the management of such institutions--the
general correctness of which we are not disposed to question. At one
thing, however, we are somewhat surprised, and that is, that his
Excellency seems not to have been aware of the existence within this
State, of an incorporated asylum, prepared to go into operation
whensoever the public shall extend its patronage. The Report seems to
have been founded upon a voluminous mass of documents, which are
deposited in the public library, for the use of the Legislature. Not
having access to them, we shall content ourselves with a reference to
such others as lay within our reach, in order to present, in a few
strong lights, the importance and necessity of such an institution in
Virginia.

At the session of 1825-'6, Governor Pleasants communicated to the
Legislature the first annual report of the trustees of the Kentucky
institution, and also the ninth annual report of the Hartford Asylum.
The first mentioned document is particularly important, inasmuch as it
exhibits at once the success which attended a _first experiment_,
under circumstances extremely disadvantageous. The report of the
trustees made to the Kentucky Legislature was referred to a joint
committee of the two Houses,--who visited the asylum at Danville, and
who, among other things, stated, on their return, "that they were
greatly gratified in witnessing the progress made by the pupils, whose
facility and correctness in comprehending the signs made by the
teacher, and expressing their ideas, exceeded any thing that could
have been anticipated by the most sanguine friends of the
institution." They further state the following extraordinary facts,
which ought at once to dispel all prejudice, and unite all hearts in
support of a system of instruction, attended by such beneficent
results. "All those who had been instructed in the asylum for FOUR
MONTHS, _wrote good hands, spelled correctly, and answered promptly
and correctly, numerous questions that were proposed to them by the
teacher and members of the committee_." It also appears that the whole
number of pupils, at the end of the first year, was only twenty-one--a
number, which, according to Governor Tazewell's theory, is not
sufficient for the purpose of mutual communion, in their peculiar
mode--but which, in the instance before us, would seem to establish
the very reverse of that proposition.

The report from the Hartford Asylum, which is dated in 1825, is
particularly interesting, as furnishing extraordinary proofs of the
progress of the pupils, both in moral and intellectual attainments. We
think, if Governor Tazewell had been so fortunate as to light upon
this document, he would scarcely have urged as a reason for
_postponing_ an asylum in Virginia, that the science of instructing
the deaf mute was continually advancing, and was likely to be more
perfect some years hence than at present. Doubtless this peculiar and
valuable art will improve, and so will many other branches of
knowledge which are even now in a highly advanced state. Natural
history, chemistry, and the physical sciences generally, are
constantly enlarging their boundaries, and extending their
acquisitions--but shall we, on that account, remain in ignorance of
what they _now_ teach, in the vain hope that by and by they will reach
the maximum of perfection? Strange doctrine truly!

We have already referred to the memorial of the trustees of the
Staunton institution, and the report of the committee of schools and
colleges--both of which interesting papers will be found among the
printed legislative documents of last winter, and ought to be
reprinted for distribution among the members of that body, now in
session. We hope that the Legislature will take the subject into its
speedy and earnest consideration, and that, in the language of the
Kentucky report, they will hearken to the "claims of those whom God,
in the mysterious dispensations of his providence, has deprived of the
faculty of hearing and of speech; of whom an eloquent divine has said,
'silence like theirs is eloquence.'"




COLONIAL MANNERS.

A picture of the House of Burgesses of Maryland in 1766.


We have been politely favored with the sight of a letter from _an
illustrious philosopher and statesman_, written at Annapolis on the
25th May, 1766, to his friend in Virginia, from which we make the
subjoined curious extract. It is no less instructive than amusing to
trace the progress of society from its rude and simple beginnings, to
that more perfect form produced by civilization and refinement. It may
be doubted however, whether the degree of decorum prevailing in the
legislative body of a country, furnishes more than an imperfect index
to the state of public manners. We will venture to assert that in
1766, the very year when the Burgesses of Maryland are represented as
no better than a "mob," the Colonial Assembly of Virginia exhibited as
fine a picture of gravity and dignity as could be well conceived; and
yet we have no reason to believe that the people of Maryland at that
day were less civilized than their brethren south of the Potomac.
Perfectly aware as we are of the faults of our countrymen, we have
nevertheless always contended that the Virginians are the most
remarkable people in the world for the observance of a certain
peculiar affability towards each other, not only in their public
bodies, but in private intercourse. We mean Virginians of the genuine
old stock--not the new race who have sprung up among us like
mushrooms, and are trying to introduce an awkward imitation of
European customs. These latter are some of them weak enough to think
that the sudden acquisition of fortune, without merit on their part,
or a voyage or two to London or Paris, are of themselves sufficient to
constitute a finished gentleman. Real refinement is founded upon good
sense, {139} and upon kindness and good will towards our fellow man,
and never can co-exist with purse-proud arrogance or conceited vanity.

In reference to our public assemblies, it is a common remark, and we
have no doubt a just one, that there is more order, decorum and
dignity in the Virginia Legislature, than in the House of
Representatives of the United States. In the latter body the members
sit with their hats on, write letters and read newspapers, whilst one
of their members is addressing the chair, or the speaker is putting
the question. Such disorder is rarely seen in the Capitol of the Old
Dominion.

       *       *       *       *       *

----"I will now give you some account of what I have seen in this
metropolis. The Assembly happens to be sitting at this time; their
upper and lower house as they call them, sit in different houses. I
went into the lower, sitting in an old courthouse, which judging from
its form and appearance, was built in the year one. I was surprised on
approaching it, to hear as great a noise and hubbub as you will
usually observe at a public meeting of the planters in Virginia. The
first object which struck me after my entrance, was the figure of a
little old man, dressed but indifferently, with a yellow queue wig on,
and mounted in the judge's chair. This, the gentleman who walked with
me, informed me was the speaker, a man of a very fair character, but
who, by the by, has very little the air of a speaker. At one end of
the justices' bench stood a man whom in another place I should, from
his dress and phiz, have taken for Goodall the lawyer in Williamsburg,
reading a bill then before the house with a schoolboy tone, and an
abrupt pause at every half dozen words. This I found to be the clerk
of the Assembly. The mob (for such was their appearance) sat covered
on the justices' and lawyers' benches, and were divided into little
clubs, amusing themselves in the common chitchat way. I was surprised
to see them address the speaker without rising from their seats, and
three, four and five at a time, without being checked. When a motion
was made, the speaker, instead of putting the question in the usual
form, only asked the gentlemen whether they chose that such or such a
thing should be done, and was answered by a yes sir, or no sir; and
though the voices appeared frequently to be divided, they never would
go to the trouble of dividing the house; but the clerk entered the
resolutions, I supposed, as he thought proper. In short, every thing
seems to be carried without the house in general knowing what was
proposed."




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

WESTERN SCENERY.

EXTRACT OF A LETTER FROM A WESTERN TRAVELLER.


We had rode about a mile, when my guide said, that if I was willing to
go a hundred yards out of the way, he could show me something worth
seeing. I no sooner assented to this, than he cast around him his keen
woodsman's glance, and then, turning his horse in a direction slightly
diverging from the road, struck into the woods. I followed, and
presently observed that we were pursuing a course nearly parallel to
what seemed to be a precipice, beyond the verge of which I caught
glimpses of a vast extent of country. Without allowing me time to see
any thing distinctly, my guide pushed on, and, spurring to the top of
an Indian barrow, placed himself and me at the desired point of view.

We were on the spot that overlooks the confluence of Salt River with
the Mississippi. Having once travelled an hundred miles to see the
Natural Bridge, and having heard from Mr. Jefferson that that sight
was worthy of a voyage across the Atlantic, I certainly did not grudge
the price I had paid for the view that opened on me.

The confluence of the rivers is nearly at right angles. The hill
descends with equal abruptness towards each, and, at first glance, the
apex seems to overhang the water of each. But this is not so. The
descent, perhaps, wants two or three degrees of perpendicularity, and,
at the bottom, there is a narrow border of low-ground, fringing the
banks with lofty trees. The appearance of these trees gave the only
measure of the height of the hill. To the eye they might be bushes. My
guide assured me they were of the tallest growth.

To the East, across the Mississippi, lay what is called _Howard's
bottom_. This is, as its name imports, a body of low ground. Its width
is said to be, in some places, not less than six miles, and to be
nearly uniform for a distance of sixty. Of this I could not judge. It
seemed that it might be so. I was nearly opposite the middle of it,
and overlooking the whole. Next the water was a border of the most
luxuriant forest, apparently some half a mile in width, and beyond
this, a Prairie reaching to the foot of the hills, interspersed with
masses of forest, and groves, and stumps, and single trees, among
which, here and there, were glittering glimpses of the _Chenaille
ecartee_, which traverses the whole length of it. You, who know the
vesture in which nature clothes these fertile plains, need not be told
how rich and soft was the beautiful picture thus spread beneath my
feet. Its _setting_ was not less remarkable. This was a perpendicular
wall of limestone, two or three hundred feet high, which bounds the
valley on the East. An occasional gap, affording an outlet to the
country beyond, alone broke the continuity of this barrier. To the
North, lay the extensive plain through which Salt River winds. I have
no idea of its extent. It is a vast amphitheatre, surrounded by lofty
and richly-wooded hills. The plain itself is of wood and Prairie
interspersed, and so blended, that every tree seems placed for effect.

You are not to suppose, because I do not launch out in florid
declamation about the beauty, and grandeur, and magnificence, and all
that, of this scene, that it was less striking than you would
naturally suppose it must be. You know that I have neither talent nor
taste for _fine writing_, so you must take the picture as I give it,
and draw on your own imagination for the garniture. I have said
nothing of the rivers, but to tell you they were there, and flowing
through a landscape of many hundred thousand acres of the richest land
on earth, with the most beautifully variegated surface, all spread out
under my feet. I felt that the scene was sublime; and it is well for
your patience, that I have learned that sublime things are best
described in fewest words. It is certainly the finest I ever saw.
There may be others equal to it, but the earth does not afford _room_
for _many_ such. What will it be, when it becomes "a living landscape
of groves and corn-fields, and the abodes of men?" As it is, if the
warrior, on whose tomb I stood, could raise his head, he would see it
in nothing changed from what it was when his last sun set upon it.


{140}


THOM'S GROUP OF STATUARY,

FROM BURNS'S TAM O'SHANTER.


These remarkable specimens of sculpture, have been recently exhibited
in this city, and have attracted, we believe, universal admiration.
The artist is a native of Ayrshire, Scotland,--which also gave birth
to the Immortal Bard, whose conceptions are so happily illustrated by
the genius of the sculptor. Not pretending ourselves to any of those
mysterious capabilities, which are claimed by _connoiseurs_ and
_amateurs_, to judge of the productions of art; we rely upon our
simple perceptions of what is both true and excellent, in their design
and execution. The following is the passage from Burns, which the
artist has chosen in order to give visible and tangible form to the
poet's fancy:

          Ae market night,
  Tam had got planted unco right,
  Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
  Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely;
  And at his elbow Souter Johnny,
  His ancient trusty, drouthy crony:
  Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither;
  They had been fou for weeks thegither.
  The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter,
  And aye the ale was growin' better:
  The landlady and Tam grew gracious,
  Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious:
  The Souter tauld his queerest stories,
  The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
  The storm without might rair and rustle,
  Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

Never perhaps, as is well observed by a political journal in this
city, was the genius of art so truly impressed upon stone, as in the
present instance,--to represent human bodies in a state of
petrifaction. A reader of Romance, would almost imagine that the wand
of enchantment had passed over the merry group, and had frozen the
currents of life--without disturbing the mirth, enlivened feature, the
arch and humorous look,--or the easy and careless attitudes of nature.
We admire the productions of the great masters of modern times, or, of
classical antiquity--but, whilst we gaze, we never once even _imagine_
that the promethean spark might have animated the marble. Belonging,
as most of them do, to the _ideal_ schools of sculpture--imbodying all
that is fair and beautiful, in the artist's conception; rather than
what is absolutely true in the visible forms of nature,--they do not
strike us with the same irresistible force, or so instantly seize upon
our feelings--as does the rude, simple, but faithful sculpture of this
unlettered and inexperienced Scottish stone-cutter. Considering that
Mr. Thom was entirely ignorant of the rules of his art,--that he had
not even the advantage of first modelling his productions in
clay,--that the group from Tam O'Shanter is among his first efforts,
and that each of these fine pieces, was hewn at once out of the
shapeless stone, without the power of correcting the mistakes of his
chisel as he proceeded,--the mind is lost in wonder at the vigor and
originality of his genius. Such a man is worthy the birthplace of
Robert Burns,--who little thought whilst he was sketching the
hilarities of the ale-house, that one of his countrymen would so soon
arise to present in the forms and models of a sister art, so fine a
representation of the scene. The following detailed account of the
artist, and of his singularly successful labors, is extracted from an
Edinburg journal. We copy it from "_The People's Magazine_." It will
be highly interesting to most of our readers:

James Thom, the sculptor of these wonderful figures, is a native of
Ayrshire, and of respectable parentage near Tarbolton. Although, like
those of his countryman and inspirer, his relatives were all engaged
in agricultural pursuits, (his brothers, we understand, possess large
farms,) the young man himself preferred the occupation of a mason, and
was, accordingly, apprenticed to a craftsman in Kilmarnock. This
profession was probably selected as offering the nearest approach to
the undefined workings and predilections of his own inexperienced
mind, since he was not, as in the instance of several sculptors of
eminence, thrown first into the trade of a stone mason by the force of
circumstances. This would appear from his showing little attachment to
the drudgery of the art: accordingly, his first master is understood
to have pronounced him rather a dull apprentice. From the beginning,
he seems to have looked forward to the ornamental part of his calling;
and in a country town where there was little or no opportunity of
employment in that line, to those more immediately concerned, he might
appear less useful than a less aspiring workman. The evidences of
young Thom's diligence and talent at this time, however, still remain
in numerous specimens of carving in stone, which he himself still
considers, we are told, as superior to any thing he has yet done.

His term of apprenticeship being expired, Mr. Thom repaired to Glasgow
in pursuit of better employment. Here his merits were immediately
perceived, and so well rewarded, that his wages were considerably
higher than the ordinary rate.

In his present profession, Mr. Thom's career may be dated from the
commencement of the winter of 1827. Being employed at this time in the
immediate neighborhood, he applied to Mr. Auld, of Ayr, who afterwards
proved his steady and judicious friend, for permission to take a
sketch from a portrait of Burns, with the intention of executing a
bust of the poet. This is a good copy of the original picture by Mr.
Nasmyth, and is suspended in the very elegant and classical monument,
from a design by Mr. Hamilton, erected to the memory of the bard, on
the banks of the Doon, near "Allowa's auld haunted kirk." The
permission was kindly granted; doubts, however, being at the same time
expressed, how far the attempt was likely to prove successful, Mr.
Thom not being then known in Ayr. These doubts seemed to be confirmed,
on the latter returning with a very imperfect sketch, taken by placing
transparent paper on the picture. These occurrences happened on the
Wednesday, consequently nothing could be done till Thursday, when
materials were to be procured, and other arrangements made, before the
work was absolutely begun. The surprise then may be conceived, on the
artist returning on the Monday following with the finished bust. In
this work, though somewhat defective as a likeness, the execution, the
mechanical details, and the general effect, were wonderful, especially
when viewed in connexion with the shortness of the time and the
disadvantage of being finished almost from memory--the very imperfect
outline, already mentioned, being the only _external_ guide. It was
this general excellence that encouraged the proposal of a full length
figure--a proposal to which the artist gave his ready assent, stating
that he had wished to undertake something of the kind, but did not
consider it prudent, without any prospect of remuneration, to hazard
the expense both of the block of stone and the loss of time. On this
Mr. Auld offered to procure any stone from the neighboring quarries
which the artist might judge fit for his purpose. Several days elapsed
in this search; in the meantime, the matter was rather laughed at than
encouraged; and some apprehensions of failure, and exposure to
consequent comments, being expressed, "Perhaps," said the artist,
endeavoring to re-assure his friends, "I had just better try my _hand_
at a _head_, as a specimen o' Tam." This being agreed to, he returned
to Crosby church-yard, where he was then employed upon a grave-stone.
The day following happened to be one of continued rain; and, finding
that the water filled up his lines; probably, too, thinking more on
"glorious Tam," than on the _memento mori_ he was attempting to
engrave, our artist resolved to take time by the forelock, and to set
about the "specimen head" directly. Accordingly, pulling from the
ruins of the church of Crosby a rabat of the door-way, as a proper
material for his purpose, he sat himself down among the long rank
grass covering the graves, and in that situation actually finished the
head before rising. Nay, more, although the day has been described to
us "as a dounright pour," so total was his absorption in the work--so
complete his insensibility to every thing else, that he declares
himself to have been unconscious of the "rattling showers," from the
moment he {141} commenced. Such is the power of genuine and natural
enthusiasm in a favorite pursuit. This head, which contained perhaps,
more expression than even that of the present figure, decided the
matter. Next day, the block requisite for a full-length of Tam o'
Shanter, was brought into Ayr, a load for four stout horses, and
placed in a proper workshop, within Cromwell's fort.

It may be interesting to mention a few particulars of the manner in
which these figures have been composed and finished.--"Tam" was
selected by the artist as a subject for his chisel. The figure is
understood to bear a strong traditional resemblance to the well-known
Douglass Graham, some forty years ago a renowned specimen of a Carrick
farmer, and who, residing at Shanter, furnished to Burns the prototype
of his hero.

        ---- Souter Johnnie,
  His antient, trusty, drouthie cronie--

is said to be a striking likeness of a living wight--a cobbler near
Maybole; not that this individual sat for his portraiture, but that
the artist appears to have wrought from the reminiscences of two
interviews with which he was favored, after twice travelling 'some
lang Scotch miles,' in order to persuade the said "souter" to transfer
his body, by means of his pair of soles, from his own to the artist's
studio. The bribe of two guineas a-week, exclusive of "half-mutchkins
withouten score," proved, however, unavailing, and the cobbler
remained firm to the _last_. By this refusal, "the birkie" has only
become poorer by the said couple of guineas, and certain
"half-mutchkins drouthier," for so true has the eye of the sculptor
proved, that every one is said instantly to recognise the cobbler's
phiz and person. A strange perverseness, indeed, or fatality, or what
you will, seems to have seized upon all the favored few selected as
fitting archetypes for these admirable figures. For, Tam's "nether
man" occasioning some anxiety in the perfecting of its sturdy
symmetry, a carter, we believe, was laid hold of, and the _gamashins_,
being pulled on for half-an-hour, Tam's _right leg_ was finished in
rivalship of the said gentleman's _supporter_. It appears to have been
agreed upon that he should return at a fitting opportunity, having
thus left Tam "hirpling:" but, in the interval, the story of the
sitting unfortunately taking _air_, and the soubriquet of "Tam o'
Shanter" threatening to attach to the lawful and Christian
appellations of the man of carts, no inducement could again bring him
within the unhallowed precincts of our sculptor's work-room. In like
manner, though at a somewhat later period, while the artist was
engaged upon the figure of the landlady, no persuasion could prevail
upon one of the many "bonny lasses" who have given such celebrity to
Ayr, to exhibit even the "fitting of their pearlings" to Mr. Thom's
gaze. One sonsy damsel, on being hard pressed to grant a sitting,
replied, "Na, na, I've nae mind to be nickinamed 'landlady;' and, as
for gudewife, twa speerings maun gang to that name."

It will, doubtless, excite the admiration of every one in the
slightest degree conversant with the Arts, that these figures, so full
of life, ease and character, were thus actually executed without
model, or drawing, or palpable archetype whatsoever. The artist,
indeed, knows nothing of modelling; and so little of drawing, that we
question if he would not find difficulty in making even a tolerable
sketch of his own work. The chisel is his modelling tool--his
pencil--the only instrument of his art, in short, with which he is
acquainted, but which he handles in a manner, we may say, almost
unprecedented in the history of sculpture.--This, however, is the
minor part; for we think, nay, are sure, we discover in this dexterity
of hand, in this unerring precision of eye, in this strong, though
still untutored, conception of form and character--the native elements
of the highest art. These primodial attributes of genius, by proper
culture, may do honor to the country and to their possessor. At all
events, instruction will refine and improve attempts in the present
walk of art, even should study be unable to elevate attainment to a
higher. Now, however, it would be not only premature, but unjust, to
criticise these statues as regular labors of sculpture. They are to be
regarded as wonderful, nay, almost miraculous, efforts of native,
unaided, unlearned talent--as an approach to truth almost in spite of
nature and of science; but they do not hold with respect to legitimate
sculpture--the high-souled, the noblest, the severest of all arts--the
same rank as, in painting, the works of the Dutch masters do as
compared with the lofty spirits of the Romans--precisely for this
reason, that while similar subjects are not only fit, but often
felicitous, subjects for the pencil, they are altogether improper
objects of sculptural representation.

Though, from the circumstance of being the principals in the
composition, and from the intrinsic excellence of their conception,
these two figures have chiefly occupied the public attention, they
ought not to induce forgetfulness of the artist's other labors. These,
besides the Landlord and his mate, consist of several[1] copies, in
various sizes, of this original group, and of numerous sculptures, of
different character and purpose, from a "head-stane" upwards, executed
by Mr. Thom, since his residence in Ayr as a professional
stone-cutter. Here his studio is the resort of all intelligent
strangers who visit this ancient and beautiful burgh; while his modest
manners, and moral worth have conciliated the respect of every one.
The character of the Landlady is well sustained, as the buxom bustling
head of a well frequented "change-house." Her lord and master, on the
other hand, is represented as one who has little to say in his own
house, and better qualified to drink, than to earn his pint. The
former seems by no means disinclined to reciprocate glances with Tam;
while the latter is so convulsed with laughter at the Souter's
stories, as to be hardly capable of maintaining the equipoise of the
foaming tankard in his hand. Neither, however, is equal in graphic
truth and humor to their two companions. A more gigantic, but by no
means so happy a work, is the statue of the Scottish patriot, lately
placed in the niche of the New Tower, just erected in Ayr, on the site
of the ancient "Wallace Tower" of Burns. In fact, we regard this
figure as nearly a failure. It possesses neither the truth of nature,
nor the dignity of ideal representation. Omitting others of less
moment, we shall pass to the most perfect of all Mr. Thom's works--the
figure of "Old Mortality." This, though only a model, and not yet, we
believe, even commissioned in stone, offers by far the most striking
evidence of genius in its author.[2] The costume, attitude, and
expression of the old man, as he is represented sitting upon a
grave-stone, which he has been occupied in cleaning, are most
admirable; and perhaps no artist ever more completely realized the
exquisite conception of the original mind. The history of this
composition supplies a striking instance of the power of genius over
spirits of a congenial stamp, and of the singular coincidences which
sometimes take place in its manner of conceiving the same sentiment.
During a voyage to London, in a Leith steam packet, Mr. Thom one day
found in the cabin, Sir Walter's delightful tale of Old Mortality,
which he had never read. Taking it up, he quickly became entirely
engrossed in the narrative. The description of the old man, to whom
posterity is indebted for many a record, else lost, of our
single-minded sufferers for conscience' sake--so fixed itself upon the
artist's imagination, that he instantly conceived the idea of
representing it in sculpture. By way of concentrating his thoughts, he
sketched a figure in the imagined attitude, on one of the boards of
the book he had been reading. Pleased with his idea, he transferred it
to his pocket-book. A few days after his arrival in London, he was
introduced to our celebrated countryman, Wilkie, who, with his
accustomed kindness, showed him his portfolios. Mr. Thom's surprise
may be imagined, when in one of these he found a sketch of Old
Mortality, almost identical with his own, executed by Wilkie several
years before. The same thought had struck both, and almost in the same
manner.

[Footnote 1: There are now five sets; three of which are the size of
life, and two, four and twenty inches high. One set is, or is to be
deposited at the temple called the tomb of Burns, in
Ayrshire.--Another belongs to Lord Cassili. The third is in this
country.]

[Footnote 2: Since the above has been published, Thom has nearly
finished his Old Mortality in a block too small for his conception,
and which will oblige him to execute an entirely new figure.]




[We extract the following affecting story from the "_Western Monthly
Magazine_." Though written in the form of romantic narrative, it
presents one of the strongest cases we recollect to have seen, in
which innocence is overborne by powerful but false appearances of
guilt. It is certainly a strong illustration of the danger of
convicting a fellow creature, upon what is technically called
_presumptive evidence_, a topic upon which the gentlemen of the bar
are furnished with as wide a field for the display of professional
ingenuity, as upon any other in the {142} whole compass of
jurisprudence. That it is often safe, and indispensably necessary
however to rely upon such kind of evidence, is so obvious in
itself--and so well established as a legal maxim--that the danger of
sometimes convicting, upon a train of specious but deceptive
circumstances, is less than the evil of acquittal in the absence of
positive, conclusive, and infallible testimony.]


CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE.

A TALE FOUNDED ON FACT.


The circumstances which I am about to relate, are familiar to many now
living. In some particulars I have varied from the truth; but if in
the relation of an event which excited intense interest, at the time
of its occurrence, I shall succeed in impressing upon any one, the
delusive character of circumstantial evidence, my object will be
attained.

Beneath the magnificent sycamores which bordered a lovely stream in
the southwest part of Kentucky, a company of emigrants had pitched
their encampment, for the night. The tents were set up, the night-fire
threw its gleam upon the water, the weary horses were feeding, the
evening repast was over, and preparations were made for repose. The
party consisted of three brothers, with their families, who were
wending their way to the new lands of the distant Missouri. On their
visages, where the ague had left the sallow traces of its touch, few
of the nobler traits of the human character were visible. Accustomed
to reside upon the outskirts of society, little versed in its forms,
and as little accustomed to the restraints of law, or the duties of
morality, they were the fit pioneers of civilization, because their
frames were prepared for the utmost endurance of fatigue, and society
was purified by their removal. Theirs were not the fearless
independence, and frank demeanor which marks the honest backwoodsman
of our country; but the untamed license, and the wiley deportment of
violent men, who loved not the salutary influence of the law, nor
mingled of choice with the virtuous of their own species.

As they stirred the expiring fires, the column of light, mingled with
the smoke and cinder, that rose towards the clear sky of the mild May
night, revealed two travellers of a different appearance, who had
encamped on the margin of the same stream. One was a man of thirty.
Several years passed in the laborious practice of medicine, in a
southern climate, had destroyed his constitution, and he had come to
breathe the bracing air of a higher latitude. The wing of health had
fanned into new vigor the waning fires of life, and he was now
returning to the home of his adoption with a renovated frame. The
young man who sat by him, was a friend, to whom he had paid a visit,
and who was now attending him, a short distance, on his journey. They
had missed their way, and reluctantly accepted a sullen permission of
the emigrants to share their coarse fare, rather than wander in the
dark, through unknown forests. Hamilton, the younger of the two, was,
perhaps, twenty-seven years of age--and was a young gentleman of
prepossessing appearance, of cultivated mind, and of a chivalrous and
sensitive disposition. His parents were indigent, and he had, by the
energy of his own talents and industry, redeemed them from poverty,
and placed them in easy circumstances. In one of his commercial
expeditions down the Mississippi, he had met with Saunders, the
physician. An intimacy ensued, which though brief, had already ripened
into mature friendship.

  'Affection knoweth nought of time,
     It riseth like the vernal flowers;
   The heart pulse is its only chime,
     And feelings are its hours.'

Together they had hunted over the flowery barrens, and through the
majestic forests of their native state--had scaled the precipice, and
swam the torrent--had explored the cavern, and visited whatever was
wonderful or curious in the region around them; and both looked
forward, with painful feelings, to the termination of an intercourse
which had been pleasing and instructive.--As they were to separate in
the morning, the evening was spent in conversation--in that copious
and involuntary flow of kindness and confidence which the heart pours
out at the moment when friends are about to sever, when the past is
recalled and the future anticipated, and friendship no longer silent,
nor motionless, displays itself like the beauty of the ocean wave,
which is most obvious at the moment of its dissolution.

Early in the morning, the two friends prepared to pursue their
journey. As they were about to depart, one of the emigrants advanced
towards them, and remarked:

'I reckon, strangers, you allow to encamp at Scottville to-night?'

'Yes,' said Saunders, 'I do.'

'Well, then, I can tell you a chute, that's a heap shorter than the
road you talk of taking--and at the forks of Rushing river, there's a
smart chance of blue clay, that's miry like, and it's right scary
crossing at times.'

Supposing they had found a nearer and better road, and one by which a
dangerous ford would be avoided, they thanked their informant, and
proceeded on their journey.

In some previous conversations, Saunders had learned, that his friend
had recently experienced some heavy losses, and was at this time much
pressed for money, and wishing to offer him assistance, had from time
to time deferred it, from the difficulty of approaching so delicate a
subject. As the time of parting approached, however, he drew the
conversation to that point, and was informed that the sum of five
hundred dollars, would relieve his friend from embarrassment. Having a
large sum in his possession, he generously tendered him the amount
required, and Hamilton, after some hesitation, accepted the loan, and
proposed to give his note for its repayment, which Saunders declined,
under the plea that the whole transaction was a matter of friendship,
and that no such formality was requisite. When they were about to
part, Hamilton unclasped his breast-pin, and presented it to his
friend. 'Let this,' said he, 'remind you sometimes of Kentucky--I
trust, that when I visit you next year, I shall not see it adorning
the person of some favored fair one.' 'I have not so much confidence
in you,' laughingly returned the other; and, handing him a
silver-hafted penknife curiously embossed, 'I am told that knives and
scissors are not acceptable presents to the fair, as they are supposed
to cut love, so I have no fear that Almira will get this--and I know
that no other human being would cause you to forget your friend.' They
then parted.

As Hamilton was riding slowly homeward, engaged in thought, and
holding his bridle loosely, a deer sprang suddenly from a thicket, and
fell in the road, before his {143} horse, who started and threw him to
the ground. In examining the deer, which had been mortally wounded,
and was still struggling, some of the blood was sprinkled on his
dress, which had been otherwise soiled by his fall. Paying little
attention to these circumstances, he returned home.

Though his absence had been brief, many hands grasped his in cordial
welcome, many eyes met his own in love, for few of the young men of
the county were so universally beloved, and so much respected as
Hamilton. But to none was his return so acceptable as to Almira ----.
She had been his playmate in infancy, his schoolmate in childhood, in
maturer years their intimacy had ripened into love, and they were soon
to be united in the holiest and dearest of ties. But the visions of
hope were soon to pass from before them, as the _mirage_ of the
desert, that mocks the eye of the thirsty traveller, and then leaves
him a death-devoted wanderer on the arid waste.

A vague report was brought to the village, that the body of a murdered
man was found near Scottville. It was first mentioned by a traveller,
in a company where Hamilton was present; and he instantly exclaimed,
'no doubt it is Saunders--how unfortunate that I left him!' and then
retired under great excitement. His manner and expressions awakened
suspicion, which was unhappily corroborated by a variety of
circumstances, that were cautiously whispered by those, who dared not
openly arraign a person whose whole conduct through life had been
honest, frank, and manly. He had ridden away with Saunders, who was
known to have been in possession of a large sum of money. Since his
return, he had paid off debts to a considerable amount. The penknife
of Saunders was recognized in his hands--yet none were willing, on
mere surmise, to hazard a direct accusation.

The effect of the intelligence upon Hamilton was marked. The sudden
death of a dear friend is hard to be supported--but when one who is
loved and esteemed, is cut off by the dastardly hand of the assassin,
the pang of bereavement becomes doubly great, and in this instance,
the feelings of deep gratitude which Hamilton felt towards his
benefactor, caused him to mourn over the catastrophe, with a
melancholy anguish. He would sit for hours in a state of abstraction,
from which even the smile of love could not awaken him.

The elections were at hand; and Hamilton was a candidate for the
legislature. In the progress of the canvass, the foul charge was
openly made, and propagated with the remorseless spirit of party
animosity. Yet he heard it not, until one evening as he sate with
Almira, in her father's house. They were conversing in low accents,
when the sound of an approaching footstep interrupted them, and the
father of Almira entered the room. 'Mr. Hamilton,' said he, 'I am a
frank man--I consented to your union with my daughter, believing your
character to be unstained--but I regret to hear that a charge has been
made against you, which, if true, must render you amenable to the laws
of your country. I believe it to be a fabrication of your
enemies--but, until it shall be disproved, and your character as a man
of honor, placed above suspicion, you must be sensible that the
proposed union cannot take place, and that your visits to my house
must be discontinued.'

'What does my father mean?' inquired the young lady, anxiously, as her
indignant parent retired.

'I do not know,' replied the lover, 'it is some electioneering story,
no doubt, which I can easily explain. I only regret that it should
give him, or you, a moment's uneasiness.'

'It shall cause me none,' replied the confiding girl: 'I cannot
believe any evil of you.'

He retired--sought out the nature of the charge, and to his
inexpressible astonishment and horror, learned that he was accused of
the murder and robbery of his friend! In a state little short of
distraction, he retired to his room, recalled with painful minuteness
all the circumstances connected with the melancholy catastrophe, and
for the first time, saw the dangerous ground on which he stood. But
proud in conscious innocence, he felt that to withdraw at that stage
of the canvass, might be construed into a confession of guilt. He
remained a candidate, and was beaten. Now, for the first time, did he
feel the wretchedness of a condemned and degraded man. The tribunal of
public opinion had pronounced against him the sentence of conviction;
and even his friends, as the excitement of the party struggle
subsided, became cold in his defence, and wavering in their belief of
his innocence. Conscious that the eye of suspicion was open, and
satisfied that nothing short of a public investigation could restore
him to honor, the unhappy young man surrendered himself to the civil
authority, and demanded a trial. Ah! little did he know the malignity
of man, or the fatal energy of popular delusion! He reflected not that
when the public mind is imbued with prejudice, even truth itself
ceases to be mighty. Many believed him guilty, and those who, during
the canvass, had industriously circulated the report, now labored with
untiring diligence to collect and accumulate the evidence which should
sustain their previous assertions. But arrayed in the panoply of
innocence, he stood firm, and confident of acquittal. The best counsel
had been engaged--and on the day of trial, Hamilton stood before the
assembled county--an arraigned culprit in the presence of those before
whom he had walked in honor from childhood.

As the trial proceeded, the confidence of his friends diminished, and
those who had doubted, became confirmed in the belief of the
prisoner's guilt. Trifles light as air became confirmations strong as
proofs of Holy Writ to the jealous minds of the audience, and one fact
was linked to another in curious coincidence, until the chain of
corroborating circumstances seemed irresistibly conclusive. His recent
intimacy with the deceased, and even the attentions which friendship
and hospitality had dictated, were ingeniously insisted upon as
evidences of a deliberate plan of wickedness--long formed and
gradually developed. The facts, that he had accompanied the deceased
on his way--that he had lost the path in a country with which he was
supposed to be familiar--his conduct on hearing of the death of his
friend--the money--the knife--caused the most incredulous to tremble
for his fate. But when the breast-pin of Hamilton, found near the body
of the murdered man, was produced--and a pistol, known to have been
that of the prisoner, was proved to have been picked up near the same
spot--but little room was left, even for charity to indulge a
benevolent doubt. Nor was this all--the prosecution had still another
witness--the pale girl who sate by him, clasping his hand in hers, was
unexpectedly called upon to rise and give testimony. She shrunk from
the unfeeling call, and buried her face in her {144} brother's bosom.
That blow was not anticipated--for none but the cunning myrmidons of
party vengeance, who had even violated the sanctuary of family
confidence, in search of evidence, dreamed that any criminating
circumstance was in the possession of this young lady. At the mandate
of the court, she arose, laid aside her veil, and disclosed a face
haggard with anxiety and terror. In low tremulous accents, broken with
sobs, she reluctantly deposed, that the clothes worn by her brother,
on his return from that fatal journey, were torn, soiled with earth,
and bloody! An audible murmur ran through the crowd, who were
listening in breathless silence--the prisoner bowed his head in mute
despair--the witness was borne away insensible--the argument
proceeded, and after an eloquent, but vain defence, the jury brought
in a verdict of _guilty!_ The sentence of _death_ was passed.

       *       *       *       *       *

The summer had passed away. The hand of autumn had begun to tinge with
mellow hues the magnificent scenery of the forest. It was evening, and
the clear moonbeams were shining through the grates of the prisoner's
cell. The unhappy man, haggard, attenuated, and heart-broken, was
lying upon his wretched pallet, reflecting alternately upon the early
wreck of his bright hopes, the hour of ignominy that was just
approaching, and the dread futurity into which he should soon be
plunged. It was the season at which his marriage with Almira was to
have been solemnized. With what pride and joy had he looked forward to
this hour! And now, instead of the wedding festivities, the lovely
bride, and the train of congratulating friends, so often pictured in
fancy, he realized fetters, a dungeon, and a disgraceful death! The
well-known tread of the jailer interrupted the bitter train of
thought. The door opened, and as the light streamed from a lantern
across the cell, he saw a female form timidly approaching. In a moment
Almira had sunk on her knees beside him, and their hands were silently
clasped together. There are occasions when the heart spurns all
constraint, and acts up to its own dictates, careless of public
opinion, or prescribed forms--when love becomes the absorbing and
overruling passion--and when that which under other circumstances
would be mere unlicensed impulse, becomes a hallowed and imperious
duty. That noble-hearted girl had believed to the last, that her lover
would be honorably acquitted. The intelligence of his condemnation,
while it blighted her hopes, and withered her health, never disturbed
for one moment her conviction of his innocence. There is an union of
hearts which is indestructible, which marriage may sanction, and
nourish, and hallow, but which separation cannot destroy--a love that
endures while life remains, or until its object shall prove faithless
or unworthy. Such was the affection of Almira; and she held her
promise to love and honor him, whose fidelity to her was unspotted,
and whose character she considered honorable, to be as sacred, as if
they had been united in marriage. When all others forsook, she
resolved never to forsake him. She had come to visit him in his
desolation, and to risk all, to save one who was dear and innocent in
her estimation, though guilty in the eyes of the world.

The jailer, a blunt, though humane man, briefly disclosed a plan,
which he, with Almira, had devised, for the escape of Hamilton. He had
consented to allow the prisoner to escape, in female dress, while she
was to remain in his stead, so that the whole contrivance should seem
to be her own. 'I am a plain man,' concluded the jailer, 'but I know
what's right. It 'aint fair to hang no man on suspicion--and more than
that, I am not agoing to stand in no man's way--especially a friend
who has done me favors, as you have. I go in for giving every fellow a
fair chance. The track's clear, Mr. Hamilton, and the quicker you put
out, the better.'

To his surprise, the prisoner peremptorily refused the offer.

'I am innocent,' said he; 'but I would suffer a thousand deaths rather
than injure the fair fame of this confiding girl.'

'Go, Dudley--my dear Dudley,' she sobbed: 'for my sake, for the sake
of your broken-hearted father and sister--'

'Do not tempt me--my dear Almira. I will not do that which would
expose you to disgrace.'

'Oh, who would blame me?'

'The world--the uncharitable world--they who believe me a murderer,
and have tortured the most innocent actions into proofs of deliberate
villainy, will not hesitate to brand you as the victim of a
cold-blooded felon. And why should I fly? to live a wretched wanderer,
with the brand of Cain on my forehead, and a character stamped with
infamy?'--

He would have said more--but the form, that during this brief
dialogue, had sunk into his arms, was lying lifeless on his bosom. He
kissed her cold lips, and passionately repeated her name--but she
heard him not--her pure spirit had gently disengaged itself, and was
flown forever. Her heart was broken. She had watched, and wept, and
prayed, in hopeless grief, until the physical energies of a delicate
frame were exhausted: and the excitement of the last scene had snapped
the attenuated thread of life.

Hamilton did not survive her long. His health was already shattered by
long confinement, and the chaffing of a proud spirit. Almira had died
for him--and his own mother--oh! how cautiously did they whisper the
sad truth, when he asked why _she_ who loved him better than her own
life, had forsaken him in the hour of affliction--she, too, had sunk
under the dreadful blow. His father lived a withered, melancholy man,
crushed in spirit; and as his sister hung like a guardian angel over
his death-bed, and he gazed at her pale, emaciated, sorrow-stricken
countenance, he saw that she, too, would soon be numbered among the
victims of this melancholy persecution. When, with his last breath, he
suggested that they would soon meet, she replied: 'I trust that God
will spare me to see your innocence established, and then will I die
contented.' And her confidence was rewarded--for God does not
disappoint those who put their trust in him. About a year afterwards,
a wretch, who was executed at Natchez, and who was one of the three
persons named in the commencement of this narrative, confessed that he
had murdered Saunders, with a pistol which he had found at the place
where the two friends had slept. 'I knew it would be so,'--was the
only reply of the fast declining sister--and soon after she was buried
by the side of Dudley and Almira.--Reader, this is not fiction--nor
are the decisions of God unjust--but his ways are above our
comprehension.

EMILLION.


{145}


LAW LECTURE AT WILLIAM AND MARY.

A Lecture on the Study of the Law; being an Introduction to a course
of lectures on that subject, in the College of William and Mary, by
Beverley Tucker, Professor of Law.--Richmond: T. W. White. Nov. 1834.


It is impossible for a Virginian not to feel an interest in old
William and Mary. Recollecting the many able men who have been
nurtured within its walls, and signalized as lawyers, legislators and
statesmen, we cannot but feel gratified at every effort in its behalf
that promises to be of use. From the time of Judge Semple's last
appointment as Judge of the General Court, until the month of July,
the law chair had remained vacant. A vacancy in so important a
department continuing for so long a period, could not fail to be
prejudicial to the institution. It was in vain that the other
professorships were ably filled. The circumstance of the lectures in
the law department being suspended, made many fear that the other
professorships would one by one share the same fate--that this vacancy
was but a precursor to others--that a failure to fill this would be
followed by like failures hereafter--and that in a few years the doors
of this venerable pile would be closed. These inferences are
strengthened by the fact, that a very important professorship (the
professorship of mathematics) had formerly been permitted to remain
vacant for even a longer period than that which is the subject of
these brief reflections. With such anticipations, it is no wonder that
every class has latterly been characterized by the smallness of its
numbers.

The Board of Visiters, at their meeting in July, resolved that the
vacancy should continue no longer, and conferred the appointment of
law professor upon Beverley Tucker. Mr. Tucker is well known as a
writer upon constitutional questions, and his appointment to the bench
of another state, after a short residence in it, affords evidence of
the estimation in which his legal attainments were there held. The
same professorship to which _he_ is now appointed, was filled many
years ago by his father _St. George Tucker_, whose edition of
Blackstone's Commentaries, and subsequent appointment first in the
state and then in the federal judiciary, have given him a reputation
with members of the bar throughout the Union.

The letter and answer which precede the introductory lecture of
Professor Tucker, sufficiently explain the circumstances under which
that lecture is published.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Williamsburg, October 27, 1834_.

_Dear Sir:_--The students of William and Mary, highly gratified by
your able and eloquent address, delivered before them this day, have
held a special meeting, and by unanimous vote adopted the following
resolution:

_Resolved_, (At a meeting of the students in the large lecture room on
the 27th inst.) That a committee be appointed to address a note to
Professor Tucker, for the purpose of expressing their admiration of
the able and interesting lecture which he has this day delivered,
introductory to his course on law, and to solicit the same for
publication.

We hope for your assent to this request, and in performing this
agreeable duty, we tender you our sentiments of respect and esteem.

  JNO. W. DEW,    CHAS. H. KENNEDY,
  WM. T. FRENCH,  JOHN MURDAUGH,

_Professor Tucker_.    _Committee_.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Williamsburg, October 28, 1834_.

_Gentlemen:_--I acknowledge the receipt of your polite note, and am
happy to comply with the request which it conveys. Identified with the
College of William and Mary by the early recollections and warm
affections of youth, I have nothing so much at heart as a desire to be
found worthy to aid in restoring that venerable institution to all its
former prosperity and usefulness. Your approbation is dear to me, as
encouraging a hope that my efforts may not be unavailing. If I shall
be so fortunate as to send out into the world but one more, to be
added to the list of illustrious men, who are every where found
upholding, with generous, devoted and enlightened zeal, the free
institutions inherited from our fathers, in their true spirit, I shall
have my reward. If I can succeed in impressing on my class the
conviction, that freedom has its duties, as well as its rights, and
can only be preserved by the faithful discharge of those duties, I
shall have my reward. If I can do no more than to furnish to the
profession members devoted to its duties, and qualified to sustain its
high character for intelligence and integrity, by diligence and
fidelity even in its humblest walks, I shall still have my reward. In
either case I shall have rendered valuable service, to you, to this
venerable institution, to this scene of my earliest, happiest and best
days, and to Virginia--my mother--the only country to which my heart
has ever owned allegiance. Far as my feet have wandered from her soil,
my affections have always cleaved to her, and as the faithful
mussulman, in every clime, worships with his face towards the tomb of
his prophet, so has my heart ever turned to her, alive to all her
interests, jealous of her honor, resentful of her wrongs, partaking in
all her struggles, exulting in her triumphs, and mourning her defeats.
May she again erect herself to her former proud attitude and walk
before the children of liberty in the pathless desert where they now
wander, as a "cloud by day, and a pillar of fire by night."

For yourselves, gentlemen, and those whom you represent, be pleased to
accept my acknowledgments for the compliment implied in your
application. I would ask you to accept the expression of another
sentiment, if I knew how to express it. Returning to Williamsburg
after an absence commencing in early life, the long and dreary
interval seems obliterated. I find myself remitted at once to the
scenes and to the feelings of youth. It would seem more natural to me
to come among you as a companion than as an instructer. But this may
not be much amiss. My business is with your _heads_, but the road to
them is through the _heart_, and if I can only bring you to understand
and reciprocate my feelings, there will be nothing wanting to
facilitate the communication of any instruction I may be capable of
bestowing.

I remain, gentlemen, with high regard, your friend and obedient
servant,

B. TUCKER.

To _Messrs. J. W. Dew, John Murdaugh, Wm. T. French, and Chs. H.
Kennedy_.

       *       *       *       *       *

YOUNG GENTLEMEN:

I gladly avail myself of an established custom, to offer some remarks
on the mutual relation into which we have just entered, and the
studies which will occupy our attention during the ensuing course.

This day is to you the commencement of the most important æra of life.
You have heretofore been engaged in studies, for the most part useful,
but sometimes merely ornamental or amusing. The mind, it is true, can
hardly fail to improve, by the exertion necessary to the acquisition
of knowledge of any kind, even as the athletic sports of the boy
harden and prepare the body for the labors of the man. But, in many
particulars, what you have heretofore learned may be of little
practical value in the business of life; and your past neglects may
perhaps be attended with no loss of prosperity or respectability in
future. Some of you are probably acquainted with sciences of which
others are ignorant; but are not for that reason any better prepared
for the new course of studies on which you are about to enter. Nor
will such knowledge necessarily afford its possessors any advantage at
{146} the bar, or in the senate, or on any of the arenas, where the
interests of individuals and nations are discussed, and the strifes of
men decided. But the time is now past with you, young gentlemen, when
you can lose a moment, or neglect an opportunity of improvement,
without a lasting and irreparable detriment to yourselves. You this
day put on the _toga virilis_, and enter on the _business of life_.
This day you commence those studies on which independence, prosperity,
respectability, and the comfort and happiness of those who will be
dearest to you, must depend. For, trust me, these things mainly depend
on excellence in the profession or occupation, whatever it may be,
which a man chooses as the business of his life. The humblest mechanic
will derive more of all these good things from diligence and
proficiency in his trade, than he possibly can from any knowledge
unconnected with it.

This, which is true of all occupations, is most emphatically true of
that which you have chosen. To be eminent in _our_ profession is to
hold a place among the great ones of the earth; and they, who devote
themselves to it, have the rare advantage of treading the path which
leads to the highest objects of honorable ambition, even while walking
the round of daily duties, and providing for the daily wants of
private life. The history of our country is full of proof that the bar
is the road to eminence; and I beg you to remark how few of its
members have attained to this eminence in public life, without having
been first distinguished in the profession. To win _its_ honors, and
to wear them worthily, is to attain an elevation from which all other
honors are accessible: but to turn aside disgusted with its labors, is
to lose this vantage ground, and to sink again to the dead level of
the common mass. You should therefore learn to look on the profession
of your choice, as the source from whence are to flow all the
comforts, the honors, and the happiness of life. Let it be as a
talisman, in which, under God, you put your trust, assuring yourselves
that whatever you seek by means of it you will receive.

I have the more naturally fallen into these remarks, as they are in
some sort suggested, and are certainly justified by the history of
this institution. If you trace back the lives of the men, who at this
moment occupy the most enviable pre-eminence in your native state, you
will find that they received the rudiments of their professional and
political education at this venerable but decayed seminary. There are
certainly distinguished members of the profession, and illustrious men
out of the profession, to whom this remark does not apply. But when
Virginia (_Magna Parens Virum_,) is called on to show her jewels, to
whom does she more proudly point than to men who once occupied those
very seats; who here received the first impulse in their career; who
here commenced that generous strife for superiority which has placed
them all so high.

The subject of our researches, young gentlemen, will be the municipal
law of Virginia. The text book which will be placed in your hands is
the American edition of Blackstone's Commentaries, published thirty
years ago by one of my predecessors in this chair. You will readily
believe that it would be my pride to walk, with filial reverence by
the lights which he has given us, and that, in doing so, I should feel
secure of escaping any harsh animadversion from those to whom I am
responsible, and who still cherish so favorable a recollection of his
services. I shall certainly endeavor to avail myself of this
privilege; though it may be occasionally necessary to assume a more
perilous responsibility. A brief sketch of the plan which I propose to
myself, will show you how far I shall follow, and wherein, and why, I
shall deviate from the path which he has traced.

Municipal law is defined by Mr. Blackstone, "to be a rule of civil
conduct prescribed by the supreme power of the state." By Justinian it
is said, "_Id quod quisque populus sibi jus constituit, vocatur jus
civile_:" which has been well rendered thus: "It is the system of
rules of civil conduct which any state has ordained for itself."

Whatever definition we adopt, we shall find that municipal law is
distinguishable into four grand divisions, which may be properly
designated by the following description:

1. That which regulates the nature and form of the body politic; which
establishes the relation that each individual bears to it, and the
rights and duties growing out of that relation, which determines the
principles on which it exercises authority over him; and settles a
system of jurisprudence by which it operates to protect and enforce
right, and to redress and punish wrong.

2. That which determines the relations of individual members of
society to each other; which defines the rights growing out of that
relation; and regulates the right of property, and such personal
rights as must subsist even in a state of nature.

3. That which defines the wrongs that may be done by one individual
member of society to another, in prejudice of his rights, whether of
person or property, and provides means for preventing or redressing
such wrongs.

4. That which defines and denounces the wrongs which may be done by
any individual member of society, in violation of the duties growing
out of his relation to the body politic, and provides means for
preventing and punishing such violation.

The first of these divisions is treated by Mr. Blackstone in his first
book, under the comprehensive head of "The Rights of Persons." Under
the same head he includes so much of the second division as relates to
such personal rights as must have belonged to man in a state of
nature, and such {147} as grow out of his relation to other individual
members of society. Such are the _relative_ rights of husband and
wife, parent and child, guardian and ward, and master and servant--and
the _absolute_ rights, of personal liberty, and of security to life,
limb and reputation. These rights are obviously not the creatures of
civil society, however they may be regulated and modified by municipal
law. They in no wise depend on "the nature or form of the body
politic;" nor on "the relations which individuals bear to it;" nor on
"the rights and duties growing out of that relation;" nor on "the
principles on which it exercises authority over individuals;" nor on
"the system of jurisprudence."

As little indeed do they depend on "the rights of property," but they
have much in common with them. Together with them, they collectively
form the mass of "individual rights," as contradistinguished from
"political rights." Neither class derives its existence from civil
society, although both are alike liable to be regulated by it, and the
two together form the subject of almost all controversies between man
and man. Now with rights in actual and peaceable enjoyment, law has
nothing to do. It is controversy which calls it into action; and as
both this class of personal rights, and the rights of property, have
the same common origin--both subsisting by titles paramount to the
constitutions of civil society; as both are the ordinary subjects of
controversy between individuals; and as these controversies are all
conducted according to similar forms, decided by the same tribunals,
and adjusted by the like means,--it is found convenient to arrange
them together in a course of instruction. Such I believe has always
been the practice in this institution. Proposing to conform to it, I
have thought it best, in the outset, to intimate this slight
difference between this practice and Mr. Blackstone's arrangement.

There is another particular in which Mr. Blackstone's order of
instruction has been advantageously changed at this place. His is
certainly the true _philosophical_ arrangement of the subject. When we
are told that "municipal law is a rule of civil conduct prescribed by
the supreme power in the state," it is obvious to ask, "what is that
supreme power, and whence comes its supremacy?" When we are told that
it is "the system of rules of civil conduct, which the state has
ordained for itself," the first inquiry is, "what is the state?" Thus
whatever definition of municipal law we adopt, the subject of inquiry
that meets us at the threshold is the _Lex Legum_; the law which
endues the municipal law itself with authority.

If the individual to be instructed were one who had heretofore lived
apart from law and government, yet capable (if such a thing were
possible) of understanding the subject, it is here we ought to
commence. To him it would be indispensable to explain, in the first
instance, the structure of the body politic; to specify the rights
surrendered by individuals; and to set before him the equivalent
privileges received in exchange. _We_ too might be supposed to require
a like exposition before we would be prepared to submit to the severe
restraints and harsh penalties of _criminal_ law. But in regard to
controversies between individuals we feel no such jealousies. In
these, the law, acting but as an arbiter, indifferent between the
parties, no question concerning its authority occurs to the mind. The
readiness with which we acquiesce in its decisions, is strikingly
manifested in the fact, that the whole of England, Ireland and the
United States are, for the most part, governed by a law which has no
voucher for its authority but this acquiescence. The same thing may be
said of the authority of the civil law on the continent of Europe. It
thus appears that the mind does not always require to be informed of
the origin of the law which regulates and enforces, or protects
individual rights, before it will condescend to inquire what are its
behests. _Prima facie_ it should be so; but being, in point of fact,
born in the midst of law, habituated to it from our infancy, and
accustomed to witness uniform obedience to its authority on the part
of those whom we were taught to obey, we learn to regard it as a thing
_in rerum natura_, rather than of human invention; a sort of moral
atmosphere, which, like that we breathe, seems a very condition of our
existence.

There is therefore no inconvenience to be apprehended from taking up
the subject in an inverted order, treating first of individual rights,
and reserving those that grow out of the relation of the citizen to
the body politic, and the correlative duties of that relation, for
future inquiry.

While there is nothing to be objected to this arrangement, there is
much in favor of it. It is important that they who engage in the study
of political law, should come to the task with minds prepared for it;
well stored with analogous information, and sobered and subdued by the
discipline of severe investigation. There is a simplicity in some
views of government which is apt to betray the student into a
premature belief that he understands it thoroughly; and then,
measuring the value of his imagined acquirements, not by the labor
that they have cost him, but by the dignity and importance of the
subject, he becomes inflated, self-satisfied and unteachable; resting
in undoubting assurance on the accuracy and sufficiency of such bare
outline as his instructer may have thought proper to place before him.
But in those countries where the authority of government rests on a
questionable title, they who are entrusted with the education of
youth, may naturally wish to keep them from looking into it too
narrowly. Hence it may be a measure of policy with them, to introduce
the student, in the first place, to the study of political law, in the
hope of making on his raw and unpractised {148} mind, such an
impression, as may secure his approbation of the existing order of
things. The faculty of investigating legal questions, and forming
legal opinions, may almost be regarded as an acquired faculty; so
that, in the earlier part of his researches, the student necessarily
acquiesces in the doctrines which are pronounced _ex cathedra_ by his
teacher. At this time he readily receives opinions on trust; and if it
be his interest to cherish them, or if he is never called on in after
life to reexamine them, he is apt to carry them with him to the grave.
This is perhaps as it should be in England and other countries of
Europe. Having no part in the government, it may be well enough that
he should learn to sit down contented with this sort of enlightened
ignorance.

But with us the case is different. The authority of our governments is
derived by a title that fears no investigation. We feel sure, that,
the better it is understood, the more it will be approved. It rests
too on a charter conferring regulated and limited powers; and the well
being of the country requires that the limitations and regulations be
strictly observed. Now every man among us has his "place in the
commonwealth." It is on the one hand, the duty of every man to aid in
giving full effect to all legitimate acts of government; and on the
other, to bear his part in restraining the exercise of all powers
forbidden or not granted. Every man therefore owes it to his country
to acquire a certain proficiency in constitutional law, so as to act
understandingly, when called on to decide between an alleged violation
of the constitution, and an imputed opposition to lawful authority.
Such occasions are of daily occurrence. Scarcely a day has passed,
since the adoption of the federal constitution, when some question of
this sort has not been before the public. Such is the effect of that
impatience of restraint natural to man. So prompt are the people to
become restive under laws of questionable authority, and so apt are
rulers to strain at the curb of constitutional limitations, that one
or the other, or both of these spectacles, is almost always before us.

When you come then, young gentlemen, to the study of political and
constitutional law, you will find it no small advantage to have been
engaged for some months before in studies of a similar character. The
opinions you will then form will be properly your own. I may not be so
successful as I might wish, in impressing you with those I entertain;
but I shall be more gratified to find you prepared to "give a reason
for the faith that is in you," whatever that faith may be, than to
hear you rehearse, by rote, any political catechism that I could
devise. I shall accordingly postpone any remarks on constitutional and
political law, until your minds have been exercised and hardened by
the severe training they will undergo in the study of the private
rights of individuals, of wrongs done in prejudice of such rights, and
of the remedies for such wrongs. All these topics are embraced in the
second and third division of municipal law, that I have laid before
you.

To these belong the most intricate and difficult questions in the
science of law. In introducing you to the study of these, let me say,
in the language of one from whom I am proud to quote, that, "I cannot
flatter you with the assurance that 'your yoke is easy and your burden
light.' I will not tell you that your path leads over gentle ascents
and through flowery meads, where every new object entices us forward,
and stimulates to perseverance. By no means! The task you have
undertaken is one of the most arduous; the profession you have chosen
one of the most laborious; the study you are about to pursue, one of
the most difficult that can be conceived. But you have made your
election. You have severed yourselves from the common herd of youth,
who shrink from every thing that demands exertion and perseverance.
You have chosen between the allurements of pleasure and the honors
which await the disciples of wisdom. You yield to others to keep the
noiseless tenor of their way in inglorious ease. You have elected for
yourselves the path that philosophers and moralists represent as
leading, up a rugged ascent, to the temple of fame. It may be the lot
of some of you to elevate yourselves by talents and unabating zeal, in
the pursuit you have selected. But these distinguished honors are not
to be borne away by the slothful and inert. _Nulla palma sine
pulvere_. He who would win the laurel, must encounter the sweat and
toil of the _arena_. Nor will it suffice that he _occasionally_
presses on to the goal. If he slackens in his efforts he must lose
ground. We roll a Sisyphean stone to an exalted eminence. He who gives
back loses what his strength had gained; and sinking under the toil
his own indolence increases, will at length give up his unsteady
efforts in despair."--1. T. C. Introduction, p. vi.

I can add nothing to these striking remarks but my testimony to their
truth. There is, perhaps, no study that tasks the powers of the mind
more severely than that of law. In it, as in the study of mathematics,
nothing is learned at all that is not learned perfectly; and a
careless perusal of Euclid's elements would not be more unprofitable,
than that of a treatise on the laws of property. Nor will a mere
effort of memory be of more avail in the one case than in the other.
Both must be remembered by being understood; by being through the
exercise of intense thought, incorporated as it were into the very
texture of the mind. To this end its powers must be fully and
faithfully exerted. As, in lifting at a weight, you do but throw away
your labor, until you man yourself to the exertion of the full measure
of strength necessary to raise it; so, in this study, you may assure
yourselves that all you have done is of no avail, if you pass {149}
from any topic without thoroughly understanding it. And let no man
persuade you that genius can supply the place of this exertion. Genius
does not so manifest itself. The secret of its wonderful achievements
is in the energy which it inspires. It is because its prompting sting,
like the sharp goad of necessity, urges to herculean effort, that it
is seen to accomplish herculean tasks. He is deceived who fancies
himself a favored child of genius, unless he finds his highest
enjoyment in intellectual exercise. He should go to the toil of
thought like the champion to the lists, seeking in the very
_certaminis gaudia_ the rich reward of all his labors.

There may be something startling, I fear, in this exhibition of the
difficulties that lie before you, and it is proper to encourage you by
the assurance that by strenuous effort they may be certainly overcome.
Remember too that this effort will be painful only in the outset. The
mind, like the body, soon inures itself to toil, and wears off the
soreness consequent on its first labors. When this is done, the task
becomes interesting in proportion to its difficulty, and subjects
which are understood without effort, and which do not excite the mind
to thought, seem flat and insipid.

But lest the student should falter and give back in his earlier
struggles, it is the duty of the teacher to afford him such aids as he
can. This is mainly to be done by means of such an analysis and
arrangement of the subject as may prevent confusion, and consequent
perplexity and discouragement.

There are two sorts of analysis, each proper in its place. The one
_philosophical_, by which the different parts of a subject are so
arranged, as to exhibit in distinct groups those things that depend on
the same or like principles, and such as are marked by characteristic
points of resemblance; giving a sort of honorary precedence to the
most important. The other sort of analysis may be termed _logical_. It
is that method by which different propositions are so arranged, as
that no one of them shall ever be brought under consideration, until
all others which may be necessary to the right understanding of that
one, have been established and explained. Of this last description
sire Euclid's elements, in which it is interesting to observe that no
one proposition could with propriety be made to change its place; each
one depending for its demonstration, directly or indirectly, upon all
that have gone before.

Blackstone's Commentaries may be cited as an example of
_philosophical_ analysis. He has indeed been careful to avoid
perplexing his reader, through the want of a strictly _logical_
arrangement, by dealing chiefly in generalities, and never descending
to such particulars as might be unintelligible for want of a knowledge
of matters not yet treated of. This I take to be the reason why his
work has been characterized as being "less an institute of law, than a
methodical guide or elementary work adapted to the commencement of a
course of study. He treats most subjects in a manner too general and
cursory to give the student an adequate knowledge of them. After
having pursued his beautiful arrangement, he is obliged to seek
elsewhere for farther details. After having learnt the advantage of
system, he is almost at the threshold of the science, turned back
without a guide, to grope among the mazy volumes of our crowded
libraries. This cannot be right. If system is of advantage at all, it
is of advantage throughout. Were it practicable, it would be better
for the student to have a single work, which embracing the whole
subject, should properly arrange every principle and every case
essential to be known preparatory to his stepping on the _arena_.
Much, very much indeed, would still be left to be explored in the
course of his professional career, independent of the _apices juris_,
which the most vigorous and persevering alone can hope to
attain."--Tucker's Commentary, Introduction, p. 4.

The justice of these remarks none can deny. It might be thought
unbecoming in me to say how much the writer from whom I quote them has
done to supply such a work as he describes. Yet I cannot suffer any
feeling of delicacy to restrain me from the duty of recommending that
work to your attentive perusal. I shall eagerly, too, avail myself of
his permission to make frequent use of it, as I know of no book which
so well supplies the necessary details to parts of the subject of
which Mr. Blackstone has given only loose and unprofitable sketches.
It is to be lamented that in doing this he has so strictly bound
himself to the arrangement of that writer. That arrangement, as I have
remarked, imposed on Mr. Blackstone the necessity of being
occasionally loose and superficial. For want of one more strictly
logical, the Virginia Commentator often finds it impossible to go into
the necessary detail, without anticipating matters which properly
belong to subsequent parts of his treatise; and too often, where this
is impracticable, topics and terms are introduced, the explanation of
which is, perhaps, deferred to the next volume.

An instance will illustrate my meaning:--Mr. Blackstone classes
remedies for private wrongs, thus: "first, that which is obtained by
the _mere act_ of the parties themselves; secondly, that which is
effected by the _mere act_ and operation of _law_; and thirdly, that
which arises from _suit_ or _action_ in courts." Now, it probably
occurred to him, that he could not go into details on the two first of
these three heads, without presenting ideas which would be
unintelligible to any who had not already studied the third. In
striving to avoid this, he has touched so lightly upon the other two,
that his remarks on the important subjects of distress and accords,
which come under the first head, leave the {150} student nearly as
ignorant as they found him. For this there was no real necessity, as a
knowledge of the two first heads is by no means necessary, or indeed
at all conducive to the right understanding of the third. Had the
pride of philosophical analysis, and symmetry of arrangement, been
sacrificed to the laws of logic and reason, there was nothing to
forbid the introduction of treatises on these important topics, as
copious and elaborate as those supplied by the diligence and research
of the Virginia Commentator. The manner in which this has been done,
has made it manifest how unfavorable the arrangement of Mr. Blackstone
sometimes is to amplification and minuteness. The essays of the
President of the Court of Appeals on distresses and accords, leave
nothing to be desired. Yet no one can read them profitably without
having first studied the law of remedies by suit or action.

These, and some other instances of the same sort, have led me to this
determination. Wishing to avail myself of the labors of the Virginia
Commentator, without losing the benefit of Mr. Blackstone's analysis,
I propose to preserve the latter, but to make occasional changes in
his arrangement, substituting one more logical, though perhaps less
philosophical. This, and the postponement of the study of political
law, are the only liberties I propose to take. The fourth division,
which relates to crimes and punishments, will be the last considered.
This will be done not only in a spirit of conformity to Mr.
Blackstone's plan, but also because one of the most important branches
of criminal law has reference to an offence of which no just idea can
be formed without a previous and diligent study of the Constitution
and of the science of government.

This last mentioned subject, young gentlemen, I should perhaps pass
over but lightly, were I free to do so, contenting myself with a
passing allusion to its connexion with the study of the law, and the
encouragement you should derive from the honorable rewards that await
distinguished merit in our profession. But this is not a mere school
of professional education, and it is made my duty, by the statutes of
the College, to lecture especially on the constitution of this state
and of the United States. In the discharge of this duty it may be
necessary to present views more important to the statesman, than to
the mere practitioner. When I think of the difficulty and high
responsibility attending this part of my task, I would gladly escape
from it; but considerations of its importance and of the benefit to
the best interests of our country which has heretofore resulted from
its faithful execution, come in aid of a sense of duty, and determine
me to meet it firmly and perform it zealously.

The mind of the student of law is the ground in which correct
constitutional opinions and sound maxims of political law should be
implanted. The study of the common law involves the study of all the
rights which belong to man in a state of society. The history of the
common law is a history of the occasional invasions of these rights,
of the struggles in which such invasions have been repelled, and of
the securities provided to guard against their recurrence. A mind
thoroughly acquainted with the nature and importance of the writ of
_habeas corpus_, and the trial by jury, and rightly understanding the
indestructible character of the right of private property, will hardly
fail to be awake to any attack which may be aimed at liberty from any
quarter. Hence liberty finds in the students of the law a sort of body
guard. Their professional apprenticeship serves as a civil polytechnic
school, where they are taught the use of weapons to be wielded in her
defence. The history of our country from the first dawning of the
revolution is full of proofs and examples of this. The clear view of
the rights of the colonies which led to the Declaration of
Independence, was one which hardly any but lawyers could have taken,
and of the accuracy of which none but lawyers could have been sure. It
was from them the ball of the revolution received its first impulse,
and under their guidance it was conducted to the goal. Some few others
were placed forward by circumstances; but they soon fell back, or
found their proper place of service in the field; leaving the great
cause to be managed by those whose studies qualified them to know
where to insist, and where to concede; when to ward, and when to
strike. The state papers emanating from the first congress will,
accordingly, be found worthy to be compared with the ablest
productions of the kind recorded in history; displaying an ability,
temper, and address, which prepares the reader to be told that a large
majority of the members of that body were lawyers.

In Mr. Blackstone's introductory lecture are some remarks on the
importance of the study of the law to English gentlemen, strictly
applicable to this view of the subject. "It is," says he, "perfectly
amazing, that there should be no other state of life, no other
occupation, art, or science, in which some method of instruction is
not looked upon as necessary, except only the science of legislation,
the noblest and most difficult of any. Apprenticeships are held
necessary to almost every art, commercial or mechanical: a long course
of reading and study must form the divine, the physician, and the
practical professor of the laws: but every man of superior fortune
thinks himself _born_ a legislator. Yet Tully was of a different
opinion: 'it is necessary,' says he, 'for a senator to be thoroughly
acquainted with the constitution; and this,' he declares, 'is a
knowledge of the most extensive nature; a matter of science, of
diligence, of reflection; without which no senator can possibly be fit
for his office.'"

If the part in the government allotted to the people of England
renders this admonition {151} important to them, how much more
important must it be to us, who are in theory and in fact _our own
rulers_. Not only is every office accessible to each one of us; but
each, even in private life, as soon as he puts on manhood, assumes a
"place in the commonwealth." In practice, as in theory, the
SOVEREIGNTY OF THE STATE is in us. _Born to the purple_, the duties of
that high destiny attach upon us at our birth; and unless we qualify
ourselves to discharge them, we must cease to reproach the ignorance
and folly, the passion and presumption, which so often disgrace the
sovereigns of the old world, and heap wretchedness and ruin on their
subjects. The same causes will have the like effects here as there.
Power does not imply wisdom or justice, whether in the hands of the
few or the many: and it is only by the diligent study of our duties in
this important station that we can qualify ourselves so to administer
its functions, as to save the free institutions inherited from our
fathers, from the same reproach which the testimony of history fixes
upon all other governments.

Not only is this true in reference to us as well as to the kings of
the earth, but it is more emphatically true of us than of them.
Whatever be their theory of sovereignty, and however they may prate
about _divine right_, they all know, and feel, that, after all, they
are but _kings by sufferance_. They may talk of absolute sovereignty,
and claim for government that sort of _omnipotence_ which is said to
reside in the British parliament. But, after all, they know and feel,
that there is much they cannot do, because there is much they dare not
do. The course of events now passing in England is full of proof of
this. We have just seen that same omnipotent parliament, new-modelling
itself to suit the wishes of the people. This act indeed, was itself
an exertion of this pretended omnipotence, but wisely and discreetly
exercised, in surrendering power. It was certainly done with a very
bad grace; and at this moment we see that body anxiously watching the
temper of the multitude, and adapting its measures, not to the views
of its members, not even to the views of the constituent body, but to
the real or supposed interests of the great unrepresented mass. Such
is the check, which in spite of all positive institutions, the
physical force of numbers, however degraded, and, professedly,
disregarded, must exercise over their rulers; and in this check, they
find a motive to justice, forbearance, and circumspection, which, in a
measure, restrains the abuse of power.

But may not we, the sovereign citizens of these states, abuse power
too? When men are numerous and "strong enough to set their duties at
defiance, do they cease to be duties any longer?" Does that which
would be unjust as the act of ninety-nine, become just, as being the
act of an hundred? Is it in the power of numbers to alter the nature
of things, and to justify oppression, though it should fall on the
head of only one victim? It would be easy to point to instances in
which we all believe that majorities have done great wrong; and that
under such wrongs we have suffered and are still suffering we all
know. But where is the check on such abuse of power? Constitutional
authority and physical force are both on the same side, and if the
_wisdom_ and _justice_ of those who wield both does not freely afford
redress, there arc no means of enforcing it. "There is no sanction to
any contract against the will of prevalent power."

The justice of these ideas is recognized in the forms of all our
governments. The limitations on the powers of congress and the state
legislatures, are all predicated on the certain truth "that majorities
may find or imagine an interest in doing wrong." Hence there are many
things which cannot be lawfully done by a bare majority; and many
more, which no majority, however great, is authorised to do.
Two-thirds of the senate must concur in a sentence of impeachment. The
life and property of an individual cannot be taken away but by the
unanimous voice of his triers; and all the branches of all our
governments collectively cannot lawfully enact a bill of attainder, or
an _ex post facto_ statute.

But though such acts are forbidden by the constitution, they may
nevertheless be passed, and judges may be found to enforce them, if
those holding legislative and judicial offices shall be so minded. The
constituents, too, of a majority of the legislature may approve and
demand such acts. Where then is the security that such things will not
be done? Where can it be but in the enlightened sense of justice and
right in the constituent body?

I am not sure that such restraints on the powers of public
functionaries are not even more necessary in a republican government
than in any other. A king can scarcely have a personal interest in
ruining one portion of his dominions for the benefit of the rest, and
he would not dare to ruin the whole, while a spark of intelligence and
spirit remained among the people. But in a republic, whenever the
inclination and the power to do such a wrong concur, the very nature
of the case secures the rulers from all fear of personal consequences.
The majority is with them. Their own constituents are with them. To
these is their first duty; and shall they hesitate to do that which is
to benefit their constituents, out of tenderness to those who are not
their constituents? We know how such questions are answered, when the
occasion is one where a _fixed majority_ have a _fixed interest_ in
the proposed wrong. Is not this the reason why legislative
encroachment so much disposes men to acquiesce in executive
usurpation? Is it not this, which, when the barriers of constitutional
restraint are seen to fall, drives minorities, _as by a sort of {152}
fatal instinct_, to seek shelter under the arm of a _common master_,
from the all pervading tyranny of majorities exercising the power of
_universal legislation_? The wrongs of America were the act of the
parliament of England, goaded on by the people. It was they who
claimed a right to legislate in all things for the colonies. It was
they who demanded a revenue from America; and the colonies, eagerly
looking to the crown for protection, maintained an unshaken loyalty,
until the king was seen to take part with their oppressors. The wrongs
of Ireland are the act of the people of England. Ireland is the rival
of England in agriculture, manufactures and commerce; and every
concession to the former, seems to the multitude to be something taken
from the prosperity of the latter. But the representation of Ireland
in parliament is to that of England as one to five; and when the Irish
people cry to parliament for redress, they are answered _as all
appeals from minorities are answered by the representatives of
majorities_. But how would they be answered if the representative and
constituent bodies were both thoroughly instructed in the sacred
character and paramount authority and importance of the _duties_ which
belong to the high function of sovereignty? We justly deny and deride
the divine right of kings; and we assert and maintain _the divine
right of the people to self government_. And it is a divine right. It
is a corollary from the right and duty to fulfil the purposes of our
being, which accompany each one of us into the world. The right and
the duty both come from the author of that being. He imposes the one
when he gives the other, and thus fixes on us a responsibility which
clings to us through life. We deceive ourselves if we think to get rid
of any portion of this responsibility by entering into partnership
with others, each one of whom brings into the concern the same rights,
the same duties, and the same responsibilities;--neither more nor less
than ourselves. We do but multiply, and divide again by the same
number. Each receives, by way of dividend, the same amount of right,
duty, and responsibility that he carried into the common stock. Of so
high a nature are these, and so vast are the interests with which they
are connected, that it has been truly said, that, whether we mount the
hustings or go to the polls, we may well tremble to give or to receive
the power which is there conferred.

Gentlemen; if these ideas be just, how important is the duty imposed
on me by that statute of the college which requires me to lecture on
constitutional law! How desirable is it that there should be every
where schools, in which the youth of our country should be thoroughly
imbued with correct opinions and just sentiments on this subject! It
was Agesilaus, I think, who said that "the business of education was
to prepare the boy for the duties of the man." How pre-eminently
important, then, must be that branch of education which is to qualify
him to perform this highest of all social duties, and to bear worthily
his part in that relation which has been characterized as "a
partnership in all science, in all art, in every virtue, and in all
perfection; a partnership, not only between those who are living, but
between those who are living, those who are dead, and those who are
yet to be born."

These striking words, which are from the pen of the celebrated Edmund
Burke, call to mind the high testimony which he has borne in favor of
the study of the law, as a school of political rights. After having
acted an important part in procuring the repeal of the stamp act, he
made his last effort in favor of the rights of the colonies, in March,
1775. On that occasion, laboring to dissuade the British parliament
from pushing America to extremities, he descanted on the love of
freedom, which he pronounced to be the predominating feature in the
character of our fathers. The prevalence of this passion he ascribed
to a variety of causes, none more powerful than the number of lawyers,
and the familiarity of the people with the principles of the common
law. His ideas I will give you in his own words, for it is only in his
own words that his ideas ever can be fittingly expressed.

He says, "In no country perhaps in the world is the law so general a
study. The profession itself is numerous and powerful; and in most
provinces it takes the lead. The greater number of the deputies sent
to the congress were lawyers. But all who read, and most do read,
endeavor to obtain some smattering in that science.... This study
renders men _acute_, _inquisitive_, _dexterous_, _prompt in attack_,
_ready in defence_, _full of resources_. In other countries, the
people, more simple, and of a less mercurial cast, judge of an ill
principle in government only by an actual grievance; _here they
anticipate the evil, and judge of the pressure of the grievance by the
badness of the principle. They augur misgovernment at a distance, and
snuff the approach of tyranny in every tainted breeze._"

Such, young gentlemen, is the important and useful influence which the
study of our profession enables its members to exert. But if, instead
of preparing their minds by this study, the very men to whom the
people look up for light, do but provide themselves with a few set
phrases contrived to flatter and cajole them, what but evil can come
of it?

"The people can do no wrong." Why! this if but what all sovereigns
hear from their flatterers. In one sense, it is indeed true of both,
for there is no human tribunal before which either king or people can
be arraigned. But neither can make right and wrong change places and
natures.

"_Vox populi, vox Dei._" "It is the voice of God." {153} So said the
Jews of the impious Herod. But the judgments of the insulted Deity
showed how mere a worm he was; and _his_ judgments are not limited to
kings, nor withheld by numbers. We may preserve all the outward forms
of freedom, the checks and balances of the constitution may remain to
all appearance undisturbed, and yet he who can "curse our blessings"
may give us over to all the evils of despotism, if we do not "lay to
heart" the high duties of that freedom wherewith he has made us free.

I am sensible, young gentlemen, that, to many, these ideas will not be
acceptable. And for an obvious reason. "Men like well enough," it is
said, "to hear of their power, but have an extreme disrelish to be
told of their duties." Yet in a government of equal rights, these are
strictly correlative. The rights of each individual are the exact
measure of the duties which others owe to him, and of coarse, of those
he owes to others. This is so obviously true, that it needs but be
stated, to be recognized at once as a man recognizes his face in the
glass. But _he_ "goeth his way, and straightway forgetteth what manner
of man he was." Let not us do likewise.

But there is another reason why many will hear with impatience of the
difficulties attendant on the proper discharge of duties, which are
too often made the low sport of a holiday revel. None can deny the
truth and justice of the remarks already quoted from Mr. Blackstone;
but few, I fear, are willing to bring them home, and to acknowledge
the necessity of such severe preparation to qualify themselves to
exercise the franchises of a citizen. Let me hope, young gentlemen,
that you will view the matter in a different light, and go to your
task with the more cheerfulness, from the assurance that you will thus
be qualified to derive a blessing to yourselves and to your country,
from the discreet and conscientious exercise of a privilege, which
others, from a want of correct information and just sentiments, so
often pervert to the injury of both.

Before I conclude, give me leave to offer a few remarks on a subject
in which every member of the faculty has an equal and common interest.
If there be any thing by which the University of William and Mary has
been advantageously distinguished, it is the liberal and magnanimous
character of its discipline. It has been the study of its professors
to cultivate at the same time, the intellect, the principles, and the
deportment of the student, laboring with equal diligence to infuse the
spirit of the scholar and the spirit of the gentleman. He comes to us
as a gentleman. As such we receive and treat him, and resolutely
refuse to know him in any other character. He is not harassed with
petty regulations; he is not insulted and annoyed by impertinent
_surveillance_. Spies and informers have no countenance among us. We
receive no accusation but from the conscience of the accused. His
honor is the only witness to which we appeal; and should he be even
capable of prevarication or falsehood, we admit no proof of the fact.
But I beg you to observe, that in this cautious and forbearing spirit
of our legislation, you have not only proof that we have no
disposition to harass you with unreasonable requirements; but a pledge
that such regulations as we have found it necessary to make, _will be
enforced_. If we did not mean to execute our laws, it might do little
harm to have them minute and much in detail on paper. It is because we
_do_ mean to enforce them that we are cautious to require nothing
which may not be exacted without tyranny or oppression, without
degrading ourselves or dishonoring you.

The effect of this system, in inspiring a high and scrupulous sense of
honor, and a scorn of all disingenuous artifice, has been ascertained
by long experience, and redounds to the praise of its authors. That it
has not secured a regular discharge of all academical duties, or
prevented the disorders which characterize the wildness of youth, is
known and lamented. But we believe and know, that he who cannot be
held to his duty, but by base and slavish motives, can never do honor
to his instructers; while we are equally sure that such a system as
keeps up a sense of responsibility to society at large, is most
conducive to high excellence. We think it right, therefore, to adapt
our discipline to those from whom excellence may be expected, rather
than to those from whom mediocrity may barely be hoped. Such a system
is valuable too, as forming a sort of middle term between the
restraints of pupilage and the perfect freedom and independence of
manhood. Experience shows that there is a time of life, when the new
born spirit of independence, and the prurience of incipient manhood
will not be repressed. They will break out in the _airs_ or in the
_graces_ of manhood. Between these we have to choose. The youth of
eighteen treated as a _boy_, exhibits the _former_. Treated as a
_man_, he lays aside these forever, and displays the _latter_. This
system is thus believed to afford the best security against such
offences as stain the name of the perpetrator. Of such our records
bear no trace; nor is there, perhaps, a single individual of all who
have matriculated here, that would blush to meet any of his old
associates in this school of honor.

May we not hope then, young gentlemen, when so much is trusted to your
magnanimity, that the dependence will not fail us? May we not hope,
when we are seen anxious to make our relation, not only a source of
profit, but of satisfaction to you, that you will not wantonly make it
a source of uneasiness and vexation to us? I persuade myself that you,
at least, commence your studies with such dispositions as we desire.
If this be so, there {154} is one short rule by which you may surely
carry them into effect. "_Give diligent attention to your studies._"
This is the best security against all unpleasant collision with your
teachers, and against that weariness of spirit which seeks relief in
excess or mischief. It carries with it the present happiness, which
arises from a consciousness of well doing; it supplies that knowledge
which encourages to farther researches, and renders study a pleasure;
it establishes habits of application, the value of which will be felt
in all the future business of life; and lays the foundation of that
intellectual superiority by which you hope to prosper in the world,
and to be distinguished from the ignoble multitude who live but to die
and be forgotten.

_Williamsburg, October 27, 1834_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE MARCH OF MIND.

"_Tempora Mutantur._"


The present is emphatically the age of useful invention and scientific
discovery; and it is the peculiar good fortune of the present
generation, that the indefatigable labors of a few gigantic minds have
opened to it new and expanded sources of enjoyment, by the development
of principles which have long eluded the grasp of philosophy, and by
their practical application to the most ordinary affairs of life. Men
are not now bewildered by the imposing mysteries in which scientific
truth has been so long enveloped; nor are they deterred from a bold
investigation into the solidity of theories and hypotheses, by the
studied ambiguity of phrase in which the votaries of learning have
veiled them. They have learned properly to appreciate the fallacy of
those abstruse speculations and metaphysical researches, into which so
many thousands, in pursuit of some vain chimera, have been
inextricably involved--and have erected the standard of _utility_ as
that alone by which all the lucubrations of moonstruck enthusiasts,
and all the experiments of visionary projectors are to be rigidly
scanned and tested. The practical benefits which have resulted from
the rapid march of mind, are to be seen in the application of steam to
the propulsion of boats, and in the innumerable rail roads, canals,
and other stupendous improvements, which have developed the resources
of this extensive country, and multiplied the blessings so bounteously
bestowed upon it by providence. But in the first glow of astonishment
and exultation which these have excited in the minds of men, numerous
beneficial changes of minor importance have followed the march of
intellect, which from their comparative insignificance, have almost
escaped observation.

Formerly, the professors of the complex sciences of law, medicine, and
divinity, were regarded as exalted by their attainments, to an
immeasurable height of superiority over the mass of mankind, because
they shrouded the truths and principles of science from the vulgar
eye, by a veil of unintelligible jargon and grandiloquent
technicalities, entirely above the ordinary powers of comprehension.
Years of laborious and incessant toil were requisite to master the
hidden complexities of those venerated and "time-honored" professions;
and he, who with martyr-like resolution and unwearied perseverance,
devoted his time and talents to their attainment, was regarded by the
"_vulgus ignobile_" with sentiments of respect and admiration, nearly
approaching to the idolatrous reverence of a Hindoo, for the fabled
virtues of his bloody Juggernaut. But the illusion has at last been
dispelled by the refulgent light of truth, and those illustrious
individuals, the Luthers of the age, who have stripped these hoary
errors of the veil which concealed their enormity, may with merited
exultation and triumph exclaim, "_Nous avons changé toute cela!_" The
art of economising time has been simplified, and subjected to the
grasp of the most obtuse intellect; so that a science which formerly
required years of intense and unremitted study, united with long
experience and observation, is now thoroughly understood and mastered
in a fortnight! So rapid indeed has been the march of intellect,
sweeping from its path obstacles heretofore deemed insurmountable, and
scaling the most impregnable fortifications of philosophy, with a
force no less astonishing than irresistible, that many of our most
profound adepts in the "glorious science" of the law, are (_mirabile
dictu!_) at once initiated into all its mysteries by a single perusal
of "Blackstone's Commentaries" and the "Revised Code!" instead of
toiling his way up the steep ascent of fame by consuming the midnight
oil, by exploring the dark and forbidding chambers of the temple of
law, dragging forth truth from the musty volumes of antiquity, and
searching the origin of long established principles. Among the feudal
customs of our Saxon progenitors, a man may now become "like Mansfield
wise, and Old Forster just," by one month's attendance at the bar of a
county court! At the expiration of that period, he can rivet an
admiring audience in fixed attention, by the strains of Demosthenian
eloquence, in which he asks if "the court will hear a motion on a
delivery bond?" And will astound some illiterate ignoramus, by the
consequential pomposity with which he prates of "contingent
remainders," "executory devises," and all the labyrinthian subtleties
of nisi prius! No one will then contest his right to perambulate the
streets, with all the ostentatious dignity of a man "learned in the
law," and to parade before the eyes of the admiring rabble, his
colored bag of most formidable dimensions,--albeit, it may be filled
with cheese and crackers to stay his stomach in the intervals of
business.

But the inappreciable benefits which the "March of Intellect" has
showered upon mankind, are easily discovered by referring to the
stupendous revolutions it has achieved, not only in the science of law
but in divinity, medicine, education, manners, and morals. Men do not
now venerate the ancient fathers of the church for the profound
erudition and wonderful acquirements displayed in those ponderous
tomes which now and then greet the eyes of the bibliopole, exciting
the same degree of astonishment as the appearance of a comet
illumining the immensity of space with its brilliant scintillations,
or some _lusus naturæ_ like the Siamese twins. Far from it. Modern
philosophers have discovered the inutility and absurdity of wading
through the voluminous discussions of controversial theologists, and
tracing the origin of some religious dogma or doctrinal schism, which
has for ages furnished these pugnacious wiseacres with food for
inquiry and research. Instead of {155} wasting the time necessarily
consumed in these ridiculous studies, men who formerly might have
dragged out their lives in the vulgar vocation of a tailor, a butcher,
or a hatter, spring forth in a single week armed cap-a-pie to defend
their religion from the unhallowed assaults of infidels, and amply
qualified to expound the sacred texts, and deal out damnation with the
indiscriminate prodigality of a spendthrift, for the first time cursed
with the means of gratifying his extravagant propensities.

Formerly too, the most attentive and patient observation of the
progressive development of the mental faculties of a child were
necessary to enable a parent to adapt his education to the sphere of
life in which nature had destined him to move. Innumerable obstacles
were to be encountered in tutoring his mind to the comprehension of
the profession for which he was intended; and, perhaps, after years of
incessant toil and intense parental anxiety, the young stripling
blasted all the hopes of his kindred, by either becoming the hero of a
racefield or the magnus apollo of a grog shop, or distinguished his
manhood by the puerile follies of youth, or the incurable stupidity of
an idiot. But the "March of Mind" has obviated or removed all these
difficulties, by the discovery of the renowned science of phrenology.
A parent, in this blessed age of intellectual illuminism, may by an
examination of certain craniological protuberances, ascertain with
mathematical exactness, whether his child is a hero or a coward, a
philosopher or a--fool; and may regulate his education in conformity
to the result. The safety and well being of society, too, is thus
encompassed with additional safeguards, which will effectually protect
it from those evils which have heretofore been only partially
suppressed by legislation. If any ill favored monster of the human
species happens to have the organ of destructiveness largely
"developed," (_ut verbum est_) and not counteracted by any antagonist
organ,--all the murders, rapes and thefts which he is morally certain
to perpetrate,--with their attendant train of want, calamity and ruin,
may be at once prevented by hanging the scoundrel in terrorem, as a
kind of scarecrow to all evil doers. A desideratum in political
economy will thus be also attained. The accounts of those
"caterpillars of the commonwealth," clerks, sheriffs, lawyers, _et id
omne genus_, who swarm around the treasury in verification of the old
maxim of Plautus, "_ubi mel, ibi apes_,"--(Anglice--Where there is
money, _there_ are lawyers,) are balanced without the payment of a
cent; for it is obvious that there is no necessity for all the tedious
formalities of a trial at law, the guilt of the murderer being already
ascertained and summarily punished by this _preventive_ justice, and
the commonwealth of course exempted from the expense of a prosecution.

It would require a volume to enumerate all the advantages which have
resulted from the discovery of this science. But even these are about
to be quadrupled by the successful experiments recently made in the
immortal and euphoniously titled science of phrenodontology, by which
a man's _grinders_ are regarded as the unerring indices of his habits,
manners and propensities; and should these last be of an evil nature,
they can be entirely eradicated by the extraction of such of the
_incissores_ as indicate their existence. There is no necessity
whatever of inculcating self denial, regular habits, fortitude and
virtue, to correct the depravity and vice of any individual. Only
knock out his teeth, (or as that method is somewhat too summary,) have
them extracted _secundum artem_ by a dentist, and you instantly
metamorphose him into a paragon of moral purity!

But one of the principal benefits of the "March of Mind," is the
salutary reformation effected in the opinions of mankind, in relation
to numerous important subjects. All those low and grovelling ideas
which once tenanted the crania of our honest yeomanry as to the
education of their children, have now evaporated into thin air.
Instead of tying their sons to a vulgar plough, bronzing their visages
to the complexion of an Indian, as was formerly the absurd practice,
they are now transplanted into the genial hothouse of a town life,
where they are soon installed in all the fashionable paraphernalia of
tights, dickey, and safety chain; and astonish their honest old dads
by the dexterity with which they flourish a yardstick, and by the
surprising volubility with which they can chatter nonsense, _a la mode
du bon ton_. I have often been enraptured with the incontrovertible
evidence of the "March of Mind," when I saw one of these praiseworthy
youngsters, with his crural appendages, cased in a pair of eelskin
inexpressibles, and his nasal adjunct inflamed to that rubicund
complexion which Shakspeare has immortalized in the jovial Bardolph,
quiz a country greenhorn, and _cul_, in the genuine Brummel style,
some vulgar, lowborn, mechanic acquaintance, who insolently aspired to
the honor of a nod! The improvement too, in the education of our young
ladies, is "confirmation strong as proof of holy writ," of the rapid
and resistless march of science and intellect. With a precocity of
talent which would have absolutely dumbfoundered a belle of the olden
time, they now arrive at full maturity at the age of thirteen; when

  "My dukedom to a beggarly denier,"

they can out-manoeuvre the most consummate coquette of fifty! They
perfect their education with almost the rapidity of light; and prattle
most bewitchingly in French or Italian, before their pretty mouths
have been sullied by their vulgar vernacular. The odious and
despicable practice of knitting stockings and baking pies, fit only
for a race of Goths in an age of Vandalism, has been inscribed with
"_Ilium fuit_," and is now patronised only by the rustic _canaille_,
who still adhere to the horrid custom of rising at the dawn of day and
attending to household business. Their proficiency too, in the science
of diacousticks, or the doctrine of sounds, is truly amazing--and the
whole _posse comitatus_ of foreign fiddlers, jugglers, and mountebanks
who kindly condescend to instruct them in music, (as they facetiously
term it) are often thrown into raptures by the ease with which they
produce every variety of noise on a piano, from the deafening roar of
a northwester to the objurgatory grunt of a Virginia porker,
unceremoniously ousted from his luxurious ottoman of mud!

But, as Byron says, greater "than this, than these, than all," are the
wonderful phenomena which have occurred in the science of medicine.
The physicians of modern times, have snatched the imperishable laurels
from the brows of Galen and Hippocrates, and have compelled Old
Esculapius himself, to "hide his {156} diminished head!" It had long
been a source of the most poignant regret to the philanthropic
observer of the ills and afflictions incident to human nature, that
the benign system of medical jurisprudence, designed originally for
the alleviation of human suffering, had been so dilatory and uncertain
in its operation, and so fatally ill adapted to the eradication of
numerous diseases from the human frame, as to effect only a partial
accomplishment of its beneficent purpose. This radical disadvantage in
that system of medical science, might reasonably have been attributed
to the want of a proper firmness and adventurous temerity in its
practitioners;--probably, also, it might have resulted from their
lamentable ignorance of the structure and conformation of the human
frame. This system, as was to have been expected, had met with
numerous advocates, principally in consequence of their perfect
personal indemnity from the frequently fatal result of their ignorance
or mismanagement; it being well known that under this system a
practitioner might, if he so chose, administer a deadly poison to his
patient, who would naturally "shuffle off this mortal coil," while his
afflicted relatives would piously attribute his decease to a
dispensation of Providence; and the physician, composedly pocketing
his fees, would have the satisfaction of seeing himself eulogised in
his patient's obituary, as a man of "science and skill." It is obvious
that under this system the patient's life was but

  "A vapour eddying in the whirl of chance,"

and the distressing frequency with which we were called on to attend
the remains of a fellow being to the gloomy prisons of the dead,
imperatively demanded a radical and extensive reform.

But fortunately for the human species, the "March of Mind" has led to
medical discoveries which have chained up the monster Death in
impotence, and rendered him a plaything to "the faculty." The long and
pompous pageants of M. D.'s diplomas, &c &c. have ceased to overawe
the eager aspirant for medical celebrity, and he now steps forward in
the path of fame at the age of nineteen, _maximus in magnis_, greatest
among the great! Diseases that formerly baffled the utmost skill of
science, and preyed upon their victims for years, are now thoroughly
extirpated in an hour! The long catalogue of noxious medicines with
which the pharmacopia was crammed, and which served no other purpose
than to swell

  "The beggarly account of empty boxes,"

which the shelves of a rascally apothecary presented to view, are now
discarded; and their places are supplied by medicines so simple and so
efficacious, that the value of life, once considered so inestimable,
has actually undergone a considerable diminution, merely because of
the ease with which it may be enjoyed. It is now no longer necessary
to watch the various diagnostics of an obdurate disease through their
origin and development; it is no longer important that the unfortunate
patient should be bolstered up in bed for months, and his stomach
annihilated by a nauseous diet of mush and water gruel. This was but
the quackery of the rapacious cormorants, who grew rich upon the
credulity of their dupes. The patient may be on his feet in half an
hour, by the salutary operation of some harmless medicine, which
produces no other evil effect than a remarkable elongation of the
visage, and divers contortions of the abdominal viscera! Instead of
first ascertaining to what extent the body of the patient has been
debilitated by the ravages of his disorder, it is only requisite to
refer to a mystical talisman, vulgarly called a _teetotum_, which
entirely supersedes the necessity of thought or reflection; and whose
final position, after performing sundry gyrations on its point,
informs the practitioner with unerring certainty, whether his patient
should be _puked, sweated, or blistered!_ The result is certain. The
most complicated case of pulmonary consumption is instantly and
thoroughly cured by _steam_; and an obstinate fever, produced by a
superabundance of bile upon the stomach, is effectually extirpated by
an injection of _cayenne pepper!_ As revolutions never retrograde,
these important changes in medical jurisprudence will only terminate
in the actual resuscitation of a dead body, by an external application
of camphorated salts! a "consummation devoutly to be wished," and most
certain to be effected, by the rejection of all mineral
medicines,--which the "March of Mind" has demonstrated to be
hurtful,--and the substitution in their stead of a few simple
vegetable remedies, accurately arranged, classified, and _numbered!_

But enough. No man can reflect upon these things, without applying, as
I do, the trite quotation, "_tempora mutantur_," &c. Although it has
been used for the ten thousandth time, by the whole tribe of newspaper
scribblers and juvenile poetasters, yet it has never been more
_apropos_. Times _are_ changed; and "oh, _how_ changed!" What mind
does not expand at the delightful contemplation of these grand
revolutions; and who does not look forward with eagerness to the
memorable era when all the vulgar _bourgeois_ qualities of common
sense, common decency, and common virtue, will fade into nothingness
before the resistless and all powerful "March of Mind!"

V.

_Lynchburg, Oct. 30, 1834_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE VILLAGE ON FOURTH JULY 183--.

A TALE.

  Ergo agite, et lætum cuncti celebremus honorem.--_Virgil_.

  Risum teneatis amici?--_Horace_.


I do not know that the celebration of a Fourth of July in a country
village has ever been thought worthy of appearing in print; nor do I
know that a tale, founded on such a celebration, has ever been
written; and I doubt whether the fancy of any of our geniuses has ever
pictured such a subject, either with the pen or pencil. Many of your
readers will perhaps be amazed at the thought of such a subject for a
tale; but permit me to ask, why not a tale of the Fourth of July as
well as any other? Is it because the hearts of a free people,
rejoicing on the anniversary of the day which gave them liberty, throb
in harmony, and therefore can afford neither novelty nor variety?
Granted. But are there not various modes of manifesting, more or less
appropriately, the inward emotions of our hearts? Are not our ideas
dissimilar as to the manner of exhibiting our feelings, according to
our various means, situations and vocations in life--high or low--in
cities, towns and country? Then wherefore not? We have read of tales
of wo, and tales of bliss, and tales of neither; and, this being the
case, I am imboldened to this undertaking, {157} leaving to the better
judgment of the reader to assign it to whichever class it properly
belongs.

       *       *       *       *       *

At the foot of a slope, and on the right of a stream compressed
between two abrupt and craggy hills, covered with oaks and pines,
stands a small village, remarkable only for the rude and romantic
scenery which surrounds it. Access to it from the left side of the
stream can only be gained by a rocky, rugged and declivous road, the
greater part of which seems to have been either blasted or hewed out
of the side of a hill, around which it winds at a considerable height
above the water--and, at its termination is a neat frame bridge, which
when crossed admits you into the village. This stream bounds a
conterminous portion of two counties bordering upon the Potomac, into
which it empties itself at about five miles below the village, where
the influx and reflux of the tides are felt. Although there is
considerable depth of water at the village sufficient to float vessels
of a large size, yet the clayey alluvion brought down by the stream,
and reacted upon by the river at their junction, becomes a deposite
which forms a kind of bar, over which none but small crafts can pass.
The number of inhabitants may be estimated at from two to three
hundred, the greater part of whom are attached to a cotton factory but
recently erected, and the remainder, with the exception of a few
families of consideration, are more or less connected with the country
and merchant mills, established many years since, from which the
village has its origin and perhaps its name.

The beating of a drum, and the shrill and false tones of a fife, at
dawn of day, betokened to the villagers who still reposed upon their
pillows, that the glorious birthday of independence was likely not to
be passed unobserved, as hitherto it had been. This novel, and, in
effect, startling ushering of the day, soon brought them upon their
feet, and ere the sun had peered over the eastern, or crested the
brows of the western, mounts, the streets, such as they are, had
become quite enlivened. Most of the villagers had never heard the
sounds of martial music, and the greater number of those who had, were
indebted to the troops that had passed through the village during the
late war. Those who had never seen nor heard the sounds of a drum and
fife, disclosed their amazement by their gazing eyes and mouths agape.
To a looker on, the performers could not but be remarkable. A
European, tall, erect, lank, and already tippled, thumped away upon a
drum, the vellum of the nether end of which was rent,--followed by a
stout, awry necked, crumped backed and limping African, as _fifer_--a
contrast at once striking and ludicrous, hobbled along, most earnestly
occupied with their _reveille_, heedless of the gaze of the
wonderstruck multitude--the din of their music echoing and
reverberating from the surrounding hills. The _drummer_ had been such
in the United States Marines, and had but recently quitted the
service--and though not sober, his performance was far from being bad.
The _fifer_ had served in that capacity during the revolutionary war.
His finger, stiff from long disuse of the instrument, which he had
preserved with religious care since that epoch, did not allow him to
give but an imperfect specimen of his store of marches and quicksteps
in vogue at that time, and his recollection of them was scarcely
better; the tunes of the present times he knew nothing about. The drum
used upon this occasion had been _put hors de combat_ during the late
war, as the troops passed through the village. This, together with the
hallowed fife and veteran _fifer_, in connection with the day, did not
fail to give rise to associations eminently calculated to excite
enthusiasm.

It appears that the celebration of the day had originated with, and
was suggested by, an honest son and follower of St. Crispin, (who had
lived in a city and had acquired some knowledge of _l'art militaire_,)
whose ambition to command a corps had led him to the most
indefatigable exertion to inspire the villagers with the spirit of
_amor patriæ_, and success having crowned his exertion, application
had been made for commissions as well as for arms, in order to
organize themselves in time for a parade on the approaching festival.
In this however they were disappointed; for they had obtained neither
when the day arrived, and having determined to celebrate it, in spite
of their disappointment they would.

This resolution soon circulated through the adjacent country called
the _forest_--its inhabitants _foresters_, who, anxious to witness the
parade--"_the spree_," as they termed it, came flocking into the
village on foot and horseback, singly and doubly, et cetera, by every
byroad and pathway which led to and terminated there. By meridian the
gathering was so great that the oldest inhabitants declared that such
an influx was not within their recollection. As regards the character
of the _foresters_, men and women, they are an honest, hardy,
industrious and independent people, and on Sundays, high-days and
holydays, cut a very respectable figure in the way of apparel and
ornaments--and for this occasion particularly, no pains had been
spared to make an _eclat_.

In consequence of the disappointment alluded to, every firearm that
could be found was put under requisition, and the entire forenoon was
consumed in collecting and preparing them for use, during which the
music to arms continued without intermission. It was in this interval
that the buzzing of an expected oration was heard, which swelled into
a report, and heightened not a little the pre-existing enthusiasm.

Discharges of guns repeated at irregular intervals on the skirts of
the village, was an indication that the parade was about to commence,
and at a little after twelve o'clock the soldiery made their
appearance. They wore no uniform, but were clad in their best "Sunday
go to meetings;" and in the ranks were many of the foresters who had
joined them--

  "The rustic honors of the scythe and share"

being given up for the time, for the warlike implements then to be
used.

Their arms were of divers descriptions; double barrelled guns, deer
guns, ducking guns, and a blunderbuss, with powderflasks and horns
swung round their shoulders,--and, volunteers in number exceeding
arms, poles were substituted. A cutlass distinguished the captain; a
horsewhip the lieutenant; a cane the second lieutenant. These three,
together with the soldierly appearance of some, the rigidity of
others, the apparent _nonchalance_ of a few, and the deformity of
several, presented a _tout ensemble_ the most grotesque and diverting.

{158} In the midst of this band was a small man, the stiffness of
whose carriage and the peculiarity of whose countenance attracted the
attention of the crowd. His eyes were small--appeared to be black and
twinkling, and were set into the deep recesses of sockets which
projected considerably, and surmounted by dark shaggy brows; his face
was contracted--his features small--and his forehead, though
retreating, was not sufficiently so to denote the entire absence of
the reflective faculty, according to phrenology. In his hand he bore a
scroll, and the dignity which his stiffness was meant to affect, was
reasonably enough imputed to the importance which he attached to the
part he was to act. The scroll was the Declaration of Independence,
which was to be read by him; and from the peculiarly reverential
manner with which it was held in his hand, he seemed to feel that it
was an instrument coeval with the birth of, and coexisting with, a
free and powerful nation, and demanded deference even from the very
touch of his hand. This man was not altogether devoid of talent, for
he had succeeded in earning for himself among the villagers a
reputation of high literary acquirements; and on hearing the report of
an expected oration, (suspicion fixed on him the origin of it,) had
spontaneously proposed to verify it. Of course the proposition was
well received, and dissipated at once any uncertainty. The spot at
which it should be delivered was soon decided upon and
designated--well known--and but a short distance out of the village.
Thither the multitude repaired in advance of the military, who were
not to arrive there until all the necessary arrangements for their
reception had been made. This duty devolved upon a self-constituted
committee of arrangement, who discharged it with all the zeal and
ability which the briefness of the notice would allow.

The locality was well chosen, and seemed to have been designed by
nature for the scene for which it was now appropriated. From the
village and around the foot of the hill, winds a path that leads by an
easy ascent to the summit of another hill, capped by a grove or
cluster of huge pines and oaks, which overshadow a surface clear of
undergrowth and interspersed with rocky prominences. These
prominences, though rough, answered admirably well the purpose of
seats for the auditory, and one of them being flat and overswelling
the rest, was pitched upon as a rostrum from which the orator should
hold forth. On one side of it, which might be called the rear, was
planted a staff, to which was tacked an old bunting American ensign or
flag, pierced with holes, received at the battle of Plattsburg. At the
end of the staff hung a red woollen cap, the symbol of liberty--its
color emblematic of the ardor of its spirit, as explained by the
committee. At the foot of the staff stood a cask of "_old corn_," for
the refreshment and entertainment of the _corps militaire_, in honor
of the day and orator.

The village and country belles and beaux, attired in their gayest
possible manner, by way of regard, were suffered to have precedence in
the selection of places, and the former had possessed themselves of
those crags which might best suit them to the convenient hearing of
the oration. The assembled people were now impatiently awaiting the
arrival of the orator and escort, when they were at length descried
wending their way up hill, at the tune of _Molbrook_, sent forth to
the air from the fife in fragments--and having arrived, the orator was
conducted in form to the rostrum by the committee, which he mounted
with unfaltering steps.

The bustle and buzz incident to the choosing of convenient places amid
the rugged area having subsided, the _coup d'oeil_ presented was well
worthy the pencil and genius of a Hogarth; the pen can convey but a
faint idea. The gay females, elevated upon the asperated crags,
overtopping every other object, seemed to shed lustre and life upon
every thing around. Their attendants or beaux, resting in various
postures at their feet, or lolling against a tree hard by, proved that
the village and sylvan belles command the devotions of the rude sex no
less than those of courts and cities. The boys were perched upon every
oaken bough that overhung the spot that could bear their weight, and
the military and the rest were strewed about thickly and promiscuously
on the ground--sitting, squatting, kneeling; in fine, in every
position indescribable which the human frame is susceptible of when
adapting itself to some particular locality for its comfort.

The speaker being about to commence, many who had kept on their hats
or caps were bid to uncover; the greater number of whom did so
cheerfully; a few reluctantly; and several, more independent and less
tractable, kept on theirs. To have insisted upon this point of decorum
might have been attended with consequences to mar the rejoicing--so
the point was very wisely given up. Silence obtained, nothing was
heard but the rustling of the leaves, through which the breeze that
prevailed passed and refreshed all below. The orator bowed and
addressed his attentive auditory. His voice was clear and audible, and
his words were carefully noted by a chirographer, and are here
inserted.

"Citizens of the village and farmers of the forest!--I will not offer
any excuse for the peramble that I will speak subsequent to the
reading of this _glorious_ document (holding up the scroll) of our
ancestors. The honor with which you have extinguished me this day, by
making me the reader on it, is duly depreciated.

"When you have heared the sentiments contained upon it, you will find
your hearts in trepidation at the conjointure at which your
forefathers dared to put their fists to it.

"While they was employed in this business, the immortal Washington,
called the _frater pater_, because he had a brotherly and fatherly
love for his countrymen, was commanding an army made up of such
soldiers as _you_ are. (Cheers.) It was with the like of you--such
powerful men as you--with such cowrageous souls as yours, that John
Bull was fighting with, running before and falling dead. (Great
cheering.) The great Thomas Jefferson and John Adams was driving the
quill in peace and comfort in Philadelphy, about this grand
production, (stretching forth and unfolding the scroll,) because they
knowed, and all that was there with them knowed too, that such
soldiers as _you_, fighting for liberty, barefoot, bareback and half
starved, just as you are now when you are all at home hard at work,
was unresistible and unvincible. (The deafening and reiterated cheers
interrupted the speaker for a short time.)

"Without you, what would have become to them, and this now free, brave
and happy nation? Shall I tell you? Why they should have all been
hanged or shot, and this nation would have been made up of {159}
slaves. They worked with their heads, and you with your arms; to use a
learned expression, they physically and you bodily: and if it had not
a been for your arms and bodies, they could never--they would never
have dared to do nothing with their heads. You was the strong ramparts
behind which they retrenched themselves to save their necks. (Cheers.)

"Your beloved Washington could work with ither his hand or his arm,
but he showed his wisdom by choosing to work with his arm--that is, by
flourishing the sword instead of driving the pen--by putting himself
at your head in battle--facing the cannons of the enemy, and leading
you to _victory_ or _death!_ (Tremendous cheering.) To make this
plainer still to your understandings, which is very good,--suppose a
man was to abuse you and call you hard names? Why, you would up fist
and knock him down at once, if you could, in course; and if you did
you would be safe enough, and the matter would end. This was
Washington's maxim, and he acted up to it. Now-a-days, amongst them
who drives the quill, when one abuse another, they go to writing, and
when they have lost a heap of time to prove one another in the
wrong--mind you, because they don't want to come up to the sticking
point, they are at last obliged to end the difference by shooting at
one another, or one murdering the other. Now what does it all amount
to in the end? All their writing did no good, and they might as well
have fight it out 'right off the reel' at first--not with pistols and
the like of that, but the arms that God gave them--their fists,
(clenching his fist.) In times of war men fight with firearms and the
like, because they can't come in contact man to man. (Cheers.)

"It was your worthy fathers and the like on 'em, who atchieved the
freedom of your beloved country. Tom Jefferson and Jack Adams wrote
down what they fought about, that you might have it in black and
white--that you might never forget what your forefathers fought for,
and that you might stimulate their actions. This is all that writing
is fit or good for. Many of you don't know A from a bull's foot, but
which amongst you could'nt take up a gun and shoot the crows that
would come to your cornfields to destroy your crops. The British came
here like crows to destroy what was yours, and you shot them down like
crows and drove away the rest.(Cheers.)

"My brave friends! your present conditions is a proof of your being
the ascendants of those naked and half starved warriors. You have
turned out this day to prove to the world that you can depreciate the
yearly anniversary of this fourth of July. You are now enjoying the
blessings which they got for you by their lives, and at the peril of
them who has outlived the revolution. You are now resting at ease, and
listening to me, (for which I am complimented,) but they never rested
at all--they was always on the go; they went through thick and
thin--sunshine and rain--dust and mud--snow and ice--_fire and
sword_--DEATH AND DESTRUCTION, (tremendous cheering,) and made less of
it than you do now, for I can see that some of you is getting mighty
restless. (A shriek from a female at this instant spread consternation
in the assembly, which turned into a simultaneous burst of laughter as
soon as it was discovered she had fallen from a crag, being unable to
endure any longer the pain caused by its asperity.)

"I will not keep you any longer in distraint; but I cannot finish
without saying a few words to the lovely gathering of our fair
countrywomen, which has complemented me this day with their smiles.

"Your sex too, gentle hearers! had a helping hand in this glorious
revolution. Your foremothers was industriously employed at home for
your forefathers, while they was fighting for their country, their
wives and their offstrings. With such lovely being as I see now
gathered around me, this happy country need never fear of being in
want of warriors. (Cheers.) Sweet lasses! may heaven send down upon
you such partners as will make my prophecy come to pass."

The peal of applause which ensued and continued for some minutes, rung
through the woods and welkin, and resounded from hill to hill, until
lost in the distance, after which the orator proceeded to the reading
of the Declaration of Independence. When he had read that part in
these words--"To secure these rights governments are instituted among
men, deriving their just powers from the _consent_ of the _governed_.
That whenever any form of government becomes destructive of these
ends, it is the RIGHT of the PEOPLE to _alter_ or _abolish_ it, and to
institute new governments,"[1] &c. in which his feelings were deeply
enlisted, he concluded the clause by giving vent to them in the
following fervid comments: "_Behold_ Americans!" cried he, "_behold_
the _whole_ of _your_ rights explained. Do you not _see_ the figure
which EVERY _one_ of you cuts?! Out of you _the power_ comes, and
_nothing_ can be done _without_ you. Don't this prove what I said in
my extompere address, '_that their heads cannot work without you_?'"
(Here a voice was heard to cry, "By jingo, Jack, clap on your hat;
ding it, do as I do!")

[Footnote 1: In the extract the words are in italics and small
capitals on which much stress was given by the reader.]

The reading ended, the assemblage broke up and dispersed, leaving the
military to honor the day and orator in the manner already intimated,
during which many national and sentimental toasts were drunk; after
which they returned into the village in the military order they had
left it for the purpose of parading.

Various evolutions were performed; among them occasionally a left
wheeling for a right--a countermarch for a right or left face--keeping
time with right or left foot indifferently. They carried arms either
upon the right or left--trailing, supporting, sloping, advancing--just
as it suited their own whim; in other words, _will_. In vain did their
commander command, threaten or entreat. A volunteer, bolder than the
rest, went so far as to ask the captain, "If he had forgot what they
had heard from the Declaration?" and hinting at his being commander so
long as they willed it. They felt that they were the sovereign people
and only citizen soldiers.

At the order "halt!" they came to a stand, and were drawn out in a
line, facing the stream, for the purpose of firing their _feu de
joie_--an apt simile, by the way, of the state of their minds after
the closing scene of the hill. The orders for execution were simply,
"prime and load--ready--fire!" which was executed with tolerable
precision. Three rounds being fired, they were ordered to "right
face!" in order to file off and resume their march; but few only
obeying the order, some confusion took place in the ranks. "_Right
face!_" again {160} vociferated the captain, whose impatience for
shaking off his brief authority was very apparent. Still the
contumaceous kept their position, declaring that they would not
"_budge_" until they had received the word to fire a fourth round, for
which they had already loaded. A dispute arose between the officers
and men--the former asserting and endeavoring to enforce their
authority--the latter denying and obstinately determined not to move
until they had received the word to discharge their pieces,
considering the reservation of their fire until the order be given a
sufficient evidence of their subordination. The captain finally
yielded, and crying out, "make ready--fire!" the fourth round went
off, and the men filed off without further hesitation; some at a
common time--some at a quickstep--some skipping, and one hopping; the
captain brandishing his cutlass over the _drummer's_ pate for not
"_treading in a straight line_"--the _fifer_ blowing off fractions of
marches and quicksteps, and the lieutenants endeavoring to keep order
in the ranks. In this style they once more marched out of the village,
to partake for the last time of the refreshment at the hill, and crown
the celebration.

The sun was just reclining upon the western mount when they made their
third and final entry into the village, in a march, technically known
as the "rout march," thereby showing that the effect of the "old corn"
was predominating.

The omission of testifying their respect in a military manner to the
chief magistrate of the village during their first parade, had
occurred to them at the hill, and concluding that it had better be
done late than never, they had returned to the village, contrary to
their intention when they had left it, in the manner described, and
drawing up in front of the dwelling of that excellent man, they
commenced and kept up a tremendous firing, shouting and huzzaing until
nightfall, when all who were able dismissed themselves, (their
officers having abandoned them,) leaving many on the ground as it were
_dead_--_pro tempore_.

Thus terminated the village celebration of the anniversary of the day
out of which a great and virtuous nation was ushered into being.
However much our mirth may have been excited by the description given,
yet none will deny that the feeling which actuated them in their
celebration, was the identical feeling that dictates the observance of
the same day throughout the cities of the union--with this difference
only, that _this_ savours of the pomp and circumstances of wealth,
pride and refinement, while _that_ is perfectly in character with
nature,--true, simple and unsophisticated. I will conclude with a
quotation from Boileau.

  "La simplicité plaît sans étude et sans art.
   Tout charme en un enfant dont la langue sans faìd,
   A peine du filet encor débarrassée,
   Sait d'un air innocent bégayer sa pensée.
   Le faux est toujours fade, ennuyeux, languissant:
   Mais la nature est vraie, et d'abord on la sent;
   C'est elle seule en tout qu'on admire et qu'on aime."

T. P.

_Alexandria, November 1834_.




EXTRACT FROM LACON.


Mental pleasures never cloy; unlike those of the body, they are
increased by repetition, approved of by reflection, and strengthened
by enjoyment.




_University of Virginia, Nov. 13th, 1834_.

To the Editor of the Southern Literary Messenger.

SIR--If you think the following verses worthy of an insertion in the
Messenger, you will gratify me by giving them a place. They were
written two or three years ago, by a young lady of this state; and it
certainly never was her intention to publish them, but I am induced to
offer them to the public eye, because I think they are creditable, and
that they will not appear disadvantageously in the Messenger.

R.


TO D----.

    I'll think of thee--I'll think of thee
  In every moment of grief or of glee;
  The memory will come of these fleeting hours,
  Like the scent that is wafted from distant flow'rs;
  Like the faint, sweet echo that lingers on
  When the tones that waken'd it are gone.

    There's many a thought I may not tell,
  Hidden beneath the heart's deep swell;
  There's many a sweet and tender sigh
  Breath'd out when only God is nigh;
  And each familiar thing I see,
  Is blended with the thought of thee.

    Thy form will be miss'd from the social hearth,
  Thy voice from the mingling tones of mirth;
  When the sound of music is poured along--
  When my soul hangs entranced on the poet's song--
  When history points from her glowing page,
  To the deathless deeds of a former age--
  When my eye fills up and my heart beats high,
  I shall look in vain for thine answering eye.

    When the winds are lulled in the quiet sky,
  And the sparkling waters go surging by,
  And the cheering sun invites to walk,
  I shall miss thine arm and thy pleasant talk:
  My rustling step--the leafless tree--
  The very rock will speak of thee.

    I'll think of thee when the sunset dyes
  Are glowing bright in the western skies;
  When the dusky shades of evening's light
  Are melting away into deeper night--
  When the silvery moon looks bright above,
  Raising the tides of human love--
  When the holy stars look bright and far,
  I'll think of thee--my _guiding star!_

    When all save the beating heart is still,
  And the chainless fancy soars at will,
  When it lifts the dark veil from future years,
  And flutters and trembles with hopes and fears,--
  When it turns to retrace the burning past,
  And the blinding tears come thick and fast--
  And oh! when bending the humble knee
  At the throne of God--I will _pray_ for thee!

    And wilt thou sometimes think of me,
  When thy thoughts from this stormy world are free?
  When thou turnest o'erwearied from toil and strife
  The warring passions of busy life,
  May a still, small whispering, speak to thee,
  Like a touch on thy heartstring--Love, think of me.

E.


{161}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

INVOCATION TO RELIGION.


  Come blest Religion, meek-eyed maid,
  In all thy heavenly charms arrayed,
  Descend with healing in thy wing,
  And touch my heart while yet I sing.

  Heaven's own child of simple truth,
  The stay of age, the guide of youth,
  All spotless, pure and undefiled,
  How blest are those on whom you've smiled.

  Oh! come, as thou wert wont, and bless
  The widow and the fatherless--
  Temper the wind to the shorn lamb,
  Pour on the wounded heart thy balm;

  Strew softest flowers, where e're they stray,
  And pluck, oh! pluck the thorns away.
  Come like the good Samaritan,
  Bind up the sick and wounded man;

  Not like the Priest thy love display--
  Just look devout, and turn away.
  Oh! no--the bruised with kindness greet,
  And set the mourner on his feet.

  Teach me with warm affections pure,
  That holy Fountain to adore,
  From whence proceeds or life or thrift--
  The source of every perfect gift:

  Teach me thy fear--thy grace impart,
  And twine thy virtues round my heart;
  With pity's dew suffuse my eye,
  And teach me heavenly charity--

  That blessed love, which will not halt,
  Or stumble at a brother's fault;
  But with affection's tender care,
  Will still pursue the wanderer.

  Oh! teach my heart enough to feel,
  For human woe and human weal.
  Not that mad zeal, which works by force,
  And poisons goodness, at its source;

  But that mild, pure, persuasive love,
  Which thou hast brought us from above.
  Thro' thy fair fields, oh! fatal change,
  Let no distempered _maniac_ range,--

  No frantic bigot spoil thy bowers,
  And blight thy pure and spotless flowers.
  Still, still, thou pure and heavenly dove,
  Still speed thy work of perfect love.

  Pursue the pilgrim on his road,
  And oh! take off his heavy load.
  Peace whisper to the troubled breast,
  And give the weary mourner rest--

  And when in that last awful hour,
  Death shall exert his fatal power,
  Oh! blunt the print of his keen dart,
  And sooth the pangs that rend the heart.

  When the last vital throb shall cease,
  Oh! be then present, with thy peace:
  Then let thy healing grace be given
  To light and waft our souls to Heaven.

L.

_Pittsylvania_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

BEAUTY AND TIME.

[Written under a vignette, representing a branch of roses with a
scythe suspended over it, in a Lady's Album.]


  Emblem of woman's beauty,
    This blooming rose behold!
  Time's scythe is hanging o'er it,
    While yet its leaves unfold.

  Alas! that Time is ever
    To Beauty such a foe!
  How can she shun his power?
    How ward his withering blow?

  Has she no art to foil him,
    And turn his scythe aside?
  Must she, who conquers others,
    To him yield up her pride?

  Yes, yes, there is a conquest
    That Beauty gains o'er Time:
  Forget it not, ye fair ones,
    But prize the homely rhyme.

  For every charm he pilfers
    From Beauty's form or face,
  Upon the mind's fair tablet,
    Some new attraction trace.

  Thus, Time's assaults are fruitless,
    For, when her bloom is o'er,
  Woman, despite his malice,
    Is lovelier than before.

S[obelisk].




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ANTICIPATION.


  When life's last parting ray is shed,
    And darkness shrouds this pallid form;
  When I have laid this aching head,
    Secure from ev'ry earthly storm--

  Oh! then how sweet it is to think
    That some fond heart yet warm and true,
  Will cherish still the severed link
    Which death's rude hand has snapt in two.

  Who oft, at evening's pensive hour,
    From all the busy crowd will steal,
  To dress the vine and nurse the flower
    That deck my grave, with pious zeal.

  And ling'ring there, will lightly tread,
    As fearful to disturb my sleep,
  And oft relieve the drooping head
    Upon her slender hand, and weep.

  And oh! if in that world which rolls
    Sublime beyond this earthly sphere,
  That love still warms departed souls,
    Which once they fondly cherished here.

  Oh! yes, if in such hour is given,
    And parted souls such scenes may see,
  At that pure hour I'd leave e'en heav'n,
    And kiss the heart that wept for me.

L.

_Pittsylvania_.


{162}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

HINTS TO STUDENTS OF GEOLOGY.

BY PETER A. BROWNE, ESQ.

NO. I.


The word "_science_," in its most comprehensive sense, means
"knowledge." In its general acceptation, it is "knowledge reduced to a
system;" that is to say, arranged in regular order, so that it can be
conveniently taught, easily remembered, and readily applied to useful
purposes. An _art_ is the application of knowledge to some practicable
end,--to answer some useful or ornamental purpose. The sciences, are
sometimes divided into the _abstract_ and the _natural_; by the former
we are taught the knowledge of reasons and their conclusions; by the
latter we are enabled to find out causes and effects, and to study the
laws by which the material world is governed. To the abstract sciences
belong, first, language, whether oral or written, including grammar,
logic, &c.; secondly, notation, including arithmetic, algebra,
geometry, &c. Philosophy inquires into the laws that regulate the
phenomena of nature, whether in the material or immaterial world; it
is generally divided into three classes, two of which are material and
one immaterial. The material are, first, those which relate to number
and quantity; secondly, those which relate to matter. The immaterial
are those which relate to mind. The second class of the material is
called "natural philosophy" or "physics," and sometimes the "physical
sciences." Natural philosophy, in its most comprehensive sense, has
for its province the laws of matter, whether organic or inorganic.
These laws may regard either the motions or properties of matter, and
hence arises their division into two branches--first, those which
regard the _motions_ of matter, which are called _mechanics_; and
secondly, those which regard the _properties_ of matter, which are
subdivided, and have various names, according to the different objects
of investigation. When the inquiry is confined to organized bodies and
life, it is called physiology; which is again subdivided into zoology
and botany. When it treats of inorganic matter, it is subdivided into
chemistry, anatomy, medicine, mineralogy and geology. The principles
of natural philosophy rest upon _observation_ and _experiment_.
Observation is the noticing of natural phenomena at they occur,
without any attempt to influence the frequency of their occurrence.
Experiment consists in putting in action causes and agents, over which
we have control, for the purpose of noticing their effects. From a
comparison of a number of facts, obtained from either observation or
experiment, the existence of general laws are proved. The laws of man
are complicated; to understand their objects, we are often obliged to
take the most circuitous routes; but the laws by which nature governs
all her works are beautifully simple, and they are found to lead
directly to the end she has in view. To study them, therefore,
according to the rules that have been laid down, viz: from observation
and experiment, is pleasant and easy. The principal difficulties that
have arisen, are owing to the improper manner in which the subjects
connected with natural history have often been treated. Natural
philosophy regards what was the condition of natural bodies: but many
persons exert the whole force of their genius to discover what they
_might have been_. And as there is no department of natural philosophy
into which this erroneous method of procedure has made greater inroads
than geology, nor any science that has suffered so severely in such
conflicts, it may not be amiss to appropriate half an hour to the
inquiry whence this error has arisen; and, if possible, point out the
best method of avoiding its dangerous tendency. The word geology is
derived from two Greek words, signifying "the earth" and "reason;" and
it is that science which teaches the structure of the crust of the
earth, and ascertains its mineralogical materials, and the order in
which they are disposed, and their relations to each other. Geognosy
is used by the French as synonymous to geology, but in English is
generally understood to be synonymous to cosmogony; which is an
inquiry, or rather a speculation, as to the original formation or
creation of the world; hence geognosy has sometimes been called
"speculative geology." In pursuing the examinations to which geology
leads, we reason from facts, as is done in other branches of natural
science. The strata of the crust of the earth, owing to the disturbed
manner in which we now find them, are in a great measure open to our
examination; their composition, formation, deposition, eruption,
depression, succession, and mineralogical contents, are all objects of
sensation. The objects of geognosy (in the English sense of the word)
are, on the other hand, for the most part, ideal, visionary and
delusive. We are sensible that this earth exists and that it is
material, and therefore we know that it must have been created. We
know that it was not created by man, who hath not the power to add to
it one single atom, nor diminish it by a single grain--so that it is
manifest that it was created by a superior and omnipotent power; but
by what process it was done is a mystery, and the more we seek to
discover it the more we expose our ignorance. The geologist, like the
mathematician, deals with the understanding; his advance is wary,
admitting no conclusion until his premises are fully established. The
professor of geognosy, on the contrary, addresses himself entirely to
the imagination, and he delights in hypothesis and suppositions. The
progress of the geologist is necessarily slow; he is like the patient
miner, making his laborious but determined way into the solid rock:
but the professor of geognosy will make a world or even a universe in
an hour, for he deals in fancy and works in visionary speculations.
The geologist delves into the bowels of the earth in search of useful
metals, earths and combustible matters, which nature has kindly placed
within his reach, and he strives to turn them to the best advantage in
administering to the wants and increasing the comforts and convenience
of his fellow creatures; but all the labors of the professor of
geognosy are directed to discover a secret which appears to be hidden
from human ken; a secret, the discovery of which would not, as far as
we can judge, add any thing to the sum of human happiness. It excites
our astonishment therefore, that so many persons of fine genius and
brilliant talents should have wasted so much time in forming what are
called theories of the earth, who might have been so much better
employed in investigating the secondary causes by which the materials
composing the crust of this earth obtained their present forms, and in
examining the changes which those materials are daily undergoing. But
so it is; the curiosity so natural to our {163} species opens the
way--the vanity of being supposed to have penetrated deeper than
others into the abstruse mysteries of nature urges them forward--the
silly pride of having in their own estimations discovered the hidden
ways of Providence quickens their zeal; and, such is the love of the
marvellous, that if they exhibit only a tolerable degree of ingenuity,
and embellish their performances with a few flowers of rhetoric, they
are sure to command more attention and praise from the general mass of
readers, than can be extorted by the most laborious examination of
nature's works. While Martin Lister was ridiculed by Doctor King for
the laudable minuteness with which he described the different natural
objects he met with in his journey through France, Mr. Thomas Burnet,
for a fanciful theory of the earth, was extravagantly lauded by a
writer in the Spectator. Saussure crossed the Alps in fourteen places;
Humboldt traversed nearly one half of the habitable globe; Cuvier
spent seven years in the study of comparative anatomy, as subservient
to the study of fossil remains; and Hauy studied geometry for the sole
purpose of obtaining a knowledge of crystalography; but neither of
these distinguished philosophers have been able to win the laurels
that have been heaped upon the brow of Count Buffon for a visionary
hypothesis which he calls a theory of the earth.

The substitution of these hypotheses for knowledge, unfortunately, has
not been confined to the early and dark ages of geology. One entirely
new theory of the earth was published as lately as the year
1825--another in 1827--and a third in 1829. It is proper therefore
that the student should be warned against their fascinating and
baneful influence.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ESSAY ON LUXURY.


Of the various researches, which engage this enlightened age, there is
not one perhaps more important, whether we consider the public weal,
or the general interest of humanity, than that which concerns
_luxury_. It is regarded by some as the source of the greatest
calamities; by others as a source of opulence and industry. It has
been said and repeated thousands of times, that we often dispute,
because we do not understand each other, and that we give a different
meaning to words we use, because we do not define them with sufficient
precision. This is frequently true; but cases will often arise where,
though the words of a proposition are taken in precisely the same
acceptation, and those who employ them reason alike, yet the result of
their reasonings are diametrically opposite. Luxury has at all times
been considered as a cause of the corruption of morals, and the
destruction of empires; but in the last ages, it has not wanted its
advocates--nay, they have even pretended, that it was necessary to
render empires flourishing, to favor commerce, industry, circulation,
manufactures; and that _it_ alone would redress the inequality of
various conditions, by making the superfluities of some contribute to
relieve the necessities and wants of others. The contrary has always
been held as an irrefragible axiom. But still its advocates maintain,
that it nourishes all the refinements of good taste, and developes the
talents of the artist, whose art and genius are encouraged by the
profusion and prodigality which it produces. This is indeed the
favorable side of the picture; but how often is it, that what we see
in an object, is not all we might see there, and that one truth by
intercepting the view of others, conducts us often to error. It is
possible by considering the subject more attentively, though we may
find all we have said, true to a certain degree, yet on the other
hand, the evil, which excessive luxury produces, is infinitely more
dangerous;--and speculation will confirm what the experience of all
ages has demonstrated. It is an historical and invariable truth, that
excessive luxury has always been the harbinger of the destruction of a
state. I may add, it has always been the fatal cause. Labor and
economy are the principles of true prosperity--the eclat of pomp and
magnificence without them, is only a false splendor, which conceals
inward misery. But it is here, we must stop for a moment, before we
further advance, in order to have a precise idea, of what we
understand by the word _luxury_. If by it, we mean every thing which
exceeds the physical necessities of life, I should apologize to the
learned. But I do not mean to fix the boundary by the laws of
Lycurgus. I agree farther, that what may be luxury at one time, is not
so at another; but it is in this gradation, which may be extended to
infinity, that we ought wisely to seize that degree of the scale,
where it degenerates into vice--I mean political vice, which far from
being useful becomes prejudicial to a state. This distinction is still
local, individual, and subject to different times and eras. What is a
ruinous luxury in one country, would perhaps be useful or indifferent
in another. A destructive and indecent luxury in one order of society,
is honorable, indispensable and useful in another; and in short, in a
country where a certain degree of luxury is necessary, there may be
times, when sumptuary laws would be useful. If we proceed to analyze
its principles, we shall see that though abstractedly, luxury may
appear to produce certain advantages, yet in general it is the cause
of the greatest disorders. If the expense or luxury of each individual
were the thermometer of his fortune, the degree of luxury would
certainly be the symptom of power, riches, industry and opulence of a
state, but it would not on this account, be the cause; for what must
be the consequence, when vanity and self-love excited by opinion, by
custom and by pride, make us aspire at an external show far beyond our
condition in life, and run into extravagancies, which we cannot
support? This is to sap a commodious edifice in order to build a
larger, which we can never erect. The state loses the house and does
not gain the palace. In a country where luxury reigns, this example
may be seen every day and in every order of the state. The "Luxury"
then of which I speak, is that which prompts many to run into
expenses, beyond what their circumstances will admit, by the respect
attached to it, and by that contempt, with which those are treated,
who do not maintain a similar profusion; by the universality of the
custom; and by the opinions of others, which render the superfluous,
the useless, the frivolous, almost necessary and indispensable. It is
on this account, that the felicity, or apparent power, which luxury
appears sometimes to communicate to a nation, is comparable to those
violent fevers, which lend for a {164} moment, incredible nerve to the
wretch, whom they devour, and which seem to increase the natural
strength of man, only to deprive him at length of that very strength
and life itself. It is likewise physically true, that excessive luxury
impairs the body and destroys courage. Effeminacy enervates the one,
and artificial wants blunt the other; wants multiplied become
habitual, nor by diminishing the pleasures of possession, do they
always diminish the despair of privation. Let us not say that the
misfortunes of individuals, do not concern the public; when many
suffer, the public must feel it. If it were true, that the possessions
of those who are ruined, are found dispersed among other individuals,
the ruin of the unfortunate would still be prejudicial to the state;
because it is the number of individuals in easy circumstances, which
create its wealth. But it is absolutely false, that those possessions
are found in the mass of the public; if the possession of each
individual consisted in silver, this might be so; but property for the
most part is fictitious or artificial: industry, credit, opinion, form
a great part of the riches of each individual,--which vanish, and are
annihilated with the ruin of his former possessions, and are forever
lost with respect to the state. Besides, lands are best cultivated,
when divided among many hands. An hundred husbandmen in easy
circumstances, are infinitely more useful to a state, than an hundred
poor ones, or ten powerfully rich. It is the quantity of consumers,
who regularly make an honest, well supported and permanent
expense,--which augments industry, circulation, commerce,
manufactures, and all the useful arts. But when excessive luxury
causes, that the arts are lucrative in the inverse ratio of their
utility, the most necessary become the most neglected, and the state
is depopulated by the multiplication of subjects, who are a charge to
it. It is then we fall precisely into the case of him, who cuts down
the tree to get the fruit: what weakens each member of a body, must
necessarily weaken the body itself; but excessive luxury weakens,
without contradiction, each member of a body politic, physically and
morally,--consequently it must undermine and destroy the constitution
of that body. Another inconvenience attending luxury is, that
according to the order of nature, the propagation of the species ought
continually to increase in a country, if some inherent vice, either
physical or moral, do not prevent it. We have seen in those times,
when luxury prevailed only among the superior class, swarms issue from
the state, without depopulating it, in order to establish themselves
in other places. But the luxury of parents, whose baleful example is
often the sole inheritance of their offspring, forces them necessarily
into a state of celibacy; whereas it is evident, that by a division of
property among their children, the latter might, with industry and
care, having a principal to begin with, increase their hereditary
wealth and enrich the state. Every thing conspires, where luxury
reigns, to corrupt the morals. It eclipses, stifles, or rather
destroys the virtues. It knows no object but the gratification of
certain imaginary pleasures, more illusory than the honor, which it
attracts. Mankind are born perhaps with no particular bias to fraud or
injustice. It is want, either real or artificial, which creates the
robber or the murderer; but for the most part, those crimes, which are
most dangerous to society, take their origin from artificial wants,
which ensue from "Luxury." The brother violates the strongest ties of
nature--the patriot plunges the dagger into the bosom of his country.
It was "Luxury," which called from Jugurtha his celebrated observation
on Rome. It would be endless to attempt to enumerate the examples of
ruin, and of those calamities, which have ever followed in its train.
But how is this most dangerous of evils to be guarded against?
Sumptuary laws would not always be efficacious. They do not always
answer the end proposed. They are eluded by refinements upon "Luxury"
until it becomes "Luxury" in excess. It must be the province of the
legislature to prevent this abuse. The most effectual laws would be
those, which would remove that ridiculous respect, which is paid to
frivolous exteriors, and would attach real respect to merit alone;
which would destroy that unjust contempt into which modest simplicity
has fallen by a depravity of taste and reason. He, who by a wise
legislation would discover the secret of banishing those prejudices,
would render an essential service to humanity. Virtue and emulation
would flourish--vice and folly no longer appear. After all, I would
not have it forgot, that I have agreed, that what would be "Luxury" at
one time, and for one order of people, is not so for another. The
"Luxury" which destroys a republic, would not perhaps destroy a large
kingdom; but there is a degree of "Luxury" prejudicial to the most
opulent monarchy. The universal use of wine would be ruinous to this
country, but not so to France. The detail and analysis of those
distinctions, are perhaps the most important object to humanity. I am
persuaded, that the public good, the repose of families, and the
happiness of the present and future generations depend upon it.

B. B. B. H.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO ----

"_Agite Mais Constant_."

"Though the speed with which we are hurried through the immensity of
space, is not perceptible to our vision; yet the _truth_ that '_Time_
is ever on the wing,' should teach us to be wise while it is called
'_to-day_.'"


  Pleasures of _time_ and _sense_ can give
    No hope or real joy;
  They leave an aching void behind,
    Are mixed with base alloy.

  Say, wouldst thou twine a lasting wreath
    To deck thy forehead fair,
  Go--wipe away the _widow's_ tear,
    And sooth the _orphan's_ care.

  Wouldst thou be meet to join the choir
    Who sing in endless bliss,
  Go--drink at that Eternal Fount,
    Whose stream shall never cease.

  Wouldst thou improve the talents here,
    Transmitted from above;
  Go--turn the sinner from his way,
    And prove a Saviour's love.

POWHATAN.




EXTRACT.


Men will wrangle for religion; write for it; fight for it; die for it;
any thing but--_live_ for it.


{165}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ELOQUENCE.


In the long list of powers and endowments, we can select no faculty or
attainment more useful and ennobling than that of eloquence.
Brightening the gloom of intellect, and awakening the energies of
feeling, it holds reason mute at its will and enkindles passion with
its touch. The soldier on the tented field is incited to the charge,
and animated in the conflict, and his last moments sweetened, by the
magic of its influence. The cries of injured innocence it converts
into notes of gladness, and the tears of sadness and sorrow into
smiles of pleasure and rejoicing. The miser, gazing on the beauty of
his coin, and living on the manna of its presence, and kneeling to its
power as his idol, is taught to weep over his error, bow to his
Creator, and despise the degrading destroyer of his peace. The
infidel, unswayed by the voice of divinity, and ignorant of its
attributes, and doubtful of its existence, enraptured with the glowing
efforts of ethereal eloquence, is convicted of his depravity, and
yields to the resistless current, which swelling in its onward course,
dispels the cloud that obscures the mind, and leaves it pure and
elevated. In the courts of justice, the criminal, his heart imbittered
with torturing despair, and his soul torn with agonizing anguish,
beholds his arms unshackled, his character unsullied by even
suspicious glance, and futurity studded with honors, station and
dignity. In the halls of legislation, corruption is unmasked, intrigue
is exposed, and tyranny overthrown. Where is its matchless excellence
inapplicable? The rich and the poor experience its effects. The guilty
are living monuments of its exertion, and the innocent hail it as the
vindicator of its violated rights and the preserver of its sacred
reputation. In the cause of mercy it is ever omnipotent; bold in the
consciousness of its superiority, and fearless and unyielding in the
purity of its motives, it destroys all opposition and defies all
power. The godlike Sheridan, unequalled and unrivalled, swayed all by
its electric fire, charmed and enthralled the weak and the timid, and
chained and overpowered the profound and the prejudiced. Burke, the
great master of the human heart, deeply versed in its feelings and
emotions, "struck by a word, and it quivered beneath the blow; flashed
the light'ning glance of burning, thrilling, animated eloquence"--and
its hopes and fears were moulded to his wish. Curran, whose speeches
glitter with corruscations of wit, and sentiment, and genius, and
whose soul burned with kindred feelings for its author, and teemed
with celestial emanations, astonished, elevated and enraptured. Pitt,
and Fox, and Henry, and Lee, and other great and gifted spirits of
that golden age, have all unfolded the grandeur of its sublimity, the
richness of its magnificence, and the splendor of its sparkling
beauties.

At a later period, when the rising generation caught the living spark
as it fell from the lips of their giant fathers; a Phillips has
pleased and fascinated by the grace and vigor of his action, the
strength and fervor of his imagination, and the dignity and suavity of
his manner; by the warmth of his feelings and the quickness of his
perceptions. A Canning, by the brilliance of his mind, beaming with
gems of classic literature; the perspicuity of his diction, rich in
the beauties of our language; and the commanding force of his voice,
now surpassing in its deep sternness the echoing thunder, and now,
soft, and sweet, and mellow as the dying cadence of a flute, has never
failed to arouse, and enliven, and convince. And a Brougham, with a
profound and comprehensive intellect, deep and capacious as ocean's
channels, with great powers of close and sound reasoning; with an
extensive knowledge of the past and the present, with untiring
energies and unremitted industry, wields a concentrated mass of
overwhelming argument, and hurls a thunderbolt of eloquence, subduing
and crushing in its impetuous course. In our own country, so fertile
in the highest orders of mind, and so successful in nurturing, and
expanding, and invigorating its faculties, we may point to Calhoun,
and Webster, and Clay, and McDuffie, as the master spirits of the age.
Their varied endowments; their chaste language; their pure and sublime
style; their bitter and withering irony; their keen and searching
sarcasm; their vast range of thought and unequalled condensation of
argument, command the admiration and excite the wonder of men.

That eloquence has been productive of immense good, no one can deny or
doubt. From the earliest ages it has been assiduously cultivated, and
ranked among the highest attainments of the human mind. So great and
elevated was it deemed by the Athenians--so grand the results of its
application, and so distinguished in their councils were those who
possessed it--that the young Demosthenes, inspired with quenchless
ardor for its acquisition, bent all the energies of his gifted
intellect to the task--opposed and triumphed over every obstacle that
nature presented to his advancement--heeded not the scoffs and hisses
of the multitude on the decided failure of his first endeavors--and at
length as the recompense for his toils, reached the pinnacle of
renown--received the gratulations of an admiring age, and beheld his
brow encircled with the wreath of victory, immortal as his glory, and
unfading as the memory of his deeds. While language continues to
exist, and breathe in beauty and vigor the conceptions of mind, his
phillippics, rich in forcible and magnificent expression, in sublime
thought, and bold and resistless eloquence, will survive. And the
fervent, and holy, and incorruptible patriotism that speaks in every
line, must elicit unbounded veneration. His matchless powers, never
exerted but for the public good, inspired his enemies with respect and
fear, and forced the mighty Philip to acknowledge, "that he had to
contend against a great man indeed." Cicero too, entitled by a
contemporary philosopher and orator,[1] one by no means addicted to
flattering or giving even unnecessary praise, "The Father of his
Country," has proved by a long and active career of usefulness and
honor, the beneficial effects of this inestimable power. Who can
conceive any thing more thrilling and overwhelming than his orations
against Cataline? We can see the patriot orator, sternly bold, from
the magnitude of his cause--for the lives of millions depended upon
his success--hatred and abhorrence depicted in his face; indignation
flashing from his eye--for love of country was his impelling motive;
energy and passion in his every action, and the living lava bursting
from his lips;--and the victim, shrinking awe-stricken away--his
baseness exposed--his treacherous schemes unfolded to public {166}
gaze; he flies a blasted and withering thing--a reckless and degraded
outlaw. This is but one of his numerous triumphs, which, stamped with
the seal of immortality, have secured to him a fame as imperishable as
time itself. It was by eloquence that the apostle of christianity so
aroused the apprehensions and pierced the hardened conscience of the
heathen Agrippa, that in the fulness of contrition he exclaimed, "thou
almost persuadest me to be a christian." With it, the fisherman[2] of
Naples declared to the populace the sanctity of their
rights--explained the violation of their chartered privileges, and
pointed out the means of securing justice--denounced their rulers as
tyrants, and swore upon the altar of his country to revenge them. The
multitude, through instinctive esteem for intellectual capacities,
however humble the station of their possessor, and urged by the
enthusiasm he had excited, obeyed his every word. Passive in his
hands, he guided them to the maintenance of their freedom and the
expulsion of domestic foes. To its influence we may ascribe the
commencement of our Revolution, and the tameless spirit which animated
our fathers in the struggle. Even now its effects are visible every
where around us. We see that the seducer is lashed into remorse and
contrition, and the traitor has received the reward for his crime. In
the chambers of congress its fire burns with increasing lustre, and
sheds unending sparks of brilliancy and strength. When properly
directed, it is the inseparable companion of liberty; and so long as
it continues thus--so long as its efforts are characterized by purity
and patriotism, the prosperity, union, and above all, the freedom of
these states, will remain secure.

[Footnote 1: Cato of Utica.]

[Footnote 2: Massaniello.]

H. M.




LETTERS FROM NEW ENGLAND.--NO. 2.

Our readers will participate with us in the pleasure of reading the
second letter from _New England_, by an accomplished Virginian, whose
easy and forcible style is so well employed in depicting the manners
and character of a portion of our countrymen, separated from us not
more by distance, than by those unhappy prejudices which too often
spring up between members of the same family. The acute observation of
men and things which these letters evince, will entitle them to be
seriously read and considered,--and they will not have been written in
vain, if they serve to remove the misconceptions of a single mind. We
repeat what we stated in our last number, that although they were
originally published in the Fredericksburg Arena, they have since
undergone the revision and correction of the author expressly for
publication in the Messenger.


_Northampton, Mass. July 25, 1834_.

Of _Yankee hospitality_ (curl not your lip sardonically--you, or any
other Buckskin,)--of _Yankee hospitality_ there is a great deal, _in
their way_--i.e. according to the condition and circumstances of
society. Not a tittle more can be said of Virginia hospitality. Set
one of our large farmers down upon a hundred, instead of a thousand,
acres; let him, and his sons, cultivate it themselves; feed the
cattle; rub down and feed the horses; milk the cows; cut wood and make
fires; let his wife and daughters alone tend the garden; wash, iron,
cook, make clothes, make the beds, and clean up the house; let him
have but ten acres of wood land, in a climate where snow lies three,
and frosts come for seven, months a year; surround him with a dense
population--80, instead of 19, to the square mile; bring strangers,
constantly, in flocks to his neighborhood; place a cheap and
comfortable inn but a mile or two off; give him a ready and near
market for his garden stuffs, as well as for his grain and
tobacco--and ask yourself, if he could, or would, practise our "good
old Virginia hospitality?" To us, who enjoy the credit and the
pleasure of entertaining a guest, while the drudgery devolves upon our
slaves; the larger scale (wastefully large) of our daily _rations_,
too, making the presence of one or more additional mouths absolutely
unfelt;--hospitality is a cheap, easy, and delightful virtue. But put
us in place of the yankees, in the foregoing respects, and any man of
sense and candor must perceive that we could not excel them. Personal
observation and personal experience, make me "a swift witness" to
their having, in ample measure, the kindliness of soul, which soothes
and sweetens human life: a kindliness ready to expand, when occasion
bids, as well towards the stranger, as towards the object of nearer
ties. No where have I seen _equal_ evidences of public spirit; of
munificent charity; of a generous yielding up of individual advantage
to the common good. No where, more, or lovelier, examples of domestic
affection and happiness--evinced by tokens, small it is true, but not
to be counterfeited or mistaken. And no where have I had entertainers
task themselves more to please and profit me, as a guest. Yet, as
_you_ know, few can have witnessed more of Virginia hospitality than I
have. It would be unpardonable egotism, and more _personal_ than I
choose to be, even in bestowing just praise; besides "spinning my
yarn" too long--to do more than glance at the many kindnesses, which
warrant the audacious heresy, of comparing our northern brethren with
ourselves, in our most prominent virtue. Gentlemen, some of them of
advanced years, and engaged in such pursuits, as make their time
valuable both to themselves and the public, have devoted hours to
shewing me all that could amuse or interest a stranger, in their
vicinities--accompanying me on foot, and driving me in their own
vehicles, for miles, to visit scenes of present wonder, or of historic
fame: patiently answering my innumerable questions; and explaining,
with considerate minuteness, whatever occurred as needing explanation,
in the vast and varied round of moral and physical inquiry. In
surveying literary, charitable, and political institutions--in trying
to ascertain, by careful, and doubtless, troublesome
cross-questionings, the structure and practical effects of judicial,
and school, and pauper systems--in examining the machinery (human and
inanimate) of manufactories--in probing their tendencies upon minds
and morals--in 'stumbling o'er recollections,' in Boston, on Bunker's
hill, and around Lexington--I found guides, enlighteners, and hosts,
such as I can never hope to see surpassed, if equalled, for
friendliness and intelligence. A friend of ours from Virginia, who was
in the city of Boston with his family when I was, carried a letter of
introduction to one of the citizens. "This gentleman, for three days,"
said our friend, "gave himself up entirely to us; brought his carriage
to the hotel, and carried us in it over the city, and all its
beautiful environs; in short, he seemed to think that he could not do
enough to amuse and gratify us." To enjoy such treatment as this, one
must, of course, in general, come introduced, {167} by letter or
otherwise. Then--nay, according to my experience, in some instances
without any introduction,--the tide of kindness flows as ungrudgingly
as that of Virginia hospitality, and far more beneficially to the
object: at an expense, too, not only of money, but of time--which
here, more emphatically than any where else in America, _is money_.
When travelling on foot, I had no letters to present--no introduction,
except of myself. Still, unbought civilities, and more than
civilities, usually met me. A farmer, at whose house I obtained
comfortable quarters on the first night of my walk, refused all
compensation, giving me at the same time a hearty welcome, and an
invitation to stay to breakfast. Next day, a man in a jersey wagon,
overtook me, and invited me to ride with him. I did so, for an hour,
while our roads coincided: and found him intelligent, as well as
friendly. Whenever I wanted, along the road, refreshing drinks were
given me;--cider, switchell, and water--the two first always unasked
for. One _gudewife_, at whose door I called for a glass of water, made
me sit down, treated me abundantly to cider; and, finding that my
object was to see the country and learn the ways of its people, laid
herself out to impart such items of information as seemed likely to
interest me: wishing me 'great success' at parting. Many similar
instances of kindness occurred. It is true, none of the country people
invited me to partake of their meals, except my first host just
mentioned--an omission, however, for which I was prepared, because it
arose naturally from the condition of things here. One testimonial
more you shall have, to New England benevolence, from a third person.
A deserter from the British navy--moneyless, shoeless, with only yarn
socks on; feet blistered--and actually suffering from a fever and
ague--told me that he had walked all the way from Bath, in Maine, to
the neighborhood of Hartford, where I overtook him, entirely upon
charity; and _had never asked for food or shelter in vain_. A lady
that day had given him a clean linen shirt. There was no whining in
this poor fellow's tale of distress: his tone was manly, and his port
erect: he seemed, like a true sailor, as frank in accepting relief, as
he would be free in giving it.

The result of all my observation is, that the New Englanders have in
their hearts as much of the _original material_ of hospitality as we
have: that, considering the sacrifices it costs them, and the
circumstances which modify its application, they _actually use_ as
much of that material as we do; and that, although their mode of using
it is less _amiable_ than ours, it is more _rational_, more
_salutary_--better for the guest, better for the host, better for
society. And most gladly would I see my countrymen and countrywomen
exchange the ruinous profusion; which, to earn, or preserve, a
vainglorious name, pampers and stupifies themselves and impoverishes
their country, for the discriminating and judicious hospitality of New
England: retaining only those freer and more captivating traits of
their own, which are warranted by our sparser settlements, our ampler
fields, and our different social organization.

Yet, while such praise is due to the general civility and kindness of
the New Englanders, it must be qualified by saying, that several
times, I have experienced discourtesy, which chafed me a good deal:
but always from persons who, in their own neighborhoods, would be
considered as vulgar. The simplest and most harmless question,
propounded in my _civilest_ manner, has occasionally been answered
with a gruffness, that would for half a minute upset my equanimity.
For example--"Good morning sir" (to a hulking, rough, carter-looking
fellow, one hot morning, when I had walked eight miles before
breakfast)--"how far to Enfield?" "Little better 'an a mile,"--was the
answer; in an abrupt, surly, unmodulated tone, uttered without even
turning his head as he passed me. Two or three of "mine hosts," at
inns, were churlishly grudging in their responses to my inquiries
about the products, usages, and statistics, of their neighborhoods.
For these, however, I at once saw a twofold excuse: they were very
busy and my questions were very numerous--besides the irritating
circumstance, that answers were not always at hand--and to be _posed_,
is what flesh and blood cannot bear. And it makes me think no worse
than before, either of human nature in general, or of Yankee character
in particular, that such slights occurred, nearly in every instance,
whilst I was a somewhat shabby looking way-farer on foot; scarcely
ever, while travelling in stage, or steamboat. Such distinctions are
made, all the world over: in Virginia, as well as elsewhere.

A Southron, not accustomed to wait much upon himself, here feels
sensibly the scantiness of the personal service he meets with. Even
I--though for years more than half a Yankee in that respect--missed,
rather awkwardly, on first coming hither, the superfluous, and often
cumbersome attentions of our southern waiters. Besides having
frequently to brush my own clothes, I am put to some special trouble
in the best hotels, to get my shoes cleaned. In many village inns,
sumptuous and comfortable in most respects, this last is a luxury
hardly to be hoped for. This scarcity of menial service arises partly
from the nice economy, with which the number of hands about a house is
graduated to the general, and smallest possible, quantity of necessary
labor; and partly, from a growing aversion to such services among the
"help" themselves, caused, or greatly heightened, by the increased
demand and higher wages for them in the numerous manufactories
throughout the country. Almost every where, I am told of their asking
higher pay, and growing more fastidious, and intractable, as household
servants. "_Servants_" indeed, they will not allow themselves to be
called. A "marry-come-up-ish" toss, if not an immediate quitting of
the house, is the probable consequence of so terming them. The above,
more creditable designation, is that which must be used--at least in
their presence. By the by, though the gifted author of "Hope Leslie"
says that the _singular_ plural, "help," alone, is proper, I find
popular usage ("_quem penes arbitrium_"--you know) sanctioning the
regular plural form "helps," whenever reference is made to more than
one.

The spirit, and the habits, which oblige one to do so much for himself
within doors, produce corresponding effects without. Useful labor is
no where disdained in New England, by any class of society.
Proprietors, and their sons, though wealthy, frequently work on the
farms, and in the gardens, stables, and barns. Two or three days ago,
I saw an old gentleman (Squire ----) a justice of the peace, and for
several years a useful member of the Legislature, toiling in his hay
harvest. Two of the richest men in this village--possessing
habitations among the most elegant in this assemblage of {168} elegant
dwellings--I have seen busy with hoe and rake, in their highly
cultivated grounds. The wife of a tavern-keeper, in Rhode Island,
worth $40,000, prepared my breakfast, and waited upon me at it, with a
briskness such as I never saw equalled. Similar instances are so
frequent and familiar, as to be unnoticed except by strangers. Many of
New England's eminent men of former days, were constant manual
laborers; not only in boyhood, and in obscurity, but after achieving
distinction. Putnam, it is well known, was ploughing when he heard of
the bloody fray at Lexington; and left both plough and team in the
field, to join and lead in the strife for liberty. Judge Swift, of
Connecticut, who wrote a law book[1] of some merit, and, I believe, a
History of Connecticut, was a regular laborer on his farm, whilst he
was a successful practiser of the Law. An amusing story is told (which
I cannot now stop to repeat) of his being severely drubbed by the
famous Matthew Lyon, then his indented servant; while they worked
together in the barn. Timothy Pickering, after serving with
distinction through the revolution--being aid to General Washington,
Representative and Senator in Congress, and Secretary of State--spent
the evening of his unusually prolonged and honored life, in the
culture of a small farm of 120 or 130 acres, with a suitably modest
dwelling, near Salem, Mass.: literally, and through necessity, (for he
was always poor) earning his bread by his own daily toil. With Dr.
Johnson, I deride the hacknied pedantry of a constant recurrence to
ancient Greece and Rome--without, however, being quite ready to "knock
any man down who talks to me about the second Punic War." But, in
contemplating the stern virtues, that poverty and rural toil fostered
in those earlier worthies of New England, and that still animate the
"bold yeomanry, a nation's pride," who yet hold out against the
advancing tide of wealth, indolence, and luxury--I cannot forbear an
exulting comparison of these my countrymen, with the pure and hardy
spirits that graced the best days of republican Rome:

  Regulum, et Scauros, animæque magnæ
  Prodigum Paulum superante Poeno,

       *       *       *       *       *

                 Fabriciumque,
  Hunc, et incomptis Curium capillis
  Utilem bello, tulit, et Camillum,
  Sæva paupertas, et avitus apto
                 Cum lare fundus.

[Footnote 1: On Evidence, and Bills of Exchange and Promissory Notes.]

In the household economy of these thrifty and industrious people, it
were endless to specify all the things worthy of our imitation. Their
use of cold bread conduces to good in a threefold way: a less quantity
satisfies the appetite, and it is in itself more digestible than warm
bread; thus doubly promoting health: while there is a sensible saving
of flour. The more frugal scale upon which their ordinary meals are
set forth, is another point in which for the sake of economy, health,
and clearness of mind, we might do well to copy them. By burning
seasoned wood, kept ready for the saw in a snug house built on
purpose, and by the simple expedient of having the doors shut and all
chinks carefully closed, they secure warm rooms with half the fuel
that would otherwise be necessary. I cannot, however, forgive their
bringing no buttermilk to table. The _natives_ seem wholly ignorant,
how pleasant and wholesome a food it is for man; and give it to their
pigs. The hay-harvest lasts from four to six weeks; it has been going
on ever since the 1st of July. Of course, the hay cut at such
different periods must vary greatly in ripeness: and here they confirm
me in a long standing belief, which I have striven in vain to impress
upon some Virginia hay farmers--that the hay, cut before the _seeds_
are nearly ripe, is always best. The earlier part of the mowing,
(where the crop is about equally forward) is most juicy, sweet and
tender. The corn is now in tassel, having attained nearly its full
height: the height of about five feet, on rich land! It is a sort
differing from ours: small in grain and ear, as well as in stalk; and
very yellow grained. It ripens in less time than ours; adapting itself
to the shorter summers of this latitude. It is planted very thick:
three or four stalks in a hill, and the hills but three feet apart.

With many vegetables and fruits, the season is five or six weeks later
here than in Virginia. Thus, garden peas are still, every day, on the
tables: I had cherries in Boston last week, of kinds which ripened
with us early in June; and it is but a fortnight, since strawberries,
both red and white, were given me in Connecticut--by the way, it was
_at breakfast_.

On the margin of this village, is a curious agricultural exhibition.
It is a large tract of flat land upon Connecticut river, of great
fertility and value (one hundred and fifty or two hundred dollars an
acre,) containing altogether several thousand acres. With one or two
trifling exceptions, it has no houses or dividing fences upon it,
though partitioned among perhaps two hundred proprietors. Hardly an
opulent, or _middling_ wealthy man in Northampton, but owns a lot of
five, ten, twenty, or fifty acres, in this teeming expanse. The lots
are all in crops, of one kind or other; and being mostly of regular
shapes (oblongs, or other four sided figures,) the various aspects
they present, accordingly as the crop happens to be deep green, light
green, or yellow--mown, or unmown--afford a singular and rich treat,
to an eye that can at once survey the whole. Most opportunely, Mount
Holyoke (the great lion of western Massachusetts, to scenery-hunters,)
furnishes the very stand, whence not only this lovely plain is seen,
but the river, its valley, and the adjacent country, for twenty or
thirty miles around. Nearly a thousand feet below you, and not quite a
mile from the foot of the mountain, the low ground, fantastically
chequered into lots so variously sized and colored--dwindling too, by
the distance, into miniatures of themselves--reminds you of a gay
bed-quilt. A lady of our party (we ascended the mountain this
afternoon, and staid till after sunset,) aptly compared it to a Yankee
_comfort_; the elms and fruit trees dotted over the surface, and
shrunk and softened in the distance, representing the tufts of wool
which besprinkle that appropriately named article of furniture. The
whole landscape, seen from Mount Holyoke, it would be presumptuous in
me to try to describe. I have said, twenty or thirty miles around: but
in one direction, we see, in clear weather, the East and West Rocks,
near New Haven--about seventy miles off. Fourteen villages are within
view. The whole scene is panoramic: it is as vivid and distinct as
reality; but rich, soft and mellow, as a picture. We descended; and as
we recrossed the river by twilight, the red gleams from the western
sky, reflected in {169} long lines from the dimpling water, forced
upon more than one mind that fine passage in a late work of fiction,
where the remark, that "no man can judge of the happiness of another,"
is illustrated by the reflection of moon-beams from a lake. But I am
growing lack-a-daisical: and must conclude.

I set off in the stage for Albany, at two o'clock in the morning. Good
night.




We copy the following production of Mrs. Sigourney from the "_American
Annuals of Education and Instruction_," a periodical published in
Boston. It is difficult to decide whether the prose or poetry of this
distinguished lady is entitled to preference. Her noble efforts in
behalf of her own sex deserve their gratitude and our admiration.

ON THE POLICY OF ELEVATING THE STANDARD OF FEMALE EDUCATION.

Addressed to the American Lyceum, May, 1834.


The importance of education seems now to be universally admitted. It
has become the favorite subject of some of the wisest and most gifted
minds. It has incorporated itself with the spirit of our vigorous and
advancing nation. It is happily defined by one of the most elegant of
our living writers, as the "_mind of the present age, acting upon the
mind of the next_." It will be readily perceived how far this machine
surpasses the boasted lever of Archimedes, since it undertakes not
simply the movement of a mass of matter, the lifting of a dead planet
from its place, that it might fall, perchance, into the sun and be
annihilated; but the elevation of that part of man whose power is
boundless, and whose progress is eternal, the raising of a race "made
but a little lower than the angels," to a more entire assimilation
with superior natures.

In the benefits of an improved system of education, the female sex are
now permitted liberally to participate. The doors of the temple of
knowledge, so long barred against them, have been thrown open. They
are invited to advance beyond its threshold. The Moslem interdict that
guarded its hidden recesses is removed. The darkness of a long reign
of barbarism, and the illusions of an age of chivalry, alike vanish,
and the circle of the sciences, like the shades of Eden, gladly
welcome a new guest.

While gratitude to the liberality of this great and free nation is
eminently due from the feebler sex, they have still a boon to request.
They ask it as those already deeply indebted, yet conscious of ability
to make a more ample gift profitable to the _giver_ as well as to the
_receiver_. It seems desirable that their education should combine
more of thoroughness and solidity, that it should be expanded over a
wider space of time, and that the depth of its foundation should bear
better proportion to the height and elegance of its superstructure.
Their training ought not to be for display and admiration, to sparkle
amid the froth and foam of life, and to become enervated by that
indolence and luxury, which are subversive of the health and even the
existence of a republic. They should be qualified to act as teachers
of knowledge and of goodness. However high their station, this office
is no derogation from its dignity; and its duties should commence
whenever they find themselves in contact with those who need
instruction. The adoption of the motto, that _to teach is their
province_, will inspire diligence in the acquisition of a knowledge,
and perseverance in the beautiful mechanism of pure example.

It is requisite that they who have, in reality, the _moulding of the
whole mass of mind in its first formation_, should be profoundly
acquainted with the structure and capacities of that mind; that they
who nurture the young citizens of a prosperous republic, should be
able to demonstrate to them, from the broad annals of history, the
blessings which they inherit, and the wisdom of preserving them, the
value of just laws, and the duty of obeying them. It is indispensable
that they on whose bosom the infant heart is laid, like a germ in the
quickening breast of spring, should be vigilant to watch its first
unfoldings, and to direct its earliest tendrils where to twine. It is
unspeakably important, that they who are commissioned to light the
lamp of the soul, should know how to feed it with pure oil; that they
to whose hand is entrusted the welfare of a being never to die, should
be able to perform the work, and earn the wages of heaven.

Assuming the position that _females are by nature designated as
teachers_, and that the mind in its most plastic state is their pupil,
it becomes a serious inquiry, _what they will be likely to teach_.
They will, of course, impart what they best understand, and what they
most value. They will impress their own peculiar lineaments upon the
next generation. If vanity and folly are their predominant features,
posterity must bear the likeness. If utility and wisdom are the
objects of their choice, society will reap the benefit. This influence
is most palpably operative in a government like our own. Here the
intelligence and virtue of every individual possesses a heightened
relative value. The secret springs of its harmony may be touched by
those whose birth-place was in obscurity. Its safety is interwoven
with the welfare of all its subjects.

If the character of those to whom the charge of schools is committed,
has been deemed not unworthy the attention of lawgivers, is not _her_
education of consequence, who begins her labor before any other
instructor, who pre-occupies the unwritten page of being, who produces
impressions which nothing on earth can efface, and stamps on the
cradle what will exist beyond the grave, and be legible in eternity?

The ancient republics overlooked the worth of that half of the human
race, which bore the mark of physical infirmity. Greece, so
exquisitely susceptible to the principle of beauty, so skilled in
wielding all the elements of grace, failed to appreciate the latent
excellence of woman. If, in the brief season of youth and bloom, she
was fain to admire her as the acanthus-leaf of her own Corinthian
capital, she did not discover, that like that very column, she might
have added stability to the temple of freedom. She would not believe
that her virtues might have aided in consolidating the fabric which
philosophy embellished and luxury overthrew.

Rome, notwithstanding her primeval rudeness, and the ferocity of her
wolf-nursed greatness, seems more correctly, than polished Greece, to
have estimated the "weaker vessel." Here and there, upon the storm
driven billows of her history, the form of woman is distinctly
visible, and the mother of the Gracchi still stands forth in strong
relief, amid that imagery, over {170} which time has no power. Yet
where the brute force of the warrior was counted godlike, the feebler
sex were prized, only in their approximation to the energy of a
sterner nature, as clay was held in combination with iron, in the feet
of that mysterious image which troubled the visions of the Assyrian
king.

To some of the republics of South America, the first dawn of liberty
gave a light which Greece and Rome, so long her favored votaries,
never beheld. Even in the birth of their political existence, they
discovered that the sex whose _strength is in the heart_, might exert
an agency in modifying national character. New Grenada set an example
which the world had not before seen. Ere the convulsive struggles of
revolution had subsided, she unbound the cloistered foot of woman, and
urged her to ascend the heights of knowledge. She established a
college for females, and gave its superintendence to a lady of talent
and erudition. We look with solicitude toward the result of this
experiment. We hope that our sisters of the "cloud-crowned Andes," may
be enabled to secure and to diffuse the blessings of education, and
that from their abodes of domestic privacy, a hallowed influence may
go forth, which shall aid in reducing a chaos of conflicting elements
to order, and symmetry, and permanent repose.

In our own country, man, invested by his Maker with the "right to
reign," has nobly conceded to her, who was for ages a vassal, equality
of intercourse, participation in knowledge, guardianship over his
dearest possessions, and his fondest hopes. He is content to "bear the
burden and heat of the day," that she may dwell in plenty, and at
ease. Yet from the very felicity of her lot, dangers arise. She is
tempted to rest in superficial attainments, to yield to that indolence
which spreads like rust over the intellect, and to merge the sense of
her own responsibilities in the slumber of a luxurious life. These
tendencies should be neutralized by an education of utility, rather
than of ornament. Sloth and luxury, the subverters of republics,
should be banished from her vocabulary. It is expedient that she be
surrounded in youth with every motive to persevering industry, and
severe application; and that in maturity she be induced to consider
herself an ally in the cares of life, especially in the holy labor of
rearing the immortal mind. While her partner stands on the high places
of the earth, toiling for his stormy portion of that power or glory
from which it is her privilege to be sheltered, let her feel that to
her, in the recesses of the domestic sphere, is entrusted the culture
of that knowledge and virtue, which are the strength of a nation.
Happily secluded from lofty legislation and bold enterprise, with
which her native construction has no affinity, she is still
accountable to the government by which she is protected, for the
character of those who shall hereafter obtain its honors, and control
its functions.

Her place is in the quiet shade, to watch the little fountain, ere it
has breathed a murmur. But the fountain will break forth into a
stream, and the swelling rivulet rush toward the sea; and she, who was
first at the fountain head and lingered longest near the infant
streamlet, might best guide it to right channels; or, if its waters
flow complaining and turbid, could truest tell what had troubled their
source.

Let the age which has so freely imparted to woman the treasures of
knowledge, add yet to its bounty, by inciting her to gather them with
an unremitting and tireless hand, and by expecting of her the highest
excellence of which her nature is capable. Demand it as a debt. Summon
her to abandon inglorious ease.--Arouse her to practise and to enforce
those virtues, which sustain the simplicity, and promote the
permanence of a great republic. Make her answerable for the character
of the next generation. Give her this solemn charge in the presence of
"men and of angels,"--gird her for its fulfilment with the whole armor
of education and piety, and see if she be not faithful to her
offspring, to her country, and to her God!

L. H. S.




We beg our readers to amuse themselves with the following article from
Mr. Fairfield's Magazine. We cannot however, whilst we value the
importance of having an euphonous and pleasant sounding name,
sympathise very sincerely with Mr. Rust in the horror he has conceived
towards his own. We had rather be Lazarus in all his misery than Dives
in "purple and fine linen."

  From the North American Magazine.

MY NAME.

         "Quid rides? mutato nomine, de te
   Fabula narratur."--_Horace, Sat. 1. Lib, I. 70_.


"Nil admirari" has always been my maxim, yet there is one thing which
excites my wonder. It _is_ astonishing, that a man, who leaves his son
no other legacy, cannot at least give him a good name. What could have
been my father's motive, in inflicting upon me that curse of all
curses--my name, I cannot determine. Trifling as so small a matter may
appear, it has been my ruin. Bah! I shudder when I think of it! shade
of my honored parent! would nothing but a scripture name satisfy thee?
Why didst thou not then entitle me
Ezra?--Zedekiah?--Nimri?--anything--it must out--but Lazarus!

Yes--LAZARUS RUST--that is my name; and, if any man can now blame me
for being a misanthrope, let him come forward. As I said, my name has
been my ruin. It has made existence a curse since my childhood; even
at school, I was tormented almost to madness. I was the only boy who
was not nicknamed. The most malicious were satisfied; they could not
improve upon Lazarus.

Of all men, the most impertinent are your stage agents. They have a
trick of asking your name, with an insulting coolness, which, to a man
of delicate sensibilities, is extremely annoying. I shall never forget
my first stagecoach journey. The fellow at the desk looked me full in
the face, and calmly asked my name. I felt the blood boiling in my
face, and my first impulse was to knock him down. But I was a prudent
man, even when a boy; so I satisfied myself with turning
contemptuously on my heel. The fellow was by my side in a moment.
"Sir," said he, in the silver tones of a lackey, "will you allow me to
inquire your name?" This was too much. "Allow me to tell you, sirrah,"
I cried, almost suffocated with rage, "that you are an impertinent
scoundrel."

The bar room was in a roar. That laugh is sounding still in my ears,
like the roar of a mighty cataract. What diabolical music some men
make of laughing! When the agent explained to me the reason of his
inquiry, I felt so consummately silly, that I forgot my {171} usual
precaution of giving only my initial, and, in a voice painfully
distinct, I answered--Lazarus Rust!

They did not laugh. I could have borne a deafening shout: but that
suppressed smile! let me not think of it. Of all mortal sufferings,
the keenest is the consciousness of being the object of ridicule,
mingled perhaps with pity. O! Heaven! what did I not suffer--what have
I not suffered, from this one source?

All this comes of my father's--what shall I call it?--madness, in
calling me Lazarus. By the by, they tell me that, when I was baptized,
a murmur of laughter arose from the whole congregation; and even the
minister, as he uttered the solemn form, could not entirely conceal
the smile, which, in spite of his utmost exertions played upon his
lips.

A history of my ludicrous misfortunes would fill a volume. Perhaps the
most ludicrous of all was at my marriage. "A rose, by any other name,
would smell as sweet;" and a Lazarus may love as ardently as a Dives.
I confess I did love Phoebe McLarry--(how sweetly the name flows from
your lips!) she was not beautiful, but she loved me notwithstanding my
name, "and I loved her that she did pity me." So we were married. But,
when the priest repeated, "Son, Lazarus, take Phoebe," &c. I could not
refrain from laughing myself.

They say that the constitution of our habits is such, that, by
degrees, we can become reconciled to anything, but I am not yet
satisfied with my name. I still persist in writing it L. Rust. I have
seen a good deal of human nature; and, I must think, notwithstanding
Shakspeare's opinion, that there is something in a name. Indeed, a
man's name tinges his whole character. If it is a good one, he may
sign even a mortgage deed with a light heart; and, if he writes a neat
hand, he will rise from the desk a happy man. His flowing autograph,
and more flowing name, make even poverty tolerable. But your Nimris,
and Obadiahs! that which, to some men, is the pleasantest thing in
existence--the seeing their names in print, is to them, utter and
hopeless agony. And then their officious friends are eternally
superscribing their letters with the name written out in full. There
is one member of Congress, who, throughout the whole session, most
perseveringly franks his dull speeches to Lazarus Rust, esq. One would
think L. Rust was sufficiently definite, and it certainly has the
advantage in point of euphony. I wish he was in Heaven. I know of no
damper to ambition like a bad name. I would not immortalize myself if
I could. Lazarus Rust, indeed,--that would look well inscribed on a
monument! I say with Emmett, "Let no man write my epitaph." It would
perhaps run thus:

  "Here lies the body of Lazarus Rust
   With what a horrible name the poor fellow was _cust_."

No--not for me is the laurel wreath of immortality. When I die, let me
be forgotten. If there is any truth in the doctrine of transmigration,
I may yet take my chance. "I bide my time."

After all, I sometimes endeavor to persuade myself that it is a mere
matter of taste. We have no reason to suppose that Lazarus was the
worst name in the Hebrew genealogy. It must be confessed, however,
that there are some disagreeable associations connected with it, aside
from its sound; and, to speak the plain truth, it is a most disgusting
appellation, fit only for a monkey. Yet I am compelled to bear it
about with me--a thorn in the flesh, from which I cannot escape; it
adheres to me like the poisoned tunic of Nessus. I would appeal to the
Massachusetts Legislature, but my friends have a decided partiality
for Lazarus, and would never know me by any other name. So, as Lazarus
I have lived, Lazarus will I die.

I have redeemed my father's error, in naming my own children; I
cannot, 'tis true, rub off the Rust: but, for the matter of Christian
names, I defy the Directory to furnish a more princely list. When my
eldest son was born, I vowed he should never be ashamed of his name,
so I called him Henry Arthur Augustus George Bellville--so far, so
good--it breaks my heart to add--Rust. The sly rogue has since
improved his cognomen, by spelling it with a final e--thus: Henry A.
A. G. B. Ruste--how it takes off the romance to add--eldest son of
Lazarus Rust, esq.!

Finally, as I have the misfortune, like my namesake of old, to be of
that class of mortals, denominated "poor devils," I can say, with the
utmost sincerity, "who steals _my_ purse, steals trash; and he who
filches from me my good name," has decidedly the worst of the bargain.

J. D.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

The following lines are from the pen of Dr. _J. R. Drake_. Sacred be
his memory! A warmer patriot never breathed. The piece was written at
the time of the invasion, and but a few days previous to the brilliant
victory of the eighth of January. It is addressed to the defenders of
New Orleans.


      Hail! sons of gen'rous valor!
    Who now embattled stand,
  To wield the brand of strife and blood,
    For freedom and the land;
  And hail to him your laurel'd chief!
    Around whose trophied name,
  A nation's gratitude has twin'd,
    The wreath of deathless fame.

      Now round that gallant leader,
    Your iron phalanx form;
  And throw, like ocean's barrier rocks,
    Your bosoms to the storm--
  Though wild as ocean's waves it rolls,
    Its fury shall be low--
  For justice guides the warrior's steel,
    And vengeance strikes the blow.

      High o'er the gleaming columns
    The banner'd star appears;
  And proud, amid the martial band,
    His crest the Eagle rears--
  As long as patriot valor's arm
    Shall win the battle's prize,
  That star shall beam triumphantly--
    That Eagle seek the skies.

      Then on! ye daring spirits!
    To danger's tumults now!
  The bowl is fill'd, and wreath'd the crown,
    To grace the victor's brow;
  And they who for their country die,
    Shall fill an honored grave;
  For glory lights the soldier's tomb,
    And beauty weeps the brave.


{172}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

VALEDICTORY IN JULY 1829,

_At the final breaking up of the ---- School, in consequence of the
ill health of Mrs. ----, the Principal, after it had continued for
eight years._


Among the numerous analogies, my young friends, which have been traced
between the body and the mind, there is not one that requires more of
our attention than the necessity of constantly supplying each with its
appropriate food, if we would keep both in sound, vigorous health.
Although the nutriment of the first be altogether material, and that
of the second spiritual, yet the same want of daily supply is equally
obvious in regard to the improvement and preservation of mental as
well as bodily qualities. Without our daily bread we must all in some
short time sicken and die; without some daily intellectual repasts,
the soul must soon become diseased and perish. It is true that in each
case the food may be much and often beneficially diversified--although
there are some standard articles that cannot be dispensed with on any
occasion without inconvenience, if not actual injury. Such for example
are bread for the body and some moral aliment for the mind. Upon this
principle it is that I have always deemed it essential, every time I
have addressed you, to mingle some moral instruction with every thing
I have said, since it is _this_ which constitutes the true leaven of
the bread of life--and _this_ it is which will always prove an
acceptable part of their mental food, to all whose appetites and
tastes have not been depraved by mental condiments, which stimulate
and gratify the passions at the expense of the soul.

An irresistible inducement on the present occasion to pursue towards
you the course to which I have so long been prompted both by principle
and habit, is, that _this_ is certainly the last opportunity I shall
ever have of addressing you as pupils. The connexion of teachers and
scholars which has subsisted for so many years between yourselves and
my family, is about to be dissolved forever. But this circumstance has
greatly augmented my solicitude to render the last admonitions I shall
ever give you in my character of adviser, of some permanent service to
you. They will relate to such endowments of mind and qualities of
heart as you will most frequently have occasion to exercise in future
life. These are, self-control, gentleness and benevolence of
disposition, purity and rectitude of conduct, courtesy and politeness
of manner.

The necessity for acquiring self-control arises, not only from the
impossibility of gratifying all, even of our lawful wishes--to say
nothing of those unhallowed ones which increase in a tenfold
proportion from every indulgence--but from the almost continual calls
for its exercise in all our intercourse with society. At home or
abroad--in the depths of solitude, or in the busiest haunts of men--in
all our domestic relations, as well as in those which place us in a
more extended sphere of action, this all important quality is in
continual demand. In governing ourselves it is indispensable; nor is
it much less necessary when duty requires us to govern, direct or
persuade others. Even when we are casually brought into the company of
strangers, and for a short time only, it often enables us to command
respect and to gain esteem, by manifesting the vast superiority of a
well regulated mind over one which yields to every impulse of passion
that assails it. This inestimable quality of self-control gives
additional zest to all our lawful pleasures, and enhances our highest
enjoyments, by causing us always to stop short of satiety; while it
enables us by God's help, resolutely and undisturbed, to meet all the
crosses and trials to which others may subject us. In a word, it arms
us against the strongest temptation of our own passions, and empowers
us to disregard the worst that can be attempted against us by the
passions of other people. It is in fact the _regulator_, (if I may so
express myself,) which governs all the machinery of our minds in such
a manner as to prevent them from going either too fast or too slow.
How many mortifications and disappointments--how much anger,
resentment and grief does it not prevent our suffering from the envy,
hatred, malice and uncharitableness of the world around us! How often
does it save us from the shame and degradation of sensual indulgence;
from the turpitude of sin; from the anguish of remorse. It is the
effectual check to the depravity of our nature, which a merciful God
will enable us always to apply, if we will only ask it of him as we
ought--that is, by continual prayer and supplication.

The other qualities, gentleness, benevolence, purity, rectitude,
courtesy and politeness, when accompanied by good sense and a well
cultivated mind, constitute the great charm of domestic and social
life. Indeed, they may well be called indispensable requisites, since
there can be no happiness and very little comfort without them. There
never was a greater, a more fatal mistake, than the too common one of
supposing that the chief use of such qualities is in society at large;
in other words, when we are acting a part before the world, in our
ridiculous struggles for distinction and power. Selfishness is the
mainspring of all such efforts, and it so sharpens our sagacity as to
convince us that our bad qualities _must_ be restrained in public, or
they will frequently subject us to punishment if we attempt to disturb
others by their indulgence. But in private life, and particularly in
the family circle, there are few so insignificant or destitute of
means to disturb others as not to possess the power of causing much
annoyance, if not actual unhappiness. A single individual of a
waspish, irritable, jealous, gossipping, envious and suspicious
temper, {173} in these situations, may destroy the peace and poison
the domestic enjoyments of a large family. No incident is too trivial
to excite some one or other of their bad passions; no person too
unoffending to provoke them; no conduct so guarded as to escape
malignant remark. Their approach, like the sirocco of the desert,
produces an irresistible depression of spirits; constraint and
embarrassment spread a gloom over every countenance, and the voice of
joy and gladness dies away in their presence. On the other hand, the
emanations of a gentle, benevolent disposition, produce the same
impression on our hearts, that the balmy breezes and sweet smelling
flowers of the vernal season do on our senses. It is a something that
we feel deeply in the inmost recesses of our bosom, but cannot well
describe. It is an atmosphere of delight in which we would gladly
breathe during our whole life.

By purity of thought and rectitude of conduct, in which are
comprehended the inestimable virtues of truth, candor and sincerity,
we secure for ourselves the unutterable enjoyment of an approving
conscience, at the same time that we obtain from others their esteem,
their admiration, and their love. We may manifest these qualities in
every part of our intercourse with others; for whether we speak or
act, occasions continually present themselves to prove that we possess
them. By conversation we show the purity of our sentiments; by conduct
we manifest the rectitude of our principles--so that in all we either
say or do, we supply others with the means of ascertaining what manner
of persons we are. True we may deceive some by playing the hypocrite;
but the persons whose good opinion is really worth gaining, are not so
easily gulled, and our loss, if the game is once seen through, is
irretrievable.

In regard to courtesy and politeness, they may justly be called the
offspring of benevolence, since their chief object is to promote the
ease, the comfort, the pleasure, and happiness of others. It must be
admitted there are counterfeit qualities which sometimes pass
undetected. But _they_ are the base born children of art and
selfishness, aiming solely to promote their own interests by deceiving
other people into a belief that _their_ gratification is the end of
all their efforts to please. To say nothing of the continual labor and
constraint necessary to enable these circulators of false coin to
escape discovery and exposure, the superior ease and safety of genuine
courtesy and politeness, should be a sufficient inducement with all
young persons to study most assiduously to acquire them, even on the
supposition that we had no better guide for all our actions in
relation to others. That honesty _in manner_, as well as _in conduct_,
will ever be found to be the best policy, amid all the varying forms,
fashions and practices of the world, is I believe, as certain as that
truth is better than falsehood--virtue preferable to vice. Another
argument greatly in favor of genuine courtesy and politeness is, that
they are the most current and easily procurable coin you can possibly
use, being equally well adapted (if I may keep up the metaphor,) to
make either large or small purchases. The articles procured too in
exchange, always greatly exceed in real intrinsic value, all that you
ever give for them. This is merely the manifestation of a sincere, an
earnest desire to please; while the precious return is almost always
the cordial expression of truly friendly feeling, the look of
pleasurable emotion, and the affectionate regards of a grateful heart,
particularly where the intercourse has been of sufficient duration to
admit of some little development of character. Let it not be said that
a cause apparently so slight is inadequate to produce such strong
effects. There lives not a human being who has ever felt the influence
of genuine courtesy and politeness, but can testify to the truth of
what has been said in their praise. Nor is it easy to imagine the
possibility of any individual's remaining insensible of their value,
who like you my young friends, have always been accustomed to the
society of ladies and gentlemen. Knowing this as I do, I should
consider it somewhat like a work of supererogation to press upon you
the absolute necessity of your constantly cultivating these invaluable
qualities, if I were not thoroughly satisfied from painful experience,
that almost all young persons require at least occasional admonition
on this subject. In vain do some parents solicit, persuade--nay,
beseech their daughters, never for a moment to forget what is due to
the character of a lady, both in manners and deportment; in vain do
they implore them with aching hearts to make a better return for all a
mother's care and affection; to no purpose do they pray for that
purity of heart and rectitude of principle in their offspring, which
is the only true source of good manners: their unfortunate, wayward
children continue to act, as if the chief purpose of their existence
was to prove to the world how little influence their parents have over
them. They seem utterly reckless of the parental tie--regardless of
all the disparaging inferences which may be drawn from their own
conduct in relation to the characters of their connexions--and
continue hardened alike against advice or reproof, in whatever
language or manner it may be offered to them. God forbid that such
should be the moral portrait of any of my present auditors; but you
have all sufficient experience to know that it is not a fancy picture,
nor one wherein the features are so exaggerated and caricatured, as to
be unlike any person who has ever lived. If none of your schoolmates
have ever resembled it, you have either seen or heard of some others
in the world whom it would fit. Should your own consciences acquit
you, as I sincerely trust they do, of all liability to pursue so
reckless a {174} course, both in regard to parental and other
admonition--let me beseech you, my young friends, not to tax your
imaginations with laboring to conjecture whether I aim at any
particular individuals, for I do not; but strive most assiduously to
examine your own hearts thoroughly as to all these points, and study
so to act on all occasions and towards every person with whom you may
have any thing to do, that the praise not only of courtesy and
politeness may ever be yours, but likewise the far more exalted merit
of right minds and pure hearts.

When I look back on the years that have passed away since this school
commenced; when I reflect on the many anxious hours which your
teachers have spent in meditating on the most effectual means to
render their instructions and admonitions conducive to your eternal as
well as temporal welfare; and when I recollect the several instances
wherein I am persuaded they had good cause to believe that an all
bounteous Providence had favored their humble labors, my heart is
filled with gratitude for the past; and I cherish the fond hope that
_you too_, my young friends, will be added to the number of those, who
by the exemplary character of your future lives, will cause your
instructers to rejoice that _you_ likewise have once been their
pupils. Three or four of you have been so from the first to the last,
and the rest have been long enough members of our family to be
thoroughly acquainted with the whole course of our instruction. You
cannot therefore be ignorant either of the chief objects at which you
have always been taught to aim, or of the means recommended to be
invariably pursued for their attainment. If you have failed to profit
by them the fault must rest somewhere; the awful responsibility
attaches to one or both parties; and let us all earnestly pray to God,
that the purity and rectitude of our future lives, should it please
him to spare us, may avert the punishment justly due to such offences.
That none may plead forgetfulness, let me briefly recapitulate once
more, and for the last time, what our course has been. The primary
objects always most earnestly pressed upon your attention have been,
first and above all, to prepare yourselves for another and a better
world, by a life of usefulness in the present; by the love and fear of
God; by cheerful obedience to his will; and by continually doing good
to your fellow creatures whenever you had the means and the
opportunity. Your secondary objects have been the study of sciences
and languages, physical and intellectual improvement, with a view, not
to foster pride and vanity, but solely to increase your power of being
useful. Lastly, you have been taught to acquire certain arts usually
ranked under the head of "accomplishments," but you have been
invariably and perseveringly admonished to consider them merely as
_recreations_, innocent if indulged in only occasionally, but sinful
when made, as they too often are, the principal business of life. On
all occasions too, you have been persuaded never so far to confide in
the maxim that "youth is the season for enjoyment," as to forget that,
like old age it _may_, and too often _is_, the season of suffering
also. A preparation for such contingencies _must_ be made by all, or
the hour of misfortune, although every human being is destined to meet
it, will overwhelm those who are unprepared for it with a degree of
misery which admits of neither alleviation nor cure. Young as you all
are, and little as you have yet seen of human life, you have already
felt, if not in your own persons, at least in the case of others,
something of the effect produced by sudden and unexpected calamity,
bursting like a thunderclap on the heads of its devoted victims. But a
few days have passed away since you were witnesses to such an event in
the case of two of your school companions. The morning on which it
happened shone upon them cheerful and happy as any among you,
unconscious of any impending misfortune, undisturbed by any
anticipations to mar their peace. Yet, in a very few hours from that
time, they were both plunged into the deepest affliction; both by a
single blow reduced perhaps to poverty; both suddenly called by the
most awful death of a parent of one of them, to return to a wretched
family bereft of its chief support, and crushed to the earth in all
the helplessness of irremediable wo. Alas! my young friends, how few
of you ever think of drawing from such occurrences the many salutary
lessons they are so well calculated to impart! How many turn away from
them as matters to be banished as speedily as possible from your
remembrance; as events never likely to happen to yourselves! Yet every
hour that we live--every moment that we breathe--not one among us, no
not one single individual, can truly say, "_I_ am free--_I_ am exempt
both from present and contingent calamity." Far, very far am I indeed,
from wishing you to be so constantly absorbed in gloomy anticipations,
as to prevent you in the slightest degree from enjoying every innocent
gratification suitable to your respective ages and situations in life.
But I would have you all to know and to feel in your inmost heart,
that "sweet are the uses of adversity," and that none should think
themselves fit to live until they feel prepared to die the death of
the righteous before God and man. Hard as this requisition may seem,
thousands upon thousands, and of your age too, have complied with it
to the very letter. Thousands have furnished angelic examples, even to
the aged and hoary headed, that the fresh, the blooming, the joyous
period of youth may be dedicated to God, as well as that worn out
remnant of life when all power of earthly enjoyment is supposed to be
dead within us, and nothing remains to be offered to heaven but
exhausted faculties and fast decaying intellects. {175} Has not our
blessed Saviour himself declared, when speaking of children, that "of
such is the kingdom of heaven;" and in illustration of this truth, are
not all the images of cherubim and seraphim presented to our senses,
always represented with juvenile countenances, glowing with all the
innocence and loveliness of youth? Shall the youth then of the present
day--the youth of our own country--but especially the female portion
of them, ever adopt the fatal delusion that _theirs_ is an age too
immature for the acquisition and exercise of the highest moral and
religious attainments. Shall _they_ fall into the ruinous error that
it is yet time enough for them to attend to spiritual matters, and
that the prime and vigor of their lives are to be wasted in merely
temporal pursuits unworthy the characters and disgraceful to the
rational creatures formed for a state of eternal happiness? Far better
would it be that they never had been born; or that the hand of
misfortune--the saddest hours of unmitigated suffering, should
continue to press on them with all their weight, until they could be
brought to know their duty to God, to their fellow beings, and to
themselves. Heaven forbid, my young friends, that such awful
discipline should be necessary to bring _you also_ to a proper sense
of all you owe to the Divine Author of your existence, and to that
society of which you may become either the blessing or the curse.
Heaven forbid that any of you should so far forget the high destinies
for which you were formed--the glorious purposes to which your lives
should be devoted--and the everlasting happiness promised in another
world to all who fulfil their duties in this, as to neglect for a
moment any of the means essential to improve your hearts and minds to
the utmost attainable degree. Nothing--no nothing within the range of
possibility can enable you to do this, but continual, earnest,
heartfelt prayer to God for the aid of his holy spirit in all your
undertakings; frequent and deep meditation on all the vicissitudes of
life; frequent and serious forethought in regard not only to what you
may probably enjoy in the present world, but to what you may possibly
be devoted to suffer. Gay and happy as you all now are in the joyous
anticipations so natural to youth and health, it _may_ be your fate
(but God forbid it ever should,) to see one by one of your nearest and
dearest connexions drop into the grave--some in the very blossom and
promise of juvenile years--others worn down by care, disease and old
age. It _may_ be your fate to be the very last of your race, reserved
to mourn over all who have gone before to another world. All this, my
children, and yet deeper affliction may possibly be _your_ lot--for it
_has been_ that of thousands, aye of millions before you. Can it be of
_no importance_ then; nay, is it not of _the last, the highest, the
most vital importance_, that you should make at least some small
preparation for such appalling contingencies, lest they befal you
utterly unawares? Will you ask me what is that preparation? It is
simply so to use all your good gifts as not to abuse them; so to
cherish all the powers both of your bodies and minds that they may
last as long as nature intended they should, and fulfil all the
purposes for which they were designed; so to divide your time between
useful occupation and necessary recreation, that none may be said to
be wasted or lost; in a word, _so to live_ that you may never be found
_unprepared to die_. The joys of heaven should ever be the beacon to
guide your course; and the road by which you should travel through the
present life to reach them, should be _that_ and _that only_ which
your heavenly Father, through his blessed Son, has commanded and
besought you to take. Thousands who have steadily pursued this course
have testified that it is "a way of pleasantness and a path of peace"
to all who have once attained the dispositions, feelings and
principles enjoined upon those who have made it their choice, in
preference to all other reputed roads to happiness; while not a
solitary human being who has ever tried these other roads, has ever
yet been heard to bear witness in their favor, after the experiment
has been fully made. Woful then must be your mistake, most fatal your
error, in choosing "the way in which you should go," should you rather
be led by the sinful allurements of illicit pleasure, than the
universally concurring testimony of the good, the wise, and the just
throughout the world.

In a few fleeting hours more this school will cease to exist, and your
present monitor will have uttered the last words of admonition which
he will ever address to you as pupils. Anxiously, most anxiously do I
desire to fix them indelibly on your minds. But alas! I feel too
sensibly my own inability, as well as the evanescent nature of all
language in the form of advice, to hope for more than a temporary
impression. If I make even _that_, I shall in part at least have
attained the sole object of all that I ever said to you, which has
been your own intellectual improvement, your own happiness. Let me
entreat you, my dear young friends; let me implore you for the last
time, never to forget (whatever other things you may suffer to escape
your memories,) any of the various moral and religious instructions
which you have received under our care. I feel well assured that they
will not fail to come home to your bosoms--probably too with greatly
augmented force, should the withering blasts of misfortune ever spread
desolation and wo among you. But I pray for something more for you. I
would have you bear them continually in remembrance, even in your
happiest hours of prosperous fortune. I would have each of you
individually meditate on them "when thou sittest in thy house, and
when thou walkest by the way, and when thou liest down, and when thou
{176} risest up." Then, but not until _then_, will you be fully
prepared both for adversity and prosperity; and then indeed may you
confidently trust that the God of all mercy and goodness will
vouchsafe to impart to you the true christian's last, best hope, both
for time and eternity.

Separated from us all as you will soon be, perhaps forever, and about
to enjoy, as I earnestly desire, a happy meeting with the beloved
friends and relatives from whom you have been so long withdrawn,
accept for the last time our heartfelt assurances that our best
wishes, our anxious prayers for your happiness, will accompany you
through all the vicissitudes of life; that we shall always sympathise
both in your joys and your sorrows; and that our own enjoyments will
ever be greatly augmented by hearing that you are all leading
exemplary and happy lives. For power to do this, forget not--oh! never
for a moment forget, that your sole reliance must be on your heavenly
Father and his holy spirit, which hath been promised abundantly to all
who ask it in truth and sincerity.

"May the blessing of an all merciful God be ever on you and around
you. May his grace be a lamp unto your feet and a light unto your
path. May it guide, strengthen and support you in all the troubles and
adversities of this life, and bring you, through faith in our
Redeemer, to eternal blessedness in that which is to come."--AMEN.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE SEASONS.


The verdant spring, decked in her brightest gems, and arrayed in her
most gorgeous vesture, has driven hoary winter to his icy caverns, and
leads forth her sportive train to kindle a smile upon the face of
nature. The mountain streamlets, revelling in joyous gaiety at their
disenthralment from the chains of winter, are playfully meandering
among the flowrets which deck their velvet banks; and the smiling
vallies, embosomed amid the lofty mountains, put forth their verdure,
as if in commemoration of him who "holdeth in his hand the destiny of
nations!" The blushing rose has expanded beneath the genial rays of
the resplendent god of day, and scents with its fragrance the vernal
zephyrs which stoop to kiss it as they pass. The woods, and rivers,
and mountains, all clad in their variegated garments, seem to mingle
in the celebration of the grand jubilee of nature!

The flowers of spring have faded. The refulgent sun has ascended yet
higher in his brilliant pathway through the heaven; the gay vesture of
the earth is yellowing beneath his scorching rays. The fruit, of which
the vernal blossoms gave such fair and glorious promise, has ripened
into maturity under his golden influence. Voluptuous summer has been
ushered in upon the stage of time, accompanied and heralded by myriads
of gleesome fairies, wantonly disporting upon the rich carpets,
rivalling in splendor the purple of ancient Tyre, which nature has
spread over the earth for her reception. The chaste Diana holds her
nocturnal course through the blue expanse of ether, studded with
countless gems, the brightest jewels in heaven's diadem, shedding her
mild and mellow light over the sombre forests, and gilding the
sparkling streamlets, which placidly repose beneath her beams. Earth,
sea and air, encompassed by a heavenly serenity, seem to blend their
beauties into one rich picture of loveliness, and offer up their
united orisons to the sovereign Lord of all!

The revolving wheels of time, in their ceaseless and eternal
gyrations, have rolled away the glories of the regal summer into the
vast charnel house of the past--and the demon of decay, like the fiend
consumption, breathing its fatal influence upon the roseate cheek of
youthful beauty, has withered the tresses which hung in wild
luxuriancy upon the bosom of the earth, and has stamped upon her brow
the impress of his iron signet, as if to shadow forth her approaching
doom. The limpid streams which veined her surface, and under the mild
sway of the queenly summer, danced and sparkled in the sun's meridian
beam, now roll lazily along in their channels, as if performing the
funeral obsequies of the buried past. The vallies, but lately
decorated in the blooming apparel of spring, have now assumed a more
variegated and gorgeous hue, which like the hectic flush which
fitfully crimsons the pallid cheek of consumption's hopeless victim,
only indicates the accelerated progress of decay. A deep, monotonous,
unbroken stillness reigns o'er the hills and vallies, but lately
teeming with life and animation. A creeping, deathlike, insidious
languor, the sure precursor of winter's despotic reign, pervades the
works of nature, hushing the breezes which ripple o'er the surface of
the placid lake, and fettering the whole earth in supine inertness.
The face of nature is robed in melancholy sadness, as if mourning over
the faded glories of the declining year!

Onward, in cold and gloomy grandeur, advance the frowning heralds of
the despot winter! Every vestige of vernal beauty has faded from their
presence. The mountains, vales and rivulets, as if anticipating his
hateful arrival, have veiled themselves in a frigid, chilling vesture
of white! Even the tears which sympathising heaven sheds upon the
bosom of the earth, become congealed and frozen beneath his blighting
influence. The volcanic fires which rage in the bosom of the towering
mountain cower in dismay from his terrific glance. At length the
tyrant, with his iron sceptre and icy crown, is seated on his throne.
His attendant ministers rush to assist in the frightful coronation,
and amid the demoniac yells which announce the termination of the
loathsome ceremony, the harsh old Boreas shrieks forth the requiem of
the departed year!

V.


{177}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

BYRON'S LAST WORDS.

BY D. MARTIN.


  Summer was in its glory. Night came down,
  With a light step upon the virent earth;
  Sepulchral silence reigned on every side;
  And the winds--those heralders of storm
  Which curl the billows on Old Ocean's brow,
  In their low breathings were inaudible,--
  When a gifted son of Genius sought his home,
  And threw himself upon a lowly couch,
  And as his being's star went slowly down,
  He thus communed in low and faltering tone:--

            Oh! it is hard to die!
    To leave this world of amaranthine green,
    Whose glittering pageantry and flowery sheen,
            Vie with the glorious sky!

            But alas! the hand of Death,
    Has laid its icy grasp upon me now;
    The cold sweat rests upon my feverish brow,
            And shorter grows my breath!

            Well be it so!
    And I will pass away like light at even,
    Unto the Houri's amethystine heaven,
            Where all immortal go!

            Yet I have drank
    Unto its very dregs, the cup of Fame,
    And won myself a green, undying name,
            In Glory's rank!

            And yet!--oh, yet,
    "Break but one seal for me unbroken!
    Speak but one word for me unspoken!
            Before my sun is set!"

            Oh, for one drop
    Of the black waters of that stream sublime,
    Which follows in the stormy track of Time,
            This breath to stop!

            It may not be!
    Yet I would pray that Memory might rest,
    Like the wan beauty of the sunlit west,
            In dark oblivion's sea!

  Thus did he commune--and when the god of day
  Rose like a monarch from his sapphire throne,
  His spirit had passed away like morning mist--
  And winged its way unto that far off land,
  Where burns fore'er eternity's bright star!




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO A YOUNG LADY.


  How beautiful, fair girl, art thou,
    All robed in innocence and truth!
  Upon thy calm and snowy brow,
    Beam, like a crown, the smiles of youth;
  Heaven's sunshine falls and lights thy way,
    As one too pure and bright for sorrow--
  And virtue's soft and seraph ray
    Flings lustre on thy dawning morrow,--
  Giving a promise, that thy life
  Will ever be, with pleasure, rife!

  Upon those dark, bright eyes of thine,
    That soft, like moonlit waters, beam,
  I love to gaze, and, as they shine,
    Of those ethereal beings dream,
  That oft, on us, have smiled, in sleep,
  Then quickly flown, and made us weep,
  That e'er to man, so much of heaven
  Should just be shown,--ah! never given!

  How soft the rose upon thy cheek,
    Blent with the lily's milder hue,
  Whose mingling tints of beauty speak
    A sinless spirit--calm and true!--
  The smile, that wreathes thy rosy lip,
    Is young affection's radiant token--
  Beauty and Truth in fellowship!--
    The symbol of a heart unbroken;
  Within thy bosom, holy thought,
    As in a temple, hath its shrine,
  Refulgent with a glory caught
    From the pure presence of thy mind,
  Whose lustre flings a hallowing ray,
  Around thee, calm as orient day!

  Oh! may thy life be ever bright,
    As aught thine early dreams have framed,
  And not a shadow dim its light,
    Till heaven, in mercy, shall have claim'd
  Thee, as a being fit for naught
  That earth can boast, all sorrow-fraught
  As are its brightest visions. May
    Thy life be one long dream of love,
  Unbroken 'til the final day,
    When heaven shall waft thy soul above,
  And crown thee, as an angel _there_,
  Who wast indeed an angel _here!_

A. B. M.

_Tuscaloosa, Alabama_.




For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES IN AN ALBUM.


  As sets the sun upon the wave,
    At twilight, when the day is done,
  Casting a glory round his grave,
    That lingers, though his race be run;--
  A glory, that attracts the gaze
    Of many a bright, uplifted eye,
  Leading the spirit, where his rays
    Blend with the quiet, azure sky,
  Till evening's star, with diamond beam,
  Mirrors his last effulgent gleam;--

  So I would now, upon this page,
    At parting, _this_ memorial leave,
  O'er which, perhaps, in after age,
    Some pensive eye may kindly grieve,
  And mourn the loss of him, who though
    His life was all unknown to fame,
  Left still behind a feeble glow,
    Hallowing, in friendship's sky, his name,--
  A light, that, like a star, will beam,
  Long, long, he trusts, in memory's dream!

       *       *       *       *       *

  And now my wish for happiness
    To thee, I mingle with mine own,--
  A wish--a _prayer_, that heaven may bless, {178}
    And keep thee, kind and gentle one,
  Free from all sorrow, care and strife,--
    A being far too pure and bright
  To wander 'mid the storms of life,
    That dim affection's vestal light,--
  A seraph form'd like those above,
  For only joy, and peace, and love!

  I need not tell thee, time can ne'er
    Thy name from memory's tablet blot,
  For thou art to my heart too dear,
    To wrong its worship, by the thought;
  No! though the world may sorrow bring,
    And bear thee far away from me,
  It from remembrance ne'er can wring
    The thoughts, that aye will turn to thee,
  As Chaldea's maiden to the star,
  She worships in its sphere afar!

A. B. M.

_Tuscaloosa, Alabama_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

PARTING.


  Farewell!--my hand is trembling yet,
    With the last pressure of thine own;
  Oh! could my troubled heart forget
    The sadness, 'round that parting thrown,--
  Could memory lose the imaged smile,
    Bright sparkling through thy gushing tears,
  Which played upon thy cheek, the while
    Hope struggled with her prophet fears,
  That love and bliss no more would throw
    Their beams around us, as of erst,
  Or happiness, with seraph glow,
    Upon our rapturous _meetings_ burst,--
  I then might lose a sorrowing thought,
  But one, with deep affection fraught!

  Yet go!--I would not keep thee here,
    When "it is best to be away,"--
  Go, seek thy distant home, and ne'er
    Let memory 'round these visions stray,
  When happiness, and love and joy,
    Unto our mingling hearts were given;--
  Oh! go, and ne'er may pain annoy,
    Or sorrow dim thine eye's blue heaven,
  But peace and pure affection hold
    Their vigils 'round thine angel way,
  And blessedness thy form enfold,
    And keep thee, 'til "the perfect day,"
  When heaven shall join the hearts of those,
  Who here have loved, through countless woes!

  Go!--and I will not ask, or give
    A sigh,--a tear,--a single token,
  To prove our cherished love will live,
    Forever true, in faith unbroken;--
  Though wayward fate has severed far
    Our fortunes, by a cruel lot,
  Yet love will live, with being's star,
    And never,--never be forgot;--
  God's blessings on thee!--if the smile
    Of heaven e'er lights a seraph's path,--
  Protecting it from blight the while
    It wanders here, 'mid sin and wrath,--
  _Its_ smiles upon _thy_ path shall beam,
  And light it, like an Eden dream!

A. B. M.

_Tuscaloosa, Alabama_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES SUGGESTED ON VIEWING THE RUINS AT JAMESTOWN.


    Monuments of other years, on ye I gaze
  As yonder sun sheds forth its dying rays;
  And as I read these marbles, reared to tell
  Who lived beloved, and much lamented fell;
  A feeling sad comes o'er my soul, and then
  My fancy brings their tenants back again.
  Not these alone, but those whose footsteps trod
  The soil before, and worshipp'd nature's god
  Free from scholastic trammel, and adored
  Him thro' his works, without the zealot's sword
  To force belief. Where are ye now? Bright star
  That shed'st thy soft light thro' the skies afar,
  Art thou the same that didst thy pale beams shed
  O'er the last broken-hearted Indian's bed?
  When death was glazing fast his eagle eye,
  Say, didst thou gleam from yonder deep blue sky
  O'er his dim vision, and point out the way
  Thro' death's dark vestibule to endless day?--
  How did he die? With curses loud and deep
  (Startling the panther from his troubled sleep,)
  All wildly bursting from his soul for those
  Who came as friends, but--proved the worst of foes?
  Say, did he breathe his untamed spirit out,
  With the stern warrior's wild unearthly shout
  Quiv'ring along his lip, all proudly curled,
  Which seem'd to say, "defiance to the world?"
  Or was the lion quiet in his heart?
  And did a gush from feeling's fountain, start
  Adown his swarthy cheek, when o'er his soul
  Came tender feelings he could not control.
  Thoughts of the past perhaps; his aged sire;
  His mother bending o'er the wigwam's fire;
  His brothers, sisters, and the joyous chase;
  The stream he used to lave in oft, to brace
  His manly sinews; and perchance the maid,
  With whom in brighter days he oft had strayed
  Mid the hoar forest's over spreading shade.
  Came there a group past mem'ry's straining eye
  To teach the _brave_ how hard it was to die?
  What boots it now to know? Yet fancy warms
  With strange imaginings, and the gaunt forms
  Of forest heroes pass her eye before,
  As a strange feeling steals the spirit o'er.
  Is that Apollo[1] with his polish'd bow
  And quiver--with rich locks that freely flow
  Adown his neck of graceful form--whose eye
  Seems like some bright orb beaming from the sky?
  O! shade of Powhatan! I would not dare
  To breathe one word upon this balmy air
  To make thee sad--for as I look around,
  I _feel_ this mournful spot is sacred ground!
  If thou dost mark my footsteps, where I tread
  Unthinking, o'er those warrior's mounds, who bled
  Contending bravely for their own green hills,
  Their sunny fountains and their gushing rills,
  Their fields, their woods, their partners and their sons,
  This noble stream which to the ocean runs,--
  Shade of the mighty Werowance[2] forgive!
  No trifling thoughts within this bosom live; {179}
  No throb unhallowed thrills my bosom here,
  As o'er these mounds I drop a mournful tear.
  But day declines; the hosts of heaven ride
  All brightly--while the moon, pale as a bride
  When at the altar her young vows are given,
  Smiles sweetly from her altitude in heaven.

    The red man and the white, together sleep
  That dreamless slumber, and the waves' hoarse sweep
  Awakes them not--and I a wandering boy,
  Will not with my sad song their manes annoy.

    I drop a parting tear, thou sacred pile,
  To thy strewn columns and thy moss grown aisle;
  Thy broken pavement, and thy ruined arch,--
  How rapid Time, thy desolating march!

    Farewell! farewell! thou sacred, solemn spot;
  What I have felt shall not be soon forgot:
  Rest, rest, ye slumberers! would that I could sleep;
  Your's is all calm, but _I_ must live to weep.

SYLVANUS.

_August, 1834_.

[Footnote 1: It is said of West, the celebrated painter, that on being
shown an Apollo, he exclaimed, "My God, how much like a young _Mohawk
warrior_."]

[Footnote 2: Indian term for a great man.]




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ODE WRITTEN ON A FINE NIGHT AT SEA.


  How softly sweet this zephyr night!
  To Venus sends her brilliant light!
  And Heav'n's inhabitants unite
      Each kindly beam,
  To put fell darkness' train to flight,
      With gentle gleam.

  The vessel's sides the waters wake,
  And waveless as the bounded lake,
  A solemn slumber seem to take
      Extending wide;--
  Along the ship they sparkling break
      And gem the tide.

  Midst such a scene, no thoughts can find
  An entrance in the pensive mind,
  But such as virtue has refined,
      The past must smile--
  And flatt'ring fancy will be kind,
      And hope beguile.

  Blest silence! solitary friend--
  My thoughts with thee to _home_ I send;
  And _there_ absorbed my sorrows end--
      In vain I roam--
  As blossoms to the day-star tend,
      So I to home.

  Not more I owe that glorious ray
  That beams the blessing of the day;
  Not more my gratitude I pay
      For air and light--
  Than for that Home now far away--
      First, best delight.

  A little while, and that blest spot,
  From mem'ry shall raze each blot,
  And all my wand'rings there forgot,
      At last I'll rest--
  No sorrow shall disturb the cot
      So loved, so blest.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

AUTUMN WOODS.


  A deep ton'd requiem's in the sigh
  Of the moaning blast, as it hurries by
        Yon fading forest;
  Upon its rushing wings is borne
  A voice sad as the anthem's tone
        Above the dead:
  It is the wild wind's hymn of death,
  Which pours in plaintive strains its breath
        O'er autumn woods;
  When hurl'd to earth by the fitful storm,
  Some frail leaf's wan and wither'd form
        Sinks to its tomb.
  Sad relics of the dying year;
  Thy springtide glories now are sear,
        And all departed:
  Where now's thy fairy robe of spring,
  The sunbeam and the zephyr's wing
        Once wove for thee?
  Say, where's that gush of melody
  Thy sylvan minstrels pour'd for thee
        In thy summer bowers?
  Or where's the Æolian song thou wouldst wake
  When some sporting zephyr's breath would shake
        Thy rustling leaves?
  Thy robe--thy song have past away,
  And the funeral pall and the funeral lay
        Alone are thine!
  How oft when summer's azure sky
  Was bath'd in the golden, gorgeous dye
        Of sunset's glow,
  I've lov'd to wander through thy bright
  And verdant bowers, gilt with light
        Of parting day;
  To list to the soft, faint melody
  Of thy vesper hymn, as it floated by
        On the passing breeze--
  Or view, when on the stream's bright sheen
  Was pictured all thy fairy scene
        In mimic art;--
  How calm that stream, in its slumber seeming,
  Of thee and all thy pageant dreaming
        Reflected there.
  But thro' thy shades 'twas not alone
  I stray'd. With me there wander'd one
        Of gentler mould,
  Around whose seraph form awakening,
  Young beauty's morning light was breaking
        In roseate beam--
  And round whose stainless brow fond Love,
  And Hope and Joy a wreath had wove
        Of freshest bloom.
  Thou sad memento of the tomb!
  Say, shall that wreath, with its sunny bloom,
        E'er fade like thee?
  Shall Time's chill mildew on it light,
  Or sorrow breathe its _autumn_ blight
        Upon its flowers?
  A voice is in each falling leaf
  Which says, "earth's brightest joys are brief"--
        _Thus fade its hopes!_
  Then mid that wreath of fading flowers
  Fond pleasure weaves, to deck her bowers, {180}
        Oh! twine that flower
  Whose fadeless hue, whose springtide bloom
  Immortal lives, beyond the tomb--
        Bright SHARON'S ROSE.

H.




We extract the following sprightly effusion from the _North American
Magazine_, published in Philadelphia. It bears a strong resemblance to
the grace and freedom, and _piquancy_ which distinguish the muse of
Halleck, one of the most highly gifted poets in America. We hope our
fair readers, however, will not suppose that the author's satire is
adapted to our meridian. The BEAUTIES of our southern clime, are too
generous and disinterested to be won by the sordid allurements of
splendid edifices, bank shares and gold eagles!--at least we hope so,
and should be sorry to find ourselves mistaken.

THE DECLARATION.


  The lady sat within her bower,
    Where trellissed vines hung o'er her,
  With flashing eye and burning cheek,
    Down knelt her fond adorer;
  He took her soft white hand, and in
    Her bright eye fondly gazing,
  Sought for a look, to show that he
    An equal flame was raising;
  Yet still her eyes were turned away,
    And as his heart waxed bolder,
  And he devoured her lily hand,
    The lady's look grew colder.

  And then he swore by all the stars,
    That in the sky were shining--
  By all the verdant vines that o'er
    Her gentle bower were twining--
  By mountains, valleys, seas and streams,
    And by the moon above her,
  And everything therein that e'er
    Sophi or saints discover--
  He never could know peace again
    On earth, till he had won her;
  Yet still she answered not the look
    Of love he cast upon her.

  And then he swore, at her command,
    To show his love, he would do
  What never mortals did before,
    And none but lovers could do,
  That he would climb up to the moon,
    Or swim the ocean over--
  Would dine one day at Sandy Hook,
    And sup next night at Dover;
  Then jump from thence to London, and
    Alight on St. Paul's steeple--
  Then pull the Premier's nose, and make
    O'Connell damn the people.

  Or that he would put armour on,
    And, like a knight of yore, he
  Would fight with giants, castles scale,
    And gain immortal glory.
  Then go and build a kingdom up,
    And be a mighty winner;
  Bowstring the Sultan Mahmoud--and
    His TURKEY eat for dinner.
  Then follow Lander's dismal track,
    And on the Niger's banks
  An Empire of the Darkies found,
    And merit Tappan's thanks!

  If HARDER tasks she did demand,
    He would reform the nation,
  Make talent, honesty, and worth,
    Essentials to high station--
  Make politicians tell the truth,
    Give consciences to brokers,
  And put upon the temperance list
    An army of old soakers--
  Make lawyers "keep the people's peace,"
    Physicians kill them CHEAPER--
  A cloud was on the lady's brow,
    Which, as he spoke, grew deeper.

  He swore she had the brightest eyes,
    That ever look'd on mortal;
  And that their light was like the rays
    That stream from Heaven's own portal;
  That by her cheek, the opening rose
    Would look but dim and faded;
  And darker than the raven's wing,
    The hair her fair brow shaded;
  That Venus by her side would look
    A common country dowdy;--
  The lady blushed and smiled, and then
    Her brow again grew cloudy.

  Up sprung the lover then, and said,
    "Will you be Mrs. Popkins--
  Miss Julia Jane Amelia Ann
    Matilda Polly Hopkins?
  I have a house four stories high--
    We'll live in splendid style, and
  A handsome countryseat upon
    Lake George's sweetest island--
  Ten thousand eagles in the mint,
    Bankshares, untold, percented"--
  The lady bent her cheek to his,
    Her gentle heart relented!




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

FROM MY SCRAP BOOK.


  You ask me B----ty, why I mourn,
    Yet dry'st the tearful eye?
  You ask me why I look with scorn,
    And check the heaving sigh?
  Time was, when I could carol forth,
    To tune of lively glee;
  But dark despair has left no hope--
    Nor sigh--nor tear--for me.
  Like me--perchance some wayward sprite,
    Might dazzling lead astray;
  Then leave you on the giddy height,
    To perish far away:
  Take heed while yet you have the choice,
    Avoid the Syren's way;
  Nor listen to the artful voice,
    Which calls--but to betray;
  For sigh from him that is deceived,
    Or tear from eye that once believed,
  Is sought in vain--tho' fill'd with grief,
    Nor sigh nor tear can bring relief;
  'Tis _time_ alone can steel the heart,
  And foil the Syren's pointed dart.

POWHATAN.

_Petersburg, Dec. 19, 1834_.


{181}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE MECHANICIAN AND UNCLE SIMON.


About the period of what "_I am gaun to tell_," the ancient
aristocracy of Virginia had passed through its death struggle; the
times when the rich were every thing and the poor nothing, had passed
away; and the high pretensions of the sons of the Cavaliers had
yielded to the more levelling opinions of the Roundheads. The badges
of distinction, such as coats of arms and liveries, had become too
odious to be generally kept up; occasionally however the latter were
seen, but so rarely, that they looked like the spectres of departed
greatness, and excited a feeling of contempt or pity for the weakness
of the master, rather than respect for his wealth and rank. There was
one class of people nevertheless, who retained all their attachment to
these distinctive marks; and indeed they do so to this day: I mean the
class of servants who belonged to the old families. They were the
veriest aristocrats upon earth, and hated with the most unrelenting
hatred all the ignoble blood of the land, and deeply deplored the
transition of property from the nobles to the serfs. Though their own
"_ancient but ignoble blood_" had literally almost "_crept through
scoundrels ever since the flood_," they detested the poor and adored
the rich. I shall never forget the Fall of the year ----. I had just
graduated at one of our northern colleges, and received my two
diplomas, with their red ribbons and seals attached. They were
deposited by my good friend Andrew McMackin, the most expert diploma
rigger in all the village, in a plain cylindrical case of pasteboard,
for safe keeping, and would have remained there probably to this day
unmolested, had not the rats made an inroad upon them, and in a single
night demolished sigillum and signature--all that it had cost me years
of hard labor to obtain--aye, and twenty dollars to boot. Not
satisfied, I suppose, with the attestation of the president and
venerable board of trustees, they were desirous of adding their own
ratification of my pretensions to science. Be that as it may; full of
delightful anticipation at the prospect of returning to my native
state, after an absence of four years, I took my seat in the mail
stage, and travelled three hundred miles without once going to bed.
Such a journey at this day of steamboat and railroad car would be
nothing, but at that time it was a great undertaking, and attended
with much fatigue. The vehicles were crazy and often broke down, and
the passengers had the pleasure of paying dearly for the privilege of
walking many a mile through the mud. At length I arrived at the little
town of F----, the end of my journey on the great mail route, where I
expected to meet with some kind of conveyance to take me into the
country to my uncle's. As I leaped from the carriage to the pavement,
where many loiterers were gathered to witness the arrival of the
stage, I found myself suddenly locked in the arms of some one, who
exclaimed, "_There he is, the very moral of his grandpapa!_ God bless
your honor, how do ye do? I'm so glad to see you." Extricating myself
with some degree of embarrassment, because of the crowd around me, I
perceived that the salutation proceeded from one of our old servants,
who stood gazing upon me with the moat benevolent smile. His
appearance was quite outré to one who had lived so long at the north.
His old and faded livery, was blue turned up with yellow; he held in
his hand a horseman's cap, without the bearskin; his boots had once
been white-topped, but could no longer claim that distinctive epithet;
like Sir Hudibras, he wore but one spur, though probably for a
different reason; his high forehead glistened in the sun, and his
slightly grey hair was combed neatly back, and queud behind with an
eelskin so tight that he could hardly wink his eyes, exhibiting a face
remarkably intelligent and strongly marked, with a nose uncommonly
high and hawkbilled for a negro. Perceiving my embarrassment, he drew
back with a very courtly bow, and begged pardon, declaring he was so
glad to see me, he had forgotten himself and made too free. I made
haste to assure him that he had not--gave him a hearty shake by the
hand--called him Uncle Simon, a name he had been always accustomed to
from me, and drawing him aside, overwhelmed him with questions about
every body and every thing at home. Tell me, said I, how is my uncle?
"I thank you sir, quite hearty, and much after the old sort--full of
his projjecks, heh! heh! perpechil motion, and what not." What, said
I, is he at that still? "Oh yes--oh yes--and carridges to go without
hawses; God love you, Mass Ned, I don't think they ken go without
animel nater." And how does my aunt like all this? "Ah!" said he,
putting up his hands with an air of disgust, "She can't abide
it--things go on badly. You 'member my four greys? So beautiful!--my
four in hand!--all gone, all sold. Why, sir, I could whistle them
hawses to the charrut jest as easy as snap my finger. Our fine London
charut too! _that's gone_--and my poor Missis your aunt, has nothin to
ride in, but a nasty, pitiful push phaton." I am sorry to hear it,
Simon. "Why, Mass Ned, what mek you all let them Demmy Cats sarve you
so? What you call 'em? Publicanes? Yes, _I'd_ cane 'um as old master
used to do." But Simon, how is cousin Mary? "Miss Mary? Oh, Miss Mary
is a beauty; gay as a young filly, and she walks upon her pasterns
----." Well, well, said I, interrupting him, Simon let us be off; what
have you brought for me to ride? "Old Reglus, sir, your old favorite."
Having taken some refreshment, and transferred my clothes to the
portmanteau, I mounted Regulus, who still shewed his keeping. He was a
bright bay, and his hair was as glossy as silk under Simon's
management; his eye still glanced its fire, and his wide nostrils gave
token of his wind. He knew me, I shall ever believe it, for my voice
made him prick his ears, as if listening to the music of former days.
It seemed to inspire him with new life; he flew like an arrow, and
Simon found it impossible to keep up with me, mounted as he was on a
high trotting, rawboned devil, that made the old man bound like a
trapball, whenever he missed his up-and-down-position movement. His
figure, thus bobbing in front of a monstrous portmanteau and bearskin,
was so ludicrous, I could not forbear laughing; and reining up my
steed, I told him I would ride slower for the sake of conversation
with him. "Do, my good sir," cried he, "for this vile garran will
knock the breath out of my body. If I had but my old hawse Grey Dick
alive agin--that hawse, Mass Ned, was the greatest hawse upon the face
of the yearth; I rod him ninety miles the hottest day that ever come
from heaven, and when I got through our outer gate, he seized the bit
between his teeth, and run away with me, and never stopped till he got
clean into {182} the stable. Whenever I fed him, I was 'bliged to shet
the stable door and go away, for if he heard me move or a stirrup
jingle, he would'nt eat another mouthful, but stood with his head up
and his eyes flying about, impatient for me to mount." I knew this was
the moment to put in a leading question to bring out a story I had
heard a thousand times. That was not the horse that ran away with you
when a boy? "No--no--that was Whalebone; _your_ grandpapa used always
to go to court in his coach and six; I can see him now, in his great
big wig, hanging down upon his shoulders, and powdered as white as a
sheet. I was then a little shaver, and always went behind the carridge
to open the gates. Waitinman George rod the old gentleman's ridin
horse Bearskin, and led Mass Bobby's hawse Whalebone; Mass Bobby rod
in the carridge with old master. Well, one day what should George do
but put me up upon Whalebone, as big a devil as ever was; soonever I
got upon him, off he went by the coach as hard as he could stave; old
master hallooed and bawled--he'll kill him--he'll kill him--George how
dare you put Simon upon Whalebone? Pshey! the more he hallooed the
more Whalebone run. I pulled and pulled till I got out of sight, and
turned down the quarter stretch, and then _I did give him the
timber_--Flying Childers was nothin to him. When old master got home,
there I was with Whalebone as cool as a _curcumber_. I made sure I
should get a caning, but all he said was, D--n the fellow! I 'blieve
he could ride old Whalebone's tail off--heh! heh! heh!"

I am sorry I cannot do more justice to the eloquence of Simon, who
excelled in all the arts of oratory. His eyes spoke as much as his
tongue; his gestures were vehement, but quite appropriate; he uttered
some words in as startling a voice as Henry Clay, and his forefinger
did as much execution as John Randolph's. As to his political
opinions, he was the most confirmed aristocrat, and thought it the
birthright of his master's family, to ride over the poor, booted and
spurred. It was his delight to tell of his meeting one day, as he
swept along the road with his smoking four in hand, a poor man on
horseback, whom he contemptuously styled a _Johnny_. He ordered the
man to give the road; but as he did not obey him as readily as he
desired, he resolved to punish him. By a dexterous wheel of his
leaders, he brought the chariot wheel in contact with the fellow's
knee, and shaved every button off as nicely as he could have shaved
his beard with a razor. But enough of Simon. I beguiled the way by
drawing him out upon his favorite topics, until we got within sight of
my uncle's house, a fine old mansion, with an avenue of cedars a mile
in length. They had been kept for several generations neatly trimmed,
and he who had dared to mar their beauty with an axe, would have been
considered a felon, and met his fate without benefit of clergy. I have
lived to see them all cut down by the ruthless hand of an overseer,
who sees no beauty in any thing but a cornstalk. However, this is
wandering from my present theme. Then they were in all their evergreen
loveliness, and I hailed them as my ancient friends, as I galloped by
them, with a joyous feeling at approaching the scene of my childhood.
The folding doors soon flew wide open, and the whole family rushed out
to meet me with true-hearted old fashioned Virginia promptitude. I
must not attempt to describe a meeting which is always better imagined
than described. Let it suffice, that after the most affectionate
greeting, which extended to every servant about the premises, I was
ushered to my bed room at a late hour, with as much of state as could
be mustered about the now decaying establishment, and soon sunk into a
profound slumber, well earned by the toils and fatigues of my journey.
Early the next morning, before I left my room, my excellent and
revered uncle paid me a visit, and ordered in the never failing
julep,--_such a one as would have done honor to Chotank_. At the same
time he suggested to me that he would greatly prefer my taking a
mixture of his own, which he extolled as much as Don Quixotte did his
balsam to Sancho, or Dr. Sangrado his warm water to Gil Blas. It was a
pleasant beverage, he said, compounded of an acid and an alkali. He
had discovered by close observation, that all diseases had their
origin in acid, and that alkali of course was the grand panacea; even
poisons were acids, and he had no doubt that he should be able to form
a concrete mass, by means of beef gall and alkali, which would
resemble and equal in virtue the mad stone. If I felt the slightest
acidity of stomach, I would find myself much relieved by one of his
powders. He had written to Dr. Rush on the subject, and he shewed me a
letter from that gentleman, at which he laughed heartily, and in which
the Doctor protested he might as well attempt to batter the rock of
Gibraltar with mustard seed shot as to attack the yellow fever with
alkali. I could not help smiling at the earnestness of my dear uncle,
and assured him that I had no doubt of the virtues of his medicine,
but as I was quite well, I would rather try the anti-fogmatic; and if
I should feel indisposed, would resort to his panacea; although I
secretly resolved to have as little to do with it as Gil Blas had with
water. Having dressed myself and descended to the breakfast room, I
there met my aunt and cousin, who soon made me acquainted with the
present condition of the family. Every thing was fast declining, in
consequence of the total absorption of the mind of my uncle in his
visionary schemes; and I saw abundant evidence of the wreck of his
fortune, in the absence of a thousand comforts and elegancies which I
had been accustomed to behold. He soon joined us, and such was his
excellence of character, that we most carefully avoided casting the
smallest damp upon his ardor. Indeed, he was a man of great natural
talent and much acquired information, and was far above the ridicule
which was sometimes played off upon him by his more ignorant
neighbors. I almost begin to think that _we_ were the mistaken ones,
when I look around and see the perfection of many of his schemes,
which I then thought wholly impracticable. When old Simon thought that
a carriage could never go without _animel nater_, he certainty never
dreamed of a railroad car, nor of the steam carriages of England; and
when my uncle gravely told me that he should fill up his icehouse, and
manufacture ice as he wanted it in Summer, by letting out air highly
condensed in a tight copper vessel, upon water, I did not dream of the
execution of the plan by some French projector. I must not be thus
diffuse, or I shall weary the patience of my reader. A ride was
proposed after breakfast, and my uncle immediately invited me to try
his newly invented vehicle which could not be overset. {183} I have
constructed, said he, a carriage with a moveable perch; by means of
which the body swings out horizontally, whenever the wheels on one
side pass over any high obstacle or ground more elevated than the
other wheels rest upon; and I shall be glad to exhibit it to a young
man who is fresh from college, and must be acquainted with the
principles of mechanics. I readily accepted his proposal, although I
trembled for my neck; but declared I had no mechanical turn whatever,
and could not construct a wheelbarrow. He was sorry to hear this, as
he was in hopes I would be the depositary of all his schemes, and
bring them to perfection in case of his death, for the benefit of his
family. We soon set off on our ride; and Simon was the driver. As I
anticipated, in descending a hill where the ground presented great
inequality, the whole party were capsized, and nothing saved our bones
but the lowness of the vehicle. Never shall I forget the chagrin of my
uncle, nor the impatient contemptuous look of Simon, as he righted the
carriage; he did not dare to expostulate with his master, but could
not forbear saying that he had never met with such an accident when he
drove his four greys. "Ah, there is the cause," said my uncle, much
gratified at having an excuse for his failure; "Simon is evidently
intoxicated; old man, never presume to drive me again when you are not
perfectly sober; you will ruin the most incomparable contrivance upon
earth." Simon contented himself with a sly wink at me, and we made the
best of our way home; my uncle promising me another trial in a short
time, and I determining to avoid it, if human ingenuity could contrive
the means. The next day, as I was amusing myself with a book, my uncle
came in from his workshop, with a face beaming with pleasure; and
entering the room, proceeded in the most careful manner to close all
the doors; and producing a small crooked stick, said to me with a
mysterious air, "My boy, this stick, small and inconsiderable as it
seems to be, has made your fortune. It is worth a million of dollars,
for it has suggested to me an improvement in my machine for producing
perpetual motion, which puts the thing beyond all doubt." Is it
possible, cried I, that so small a stick can be worth so much? "Yes,
depend upon it--and I carefully closed the doors, because I would not
be overheard for the world. Some fellow might slip before me to the
patent office, and rob me of my treasure." I observed that nobody was
there who could possibly do so. "Yes, somebody might be casually
passing, and I cannot be too vigilant. I take it for granted," he
resumed, "that you are apprised of the grand desideratum in this
business. You do not imagine, with the ignorant, that I expect to make
matter last longer than God intended; the object is to get a machine
to keep time so accurately, that it may be used at sea to ascertain
the longitude with precision. Do you know that a gentleman has already
constructed a time piece, for which the Board of Longitude paid him
fifty thousand pounds; but owing to the metallic expansion, it would
not be entirely accurate." I answered that I had not so much as heard
of the Board of Longitude--and he proceeded to explain his
improvement, of which I did not comprehend a syllable. All that I felt
sure of, although I did not tell him so, was that he would not succeed
in realizing the million of dollars; and, accordingly, when admitted
as a great favor into his sanctum sanctorum, the work shop, to witness
his machine put in motion, it stood most perversely still after one
revolution, and "_some slight alteration_" remained to be made to the
end of the chapter,--until hope became extinct in every breast save
that of the projector. I could fill a volume with anecdotes of this
sort, but will add only one, as descriptive of the very great height
to which visionary notions may be carried. My uncle was a federalist,
and of course hated Buonaparte from the bottom of his soul. He told me
as a most profound secret, that he had discovered the means of making
an old man young again, by removing from him the atmospheric pressure,
and that nothing deterred him from patenting his discovery, but the
fear that Buonaparte would attach his machinery to a body of soldiers
and fly across the British Channel, and thus light down in the midst
of England, and make an easy conquest of the only barrier left upon
earth to secure the liberties of mankind. Eheu! jam satis! thought I.
In this way did my poor uncle spend his time, to the utter ruin of a
fine estate, which was surrendered to the management of that most
pestilent of the human race, an overseer,--who would not at last be at
the trouble of furnishing the old gentleman with wood enough to keep
him warm in his spacious edifice. The means he resorted to, to reprove
the overseer, were not less characteristic and laughable than many of
his singular notions. One very cold day he sent for him; the man
attended, and was ushered with much solemnity into an apartment where
a single chump was burning feebly in the chimney place, and a table
was standing in the centre of the room, covered with papers, pen and
ink. My uncle received him with unusual courtesy, and ordered the
servant to set a chair for Mr. Corncob by the _fire_,--with a peculiar
emphasis on the word. "I have sent for you, Mr. Corncob," said he, "to
get you to witness my will. You see, sir," pointing at the same time
to the fire--"you see, sir, how small a probability there is that I
shall survive the present winter. I am anxious to settle my affairs
previous to my being attacked by the pleurisy, and have therefore sent
for you to aid me in doing so." This was a severe reproof, and the man
having done as he was bid, retired with an air the most sheepish
imaginable. I fill up the picture by stating that I married my cousin,
and inherited the estate in due course of time; but a mortgage
swallowed it up as effectually as an earthquake--and poor old Simon
died of a broken heart when Regulus was knocked off at the sale of his
master's property at twenty dollars, to the man whom he hated of all
others, Christopher Corncob, Esquire.

NUGATOR.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES WRITTEN IMPROMPTU,

On a Lady's intimating a wish to see some verses of mine in the
Messenger.


  A Lady requests me to write
    Some lines for your Messenger's muse,
  And I cannot be so impolite,
    By any means, as to refuse.

  So I scribble these words in my way,
    In spite of Minerva, you see;
  But Venus will smile on my lay,
    And that is sufficient for me.

A. B.


{184}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE PEASANT-WOMEN OF THE CANARIES.


  Beautiful Islands, how fair you lie
  Beneath the light of your cloudless sky,
  And the light green waves that around you play,
  Seem keeping forever a holiday;--
  Beautiful Islands, how bright you rise
  'Twixt the crystal sea and the sunny skies!

  The luscious grape, with its royal hue
  Veil'd in a tint of the softest blue,
  Hangs on the vine in its purple prime
  As proud to garnish its own sweet clime,
  And the olive sports in your soft, sweet air
  Its pale green foliage--a native there.

  Music is ceaseless your trees among,
  Thou Island-home of a choral throng;
  Music unheard on a foreign shore;--
  Songs of the free--which they will not pour
  When exile-minstrels compelled to roam--
  They're sacred songs to their sweet isle-home.

  Why, though it's light in the Olive-bower,
  And fragrance breathes from the Orange-flower,
  And the sea is still and the air is calm
  And the early dew is a liquid balm--
  Why are the young ones forbade to roam,
  Or stray from the door of their Cottage-home?[1]

  In the light that plays through the Olive-bower,
  In the scent that breathes from the Orange-flower,
  In the liquid balm of the early dew,
  In the smooth, calm sea with its emerald hue,
  Can the Peasant-mother no charm descry
  To protect from the curse of the "evil eye."

  While they shall loiter the trees among,
  Echoing the wild Canary's song,
  The "_mal de ajo_" may on them rest
  And blight the pride of the mother's breast;
  Her bosom throbs with a secret dread,
  Though paths of Eden her loved ones tread.

  Lo, from the Peak, with its hoary crown,
  The "_el a pagador_" sails down,
  And over the Cot in the moon-light floats,
  Foreboding death in its awful notes--
  Who in that Cottage but pants for breath,
  And hears that voice as the voice of death?

  Richly the vine with its deep green leaf,
  Girdles the base of the Teneriffe,--
  Yet there, in the prime of the sunny day,
  The Peasant-maiden dares not to stray,
  Till the secret charm to her arm is set,
  And her bosom throbs to an amulet.

  When, oh! when, shall darkness flee,
  From the rosy Isles of the sunny sea?
  The light of Truth with its living ray,
  Pour on their dwellers a clearer day,
  And _Mind_ from the chain of its darkness rise,
  Like a bird set free, to its native skies?

ELIZA.

_Maine_.

[Footnote 1: D. Y. Brown's Superstitions of the Canary Islands.]




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE HEART.


  Man's heart! what melancholy things
    Are garner'd up in thee!--
  What solace unto life it brings
    That none the heart can see--
  'Tis shut from every human eye,
    Close curtain'd from the view;
  The scene alike of grief or joy--
    Man's Hell and Heaven too.

  Should all mankind combine to tear
    The curtain, thrown around,
  Their labor would be spent in air--
    It is his hallow'd ground:
  Within thy magic circle, Heart!
    So potent is his spell,
  No human hand hath strength to part
    Or turn aside the veil.

  In sadness, there's a pleasure soft,
    "Which mourners only know;"
  My heart affords this treasure oft,
    And there I love to go;
  It is the chosen spot where I
    Can live my life anew--
  My Home!--my Castle!--my Serai!
    Which none must dare break through.

  In thee, my Heart! I am alone
    Quite unrestrained and free,
  Thou'rt hung with pictures all my own,
    And drawn for none but me;
  All that in secret passes there,
    Forever I can hide;
  Ambition--love--or dark despair--
    My jealousy--or pride.

  Yes, when ambitious--ardent--young--
    I thought the world my own,
  My glowing portraits there were hung;
    How have their colors flown!--
  Some are by Time, defaced so far
    I look on them with pain;
  But Time nor nothing else can mar
    The portrait of my JANE.

  I placed her there who won my soul;
    No creature saw the maid;
  I gazed in bliss, without control,
    On every charm displayed:
  It was a sweet, impassion'd hour,
    When not an eye was near
  To steal into my lonely bower,
    And kiss her image there.

  Earth held not on its globe the man
    Who breathed that holy air;
  No mortal eye but mine did scan
    My folly with my fair;
  Sole monarch of that silent spot,
    All things gave place to me;
  I did but wish--no matter what--
    Each obstacle would flee.

  And did she love? She loved me not,
    But gave her hand away; {185}
  I hied me to my lonely spot--
    In anguish passed the day;
  And such a desolation wide,
    Spread o'er that holy place,
  The stream of life itself seemed dried,
    Or ebbing out apace.

  But what I did--what madly said--
    I cannot tell to any--
  Her portrait in its place hath staid,
    Though years have flown so many;
  Nor can each lovely lineament
    So deep impress'd, depart,
  Till Nature shall herself be spent,
    And thou shalt break, MY HEART.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MR. WHITE,--I send you a Parody upon Bryant's Autumn, apparently
written by some disconsolate citizen of Richmond after the adjournment
of the Legislature in time past. If the picture be faithfully drawn,
it may perhaps amuse the members of the assembly who are now in your
city.

NUGATOR.

PARODY ON BRYANT'S AUTUMN.


  The very dullest days are come, the dullest of the year,
  When all our great Assembly men are gone away from here;
  Heaped up in yonder Capitol, how many bills lie dead,
  They just allowed to live awhile, to knock them on the head;
  Tom, Dick, and Harry all have gone and left the silent hall,
  And on the now deserted square we meet no one at all--
  Where are the fellows? the fine young fellows that were so lately
        here
  And vexed the drowsy ear of night with frolic and good cheer.
  Alas! they all are at their homes--the glorious race of fellows,
  And some perhaps are gone to forge, and some are at the bellows.
  Old Time is passing where they are, but Time will pass in vain;
  All _never_ can, though _some_ may be, _transported_ here again:
  Old "_What d'ye call him_," he's been off a week, or maybe more,
  And took a little negro up, behind and one before;
  But _What's his name_ and _You know who_, they lingered to the last,
  And neither had a dollar left and seemed to be downcast;
  Bad luck had fallen on them as falls the plague on men,
  And their phizzes were as blank as if they'd never smile again;
  And then when comes December next, as surely it will come,
  To call the future delegate from out his distant home,
  When the sound of cracking nuts is heard in lobby and in hall,
  And glimmer in the smoky light old Shockoe Hill and all,
  An old friend searches for the fellows he knew the year before,
  And sighs to find them on the Hill Capitoline, no more;
  But then he thinks of one who her promise had belied,
  The beautiful Virginia, who had fallen in her pride.
  In that great house 'twas said she fell where stands her gallant
        chief,
  Who well might weep in marble, that her race had been so brief--
  Yet not unmeet it was he thought--oh no, ye heavenly powers!
  Since she trusted those good fellows, who kept such shocking hours.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

  Audire magnos jam videor duces
  Non indecoro pulvere sordidos.--_Hor. Car. L. ii. 1._

I stood upon the heights above Charlestown, and was silently
contrasting the then peaceful aspect of the scene with that which it
presented on the day of wrath and blood which had rendered the place
so memorable in story, as my fancy filled with images of the past and
once more crowded the hill--not indeed with knights and paladins of
old,

  Sed rusticorum mascula militum
  Proles, Sabellis docta ligonibus
  Versare glebas, et severae
  Matris ad arbitrium recisos
  Portare fustes.--_Hor. Lib. iii. Car. 6._

As the silent hosts arose in imagination before me, I thought of the
complicated feelings which on that day must have stirred their hearts;
I thought of the breasts which kindled under the insult of invasion
and were nerved with the stern determination to play out the game upon
which was staked their all of earthly hope or fear, and it struck me
that the gallant Warren, whose voice had often made the patriot's
heart to glow and nerved the warrior's arm, might perhaps have
addressed them in sentiment something as follows:

THE BATTLE OF BREED'S HILL.


  Look down upon the bay, my men,
    As proudly comes the foe;
  Ah! send them back their shout agen,
    That patriot hearts may glow.

  They come to us in pomp of war--
    The tyrant in his gold;
  Our arms are few--they're stronger far,
    But who will say as bold?

  No Briton ever forged the chains
    Shall bind our hands at will;
  The Pilgrim spirit still remains,
    Out on the western hill.

  Their power may awe the coward slave,
    But not the stalwart free;
  Their steel may drive us to the grave,
    But not from liberty.

  Our fathers spirit boils along
    Impetuous through our veins;
  We ask to know, where are the strong,
    To bind us in their chains?

  Then let the foe look to his steel,
    And count his numbers strong;
  We bide him here for wo or weal,
    As he shall know ere long.

  We'll dare him to the last of death--
    We've sworn it in our hearts;
  We stand upon our native heath--
    We'll hold till life departs.

  Oh! what is death to slavery!
    The dead at least are free:
  And what is life for victory!
    We strike for _liberty!_

  This sod shall warm beneath our feet,
    All reeking in our gore,
  And hearts that gladly cease to beat,
    The foe must trample o'er. {186}

  Our boys are bold--their mothers stern,
    Will rear them true and brave,
  And many noble hearts shall burn
    To free a father's grave.

  Let every tongue be hushed and still,
    Each soldier hold his breath--
  They're marching up the sloping hill,--
    And now prepare for death.

ALPHA.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO A LADY.


  Oh! do not sing--my soul is wrung
    When those sweet tones salute mine ear;
  Thou canst not sing as _thou hast_ sung--
    As _I have heard_, I cannot hear.
  Then do not breathe to me one strain
    Of those I loved in years gone by;
  Their melody can only throw
    A darker cloud upon my sky.

  Speak not to me!--thine accents fall
    By far too sadly on my ear;
  They _told_ of love, and hope, and joy--
    They _tell_ of life made lone and drear.
  No word speak thou! The tones are changed
    That breathed to me thy young heart's vow
  Of all-enduring fondness; aye!
    Thou canst but speak in _kindness_ now.

  And worse than all would be the smile
    Which once was mine, and only mine;
  Thou wert my hope--thy love my pride--
    Thy heart my spirit's chosen shrine.
  But _now_--oh! smile not on me _now_;
    'Tis insult--worse, 'tis mockery!
  Estranged, and cold, and false, thou art;
    Smile if thou wilt--but not on me.

 M. S. L.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO IANTHE.


  Think of me when the morning wakes,
    With a smile that's bright and a blush that's new;
  And the wave-rocked goddess gently shakes
    From her rosy wings, the gems of dew.

  Think of me, when the day-god burns
    In his noon-tide blaze and his purest light;
  And think of me when his chariot turns
    To the sombre shades of silent night.

  Think of me, when the evening's store
    Of brilliance, fades on the wondering eye;
  And think of me, when the flowers pour
    Their incense to the star-lit sky.

  Think of me when the evening star,
    Through the deep blue sky shall dart his beams;
  And think of me when the mind, afar,
    Shall chase the forms of its joyous dreams.

  Think of me in the hour of mirth--
    Think of me in the hour of prayer--
  Aye! think amidst each scene of earth,
    You feel my spirit is mingling there.

  For morning's beam--nor evening's light--
    Nor days of woe--nor hours of glee--
  Nor e'en religion's holiest rite,
    Can steal or force my thoughts from thee.

FERGUS.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SONNET.

FROM THE PORTUGUES OF CAMOENS.

BY R. H. WILDE, _Of Georgia_.

  Sonnet xliii. of the edition of 1779-1780.

  "O cysne quando sente ser chegada," &c.


  They say the Swan, though mute his whole life long,
  Pours forth sweet melody when life is flying,
  Making the desert plaintive with his song,
  Wondrous and sad, and sweetest still while dying;
  Is it for life and pleasure past he's sighing,
  Grieving to lose what none can e'er prolong?
  Oh, no! he hails its close, on death relying
  As an escape from violence and wrong:
  And thus, dear lady! I at length perceiving,
  The fatal end of my unhappy madness,
  In thy oft broken faith no more believing,
  Welcome despair's sole comforter with gladness,
  And mourning one so fair is so deceiving,
  Breathe out my soul in notes of love and sadness.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EPIGRAMME FRANCAISE.


  Lit de mes plaisirs; lit de mes pleurs;
  Lit on je nais; lit on je mours;
  Tu nous fais voir combien procheins
  Sort nos plaisirs de nos chagrins.

TRANSLATION.

  Couch of Sorrow; Couch of Joy;
  Of Life's first breath, and Death's last sigh;
  Thou makest us see what neighbors near
  Our pleasures and our sorrows are.

The above was the execution of a task proposed by a French gentleman,
who, boasting the piquant terseness of his language, said that the
original could not be rendered into English.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TRUE CONSOLATION.


  He had wept o'er the honored, in age who die;
    O'er the loved,--in beauty's bloom;
  O'er the blighted buds of infancy:
    Till all earth was to him a Tomb.

  And sorrow had drunk his youthful blood,
    And hastened the work of Time;
  And the cankering tooth of ingratitude
    Had withered his manhood's prime.

  But he turned from earth, and he looked to the sky,
    His sorrow by faith beguiling;
  Where Mercy sits enthroned on high,
    With his loved ones round her smiling.

  He looked to Eternity's bright shore,
    From the wreck of perished years;
  And Mercy's voice, through the storm's wild roar,
    Came down to sooth his fears.

  That gentle voice has charmed away
    The frenzy from his brain;
  And his withered heart, in her eye's mild ray,
    May bud and bloom again; {187}

  And her smile has chased the gloom from his brow,
    So late by clouds o'ercast;
  And his cheek is bright with the sun-set glow,
    That tells that the Storm is past.

  And his heart returns to the world again,
    But forgets not the world above;
  For Heaven sends love to sooth earthly pain,
    But Heaven's whole bliss is Love.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SONNET.

BY R. H. WILDE, _Of Georgia_.


  Thou hast thy faults VIRGINIA!--yet I own
    I love thee still, although no son of thine;
  For I have climb'd thy mountains, not alone--
    And made the wonders of thy vallies mine,
    Finding from morning's dawn 'till day's decline
  Some marvel yet unmarked--some peak whose throne
    Was loftier; girt with mist, and crown'd with pine,
  Some deep and rugged glen with copse o'ergrown,
    The birth of some sweet valley, or the line
  Traced by some silver stream that murmured lone;
    Or the dark cave where hidden crystals shine,
  Or the wild arch across the blue sky thrown;[1]
    Or else those traits of nature, more divine
  That in some favored child of thine had shone.

[Footnote 1: The Natural Bridge.]




[The following letter, written by a distinguished President of the
oldest College in Virginia, has been already or rather formerly before
the public;--but no apology is necessary for transferring it to the
columns of the "Messenger." Its elegant style and still more excellent
sentiments, will always command admiration,--and we doubt whether we
could render a more essential service to society than to republish it
annually, in order that every young married lady (at least within the
range of our subscription) should receive the benefit of its precepts.
Certain we are, that more wholesome advice conveyed in more agreeable
language, we have seldom seen contained in the same space. It is of
itself a volume of instruction, and we do most cheerfully recommend it
to the softer sex, whether married or single; for the married may
profit by it even after years of conjugal tranquillity--and the single
may at least _expect_ to profit. It is more especially applicable,
however, to her who has just sworn her vows on the altar of
hymen--whose life of bliss and peace, or misery and discord, may
depend upon the first six or twelve months of "prudent, amiable,
uniform conduct."

Let it not be understood, however, that we are believers in the
doctrine, that the pleasures of the matrimonial voyage are wholly
dependant upon the conduct of the lady. She is but the second in
command, and still greater responsibilities rest upon him who stands
at the helm and guides the frail bark of human happiness. We should
indeed be thankful if some of our highly gifted and experienced
friends would prepare a _counterpart_ to this valuable letter of
advice, designed more particularly for the edification of such of us
lords of creation as have either contracted or are likely to contract
the nuptial bond. As to the old bachelors they are an incorrigible
race, upon whom such advice would be wasted, and therefore they need
not trouble themselves to read it.]

ADVICE FROM A FATHER TO HIS ONLY DAUGHTER.

WRITTEN IMMEDIATELY AFTER HER MARRIAGE.


_My dear Daughter_,--You have just entered into that state which is
replete with happiness or misery. The issue depends upon that prudent,
amiable, uniform conduct, which wisdom and virtue so strongly
recommend, on the one hand, or on that imprudence which a want of
reflection or passion may prompt, on the other.

You are allied to a man of honor, of talents, and of an open, generous
disposition. You have, therefore, in your power, all the essential
ingredients of domestic happiness; it cannot be marred, if you now
reflect upon that system of conduct which you ought invariably to
pursue--if you now see clearly, the path from which you will resolve
never to deviate. Our conduct is often the result of whim or caprice,
often such as will give us many a pang, unless we see beforehand, what
is always the most praiseworthy, and the most essential to happiness.

The first maxim which you should impress deeply upon your mind, is,
never to attempt to control your husband by opposition, by
displeasure, or any other mark of anger. A man of sense, of prudence,
of warm feelings, cannot, and will not, bear an opposition of any
kind, which is attended with an angry look or expression. The current
of his affections is suddenly stopped; his attachment is weakened; he
begins to feel a mortification the most pungent; he is belittled even
in his own eyes; and be assured, the wife who once excites those
sentiments in the breast of a husband, will never regain the high
ground which she might and ought to have retained. When he marries
her, if he be a good man, he expects from her smiles, not frowns; he
expects to find in her one who is not to control him--not to take from
him the freedom of acting as his own judgment shall direct, but one
who will place such confidence in him, as to believe that his prudence
is his best guide. Little things, what in reality are mere trifles in
themselves, often produce bickerings, and even quarrels. Never permit
them to be a subject of dispute; yield them with pleasure, with a
smile of affection. Be assured that one difference outweighs them all
a thousand, or ten thousand times. A difference with your husband
ought to be considered as the greatest calamity--as one that is to be
most studiously guarded against; it is a demon which must never be
permitted to enter a habitation where all should be peace, unimpaired
confidence, and heartfelt affection. Besides, what can a woman gain by
her opposition or her differences? Nothing. But she loses every thing;
she loses her husband's respect for her virtues, she loses his love,
and with that, all prospect of future happiness. She creates her own
misery, and then utters idle and silly complaints, but utters them in
vain. The love of a husband can be retained only by the high opinion
which he entertains of his wife's goodness of heart, of her amiable
disposition, of the sweetness of her temper, of her prudence, and of
her devotion to him. Let nothing upon any occasion, ever lessen that
opinion. On the contrary, it should augment every day: he should have
much more reason to admire her for those {188} excellent qualities,
which will cast a lustre over a virtuous woman, when her personal
attractions are no more.

Has your husband staid out longer than you expected? When he returns,
receive him as the partner of your heart. Has he disappointed you in
something you expected, whether of ornament, or furniture, or of any
conveniency? Never evince discontent; receive his apology with
cheerfulness. Does he, when you are housekeeper, invite company
without informing you of it, or bring home with him a friend? Whatever
may be your repast, however scanty it may be, however impossible it
may be to add to it, receive them with a pleasing countenance, adorn
your table with cheerfulness, give to your husband and to your company
a hearty welcome; it will more than compensate for every other
deficiency; it will evince love for your husband, good sense in
yourself, and that politeness of manners, which acts as the most
powerful charm! It will give to the plainest fare a zest superior to
all that luxury can boast. Never be discontented on any occasion of
this nature.

In the next place, as your husband's success in his profession will
depend upon his popularity, and as the manners of a wife have no
little influence in extending or lessening the respect and esteem of
others for her husband, you should take care to be affable and polite
to the poorest as well as to the richest. A reserved haughtiness is a
sure indication of a weak mind and an unfeeling heart.

With respect to your servants, teach them to respect and love you,
while you expect from them a reasonable discharge of their respective
duties. Never tease yourself, or them, by scolding; it has no other
effect than to render them discontented and impertinent. Admonish them
with a calm firmness.

Cultivate your mind by the perusal of those books which instruct while
they amuse. Do not devote much of your time to novels; there are a few
which may be useful in improving and in giving a higher tone to our
moral sensibility; but they tend to vitiate the taste, and to produce
a disrelish for substantial intellectual food. Most plays are of the
same cast; they are not friendly to the delicacy which is one of the
ornaments of the female character. HISTORY, GEOGRAPHY, POETRY, MORAL
ESSAYS, BIOGRAPHY, TRAVELS, SERMONS, and other well written religious
productions, will not fail to enlarge your understanding, to render
you a more agreeable companion, and to exalt your virtue. A woman
devoid of rational ideas of religion, has no security for her virtue;
it is sacrificed to her passions, whose voice, not that of GOD, is her
only governing principle. Besides, in those hours of calamity to which
families must be exposed, where will she find support, if it be not in
her just reflections upon that all ruling Providence which governs the
Universe, whether animate or inanimate.

Mutual politeness between the most intimate friends, is essential to
that harmony, which should never be once broken or interrupted. How
important then is it between man and wife!--The more warm the
attachment, the less will either party bear to be slighted, or treated
with the smallest degree of rudeness or inattention. This politeness,
then, if it be not in itself a virtue, is at least the means of giving
to real goodness a new lustre; it is the means of preventing
discontent, and even quarrels; it is the oil of intercourse, it
removes asperities, and gives to every thing a smooth, an even, and a
pleasing movement.

I will only add, that matrimonial happiness does not depend upon
wealth; no, it is not to be found in wealth; but in minds properly
tempered and united to our respective situations. Competency is
necessary; all beyond that point, is ideal. Do not suppose, however,
that I would not advise your husband to augment his property by all
honest and commendable means. I would wish to see him actively engaged
in such a pursuit, because engagement, a sedulous employment, in
obtaining some laudable end, is essential to happiness. In the
attainment of a fortune, by honorable means, and particularly by
professional exertion, a man derives particular satisfaction, in self
applause, as well as from the increasing estimation in which he is
held by those around him.

In the management of your domestic concerns, let prudence and wise
economy prevail. Let neatness, order and judgment be seen in all your
different departments. Unite liberality with a just frugality; always
reserve something for the hand of charity; and never let your door be
closed to the voice of suffering humanity. Your servants, in
particular, will have the strongest claim upon your charity;--let them
be well fed, well clothed, nursed in sickness, and never let them be
unjustly treated.




ORIGINAL LITERARY NOTICES.


VATHEK--An Oriental Tale, by Mr. Beckford, author of Italy, &c.
Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard. 1834.

The publishers of this _fashionable_ romance, by way of smoothing its
path to general reception and favor, have attached to the title page
various opinions expressed by English journalists,--to wit: The
_Quarterly Review_ says, "a very remarkable performance. It continues
in possession of all the celebrity it once commanded." The "_Printing
Machine_" (a paper we presume of that name) says, "As an Eastern
story, we know nothing produced by an European imagination that can
stand a comparison with this work." The _Morning Post_ exclaims, "The
finest Oriental tale extant!" and the "_Gentleman's Magazine_,"
pronounces it "a creation of genius that would immortalize its author
at any time, and under any taste." These are very imposing
authorities, and superadded to them all, it is said that Mr. Beckford
is now living, is one of the richest men in England, and occupies so
high a rank in social life, that royalty itself has been known to
court his society. Nor is this all. Lord Byron pronounced "Vathek" to
be a most surpassing production--far superior as an Eastern tale, to
the "Rassalais" of Johnson,--and whatever has been said by Lord Byron,
especially in matters of taste, will pass with some persons as
incontrovertible orthodoxy. We have not examined particularly to
ascertain what our own critics have said on the subject; but we
believe that some of them at least, have echoed the plaudits of the
British periodicals. Be this as it may, we happen to have an honest
opinion of our own, and we must say, in our poor judgment, that a more
impure, disgusting, and execrable production, than this same "Vathek,"
never issued from the English or American press. That the author was a
youth of extraordinary genius, is acknowledged; (he wrote before
twenty years of age)--but it was {189} genius totally perverted and
poisoned at its source. The work could hare been written by no one
whose heart was not polluted at its very core. Obscene and blasphemous
in the highest degree, its shocking pictures are in no wise redeemed
by the beauty and simplicity of Oriental fiction. We should pronounce
it, without knowing any thing of Mr. Beckford's character, to be the
production of a sensualist and an infidel--one who could riot in the
most abhorred and depraved conceptions--and whose prolific fancy
preferred as its repast all that was diabolical and monstrous, rather
than what was beautiful and good. We shall not even attempt a detailed
account of this volume--but when such works are recommended to public
favor, we think it is time that criticism should brandish its rod, and
that the genius of morality--if there be such a spirit in our
land--should frown down the effort.


LEISURE HOURS, or the American Popular Library; conducted by an
Association of Gentlemen. Boston: _John Allen & Co._ 1835.

Here is another contribution to the constantly increasing store of
popular literature. If the present generation does not surpass all its
predecessors in the acquisition of knowledge in its various forms, it
will not be from any deficiency of intellectual food. In England, the
Family Library, the Libraries of Useful and Entertaining Knowledge,
the Penny Magazine, and innumerable other productions of the same
class, are employed to diffuse through every portion of society, sound
and valuable instruction; and many of these excellent publications are
not only reprinted in the United States, but the time is not distant
when we may justly boast of others of entirely domestic origin. The
work before us seems to have been commenced under favorable auspices,
and with laudable objects. The editors in their advertisement, which
we quote at length for the benefit of our readers, "propose to
publish, at convenient intervals, a series of volumes of standard
merit, calculated to interest and instruct every class of the
community. Although they have chosen for the title of the series, the
name of the American Popular Library, it is not to be understood that
it is to consist wholly, or even principally, of American works. Nor,
on the other hand, will any work, however popular, be introduced into
the series, unless, in the opinion of the editors, it shall possess
such a character as will secure to it a continued reputation, after it
shall have ceased to interest by its novelty. In their selections they
do not propose to be limited to any one class of works, but to include
such books in each department, as shall appear to them to be most
deserving of a place in the library of an enlightened christian
family.

"It seems to them important, that the attention of our reading
community should be turned to works of more _permanent_ value, than
belongs to most of the periodical literature of the day, or at least
that it should not be confined exclusively to works of only a
temporary interest. The spirit of the times appears also to demand,
that the separation, which has too often been made between elegant
literature and pure christianity, should cease to exist, and that a
christian literature should take the place of that, which has, in many
cases, begun and ended in infidelity. It is the design of the editors
of this publication to promote, so far as shall be in their power, the
union of polite literature, sound learning and christian morals.
Beyond this they do not suppose it necessary that they should pledge
themselves to the public. A sufficient security for their patrons
seems to be provided, in leaving it optional with the purchaser to
take only such part of the series as he may choose.

"It is intended that a volume of nearly uniform size shall be issued
every two or three months, or in such a manner that four or five
volumes shall appear annually."

As a specimen of the work, we select at random the following story of

MY TWO AUNTS.

Philosophers tell us that we know nothing but from its opposite; then
I certainly know my two aunts very perfectly, for greater opposites
were never made since the formation of light and darkness; but they
were both good creatures--so are light and darkness both good things
in their place. My two aunts, however, were not so appropriately to be
compared to light and darkness as to crumb and crust--the crumb and
crust of a new loaf; the crumb of which is marvellously soft, and the
crust of which is exceedingly crisp, dry and snappish. The one was my
father's sister, and the other was my mother's; and very curiously it
happened that they were both named Bridget. To distinguish between
them, we young folks used to call the quiet and easy one aunt Bridget,
and the bustling, worrying one, aunt Fidget. You never, in the whole
course of your life, saw such a quiet, easy, comfortable creature as
aunt Bridget--she was not immoderately large, but prodigiously fat.
Her weight did not exceed twenty stone, or two-and-twenty at the
utmost--but she might be called prodigiously fat, because she was all
fat; I don't think there was an ounce of lean in her whole
composition. She was so imperturbably good natured, that I really do
not believe that she was ever in a passion in the whole course of her
life. I have no doubt that she had her troubles: we all have troubles,
more or less; but aunt Bridget did not like to trouble herself to
complain. The greatest trouble that she endured, was the alternation
of day and night: it was a trouble to her to go up stairs to bed, and
it was a trouble to her to come down stairs to breakfast; but, when
she was once in bed, she could sleep ten hours without dreaming; and
when she was once up, and seated in her comfortable arm-chair, by the
fireside, with her knitting apparatus in order, and a nice, fat, flat,
comfortable quarto volume on a small table at her side, the leaves of
which volume she could turn over with her knitting needle, she was
happy for the day: the grief of getting up was forgotten, and the
trouble of getting to bed was not anticipated. Knowing her aversion to
moving, I was once saucy enough to recommend her to make two days into
one, that she might not have the trouble of going up and down stairs
so often. Any body but aunt Bridget would have boxed my ears for my
impertinence, and would, in so doing, have served me rightly; but she,
good creature, took it all in good part, and said, "Yes, my dear, it
would save trouble, but I am afraid it would not be good for my
health--I should not have exercise enough." Aunt Bridget loved quiet,
and she lived in the quietest place in the world. There is not a spot
in the deserts of Arabia, or in the Frozen Ocean, to be for a moment
compared for quietness with Hans-place--

  "The very houses seem asleep;"

and when the bawlers of milk, mackerel, dabs, and flounders, enter the
placid precincts of that place, they scream with a subdued violence,
like the hautboy played with a piece of cotton in the bell. You might
almost fancy that oval of building to be some mysterious egg, on which
the genius of silence had sat brooding ever since the creation of the
world, or even before Chaos had combed its head and washed its face.
There {190} is in that place a silence that may be heard, a delicious
stillness which the ear drinks in as greedily as the late Mr. Dando
used to gulp oysters. It is said that, when the inhabitants are all
asleep, they can hear one another snore. Here dwelt my aunt
Bridget--kindest of the kind, and quietest of the quiet. But good
nature is terribly imposed upon in this wicked world of ours; and so
it was with aunt Bridget. Her poulterer, I am sure, used to charge her
at least ten per cent. more than any of the rest of his customers,
because she never found fault. She was particularly fond of ducks,
very likely from a sympathy with their quiet style of locomotion; but
she disliked haggling about the price, and she abhorred the trouble of
choosing them; so she left it to the man's conscience to send what he
pleased, and to charge what he pleased. I declare that I have seen
upon her table such withered, wizened, toad-like villains of
half-starved ducks, that they looked as if they had died of the
whooping-cough. And if ever I happened to say any thing approaching to
reproach of the poulterer, aunt would always make the same reply,--"I
don't like to be always finding fault." It was the same with her wine
as it was with her poultry: she used to fancy that she had Port and
Sherry: but she never had any thing better than Pontac and Cape
Madeira. There was one luxury of female life which my aunt never
enjoyed--she never had the pleasure of scolding the maids. She once
made the attempt, but it did not succeed. She had a splendid set of
Sunday crockery, done in blue and gold; and, by the carelessness of
one of her maids, the whole service was smashed at one fell swoop.
"Now, that is too bad," said my aunt; "I really will tell her of it."
So I was in hopes of seeing aunt Bridget in a passion, which would
have been as rare a sight as an American aloe in blossom. She rang the
bell with most heroic vigor, and with an expression of almost a
determination to say something very severe to Betty, when she should
make her appearance. Indeed, if the bell-pull had been Betty, she
might have heard half the first sentence of a terrible scolding; but
before Betty could answer the summons of the bell, my aunt was as cool
as a turbot at a tavern dinner. "Betty," said she, "are they all
broke?" "Yes, ma'am," said Betty. "How came you to break them?" said
my aunt. "They slipped off the tray, ma'am," replied Betty. "Well,
then, be more careful another time," said my aunt. "Yes, ma'am," said
Betty.

Next morning, another set was ordered. This was not the first, second,
or third time that my aunt's crockery had come to an untimely end. My
aunt's maids had a rare place in her service. They had high life below
stairs in perfection; people used to wonder that she did not see how
she was imposed upon: bless her old heart! she never liked to see what
she did not like to see--and so long as she could be quiet she was
happy. She was a living emblem of the Pacific Ocean.

But my aunt Fidget was quite another thing. She only resembled my aunt
Bridget in one particular; that is, she had not an ounce of lean about
her; but then she had no fat neither--she was all skin and bone; I
cannot say for a certainty, but I really believe, that she had no
marrow in her bones: she was as light as a feather, as dry as a stick,
and, had it not been for her pattens, she must have been blown away in
windy weather. As for quiet, she knew not the meaning of the word: she
was flying about from morning till night, like a fagot in fits, and
finding fault with every body and every thing. Her tongue and her toes
had no sinecures. Had she weighed as many pounds as my aunt Bridget
weighed stones, she would have worn out half-a-dozen pair of shoes in
a week. I don't believe that aunt Bridget ever saw the inside of her
kitchen, or that she knew exactly where it was; but aunt Fidget was in
all parts of the house at once--she saw every thing, heard every
thing, remembered every thing, and scolded about every thing. She was
not to be imposed upon, either by servants or trades-people. She kept
a sharp look out upon them all. She knew when and where to go to
market. Keen was her eye for the turn of the scale, and she took
pretty good care that the butcher should not dab his mutton chops too
hastily in the scale, making momentum tell for weight. I cannot think
what she wanted with meat, for she looked as if she ate nothing but
raspings, and drank nothing but vinegar. Her love of justice in the
matter of purchasing was so great, that when her fishmonger sent her
home a pennyworth of sprats, she sent one back to be changed because
it had but one eye.

She had such a strict inventory of all her goods and chattels, that,
if any one plundered her of a pin, she was sure to find it out. She
would miss a pea out of a peck; and she once kept her establishment up
half the night to hunt for a bit of cheese that was missing--it was at
last found in the mouse-trap. "You extravagant minx," said she to the
maid, "here is cheese enough to bait three mouse-traps;" and she
nearly had her fingers snapped off in her haste to rescue the cheese
from its prison. I used not to dine with my aunt Fidget so often as
with my aunt Bridget, for my aunt Fidget worried my very life out with
the history of every article that was brought to table. She made me
undergo the narration of all that she had said, and all that the
butcher or poulterer had said, concerning the purchase of the
provision; and she used always to tell me what was the price of mutton
when her mother was a girl--two pence a pound for the common pieces,
and twopence-halfpenny for the prime pieces. Moreover, she always
entertained me with an account of all her troubles, and with the sins
and iniquities of her abominable servants, whom she generally changed
once a month. Indeed, had I been inclined to indulge her with more of
my company, I could not always manage to find her residence; for she
was moving about from place to place, so that it was like playing a
game of hunt the slipper to endeavor to find her. She once actually
threatened to leave London altogether, if she could not find some more
agreeable residence than hitherto it had been her lot to meet with.
But there was one evil in my aunt Fidget's behavior, which disturbed
me more than any thing else; she was always expecting that I should
join her in abusing my placid aunt Bridget. Aunt Bridget's style of
house-keeping was not, perhaps, quite the pink of perfection, but it
was not for me to find fault with it; and if she did sit still all
day, she never found fault with those who did not; she never said any
thing evil of any of her neighbors. Aunt Fidget might be flying about
all day like a witch upon a broomstick; but aunt Bridget made no
remarks on it; she let her fly. The very sight of aunt Fidget was
enough to put one out of breath--she whisked about from place to place
at such a rapid rate, always talking at the rate of nineteen to the
dozen. We boys used to say of her that she never sat long enough in a
chair to warm the cover. But she is gone--_requiescat in pace_;[1] and
that is more than ever she did in her life-time.

[Footnote 1: May she rest in peace.]




EDITORIAL REMARKS.


In presenting the fourth number of the "Messenger" to the public, we
are gratified in announcing the continued support of our friends and
correspondents, and the increasing ardor with which the work is
patronized. Far more to the great cause of southern literature, than
to our own humble efforts, is it owing that we are encouraged from a
variety of quarters to persevere in our labors; and our generous well
wishers may rely, that we are not disposed to look back or falter in
our course,--borne as we are upon the "full tide of successful
experiment." Let but our friends continue to take an interest in our
cause, and this work will soon be placed beyond contingent evils. It
will become the {191} arena, where southern minds especially, may meet
in honorable collision; and when we say _southern_ minds, let us not
be understood as slighting or undervaluing the rich and valuable aid
which we hope to receive from our northern and eastern brethren. Far
from it. We desire to emulate their own noble efforts in behalf of
American literature, and to stir up our more languid countrymen, to
imitate their industry, and to hope for their success.

The rights and duties of the editorial chair, especially in the
infancy of a literary work, are extremely delicate. Taste is so
subtle, variable and uncertain a quality, that, for an editor to
establish his own, as a fixed and immutable standard--would seem
invidious, if not absolutely odious. On the other hand, some judgment
and discrimination must be exercised, or the consequences might be
still more injurious. The indiscriminate admission of _all_
pretenders, would be disparaging and unjust to those whose claims are
unquestionable. The true view of the subject we take to be this--not
to exclude all contributions which do not display a high degree of
merit--especially if their authors are young and evince a desire to
excel. One object of a work like the "Messenger," is to _improve_ the
exercise of thought and the habit of composition. A literary novice,
when he sees himself in print, and contrasts his productions with
those of more mature minds and more practised hands, will rouse
himself to greater effort. It may encourage and stimulate him to more
decided and brilliant exertion. Fine writing is not the acquisition of
a day or a year; it requires, in order to the full attainment of
success,--long, continued and unwearied application.

We make these remarks, because we are not entirely satisfied
ourselves, with _all_ the articles either in prose or verse, admitted
into the present number. We did not think, however, that any of them
deserved exclusion. In some of those which are published, may be
perceived undoubted indications of genius,--and in the rest, evidences
of high capacity to excel.

In noticing some of the pieces, we hope it will not be supposed that
we pass sentence of inferiority upon such as we omit to mention. Our
object is to ask the particular attention of the reader to those which
have afforded us peculiar pleasure.

It is with unalloyed satisfaction, that we continue the very able and
interesting account of "_Tripoli and the Barbary States_." The author
has thrown around authentic narrative, all the charms of romance; and
we perfectly agree with a contemporary editor in this city, that he
has reached in a very high degree the interest and dignity of the true
historic style.

The description of _Howard's Bottom_, under the head of "_Western
Scenery_," will be at once recognized as the production of a practised
and polished pen.

If the "_Hints to Students of Geology_," by an able proficient in the
science, shall serve to stimulate the languor which prevails in
Virginia on that subject, we shall be more than gratified.

In the "_March of Intellect_," by V, there is a singular mixture of
the serious and comic--of truth and caricature--which may not perhaps
be agreeable to all readers. All, however, will concede to the author,
vigor and fertility of mind,--with much of the "_copia verborum_" in
style. We should have taken the liberty to apply the pruning knife to
the luxuriant foliage of the "_Seasons_," from the same pen,--had we
not feared doing some injury to the fruit. The author has only to
cultivate his fine talents, in order to attain a high rank in the art
of composition.

There is a good deal of humor in the description of a Virginia
"_Fourth of July_,"--and we hope the writer will repeat his effort. In
the local and distinctive traits of our national manners, there is a
wide field for the pencil.

With the "_Essay on Luxury_," by B. B. B. H. we have taken some
liberties, and crave his indulgence if we have been too free.
Sometimes the finest thoughts and strongest reasoning, suffer
injustice by inattention to style.

The author of "_Eloquence_" has our earnest exhortations to press on
in the path which leads to renown. If we mistake not, he is actuated
by the noble ambition to acquire distinction.

The "_Valedictory in July 1829_," now for the first time published,
will command attention for the excellence of its precepts and
doctrines upon the all important subject of female education. No one
could be better qualified than the author, to enforce serious truths
in a graceful and agreeable manner.

We beg the reader's particular attention to the original tale of
"_Uncle Simon and the Mechanician_." The author's admirable sketches
derive additional value from the fact that they are not the mere
creations of fancy, but exact copies from nature.

Some of our readers may perhaps complain, that more than a due
proportion of the present number is devoted to the Muses. It may be
so; but our apology is, that some of the pieces have been so long on
hand, that to delay their publication would almost amount to
exclusion. If all the poetry is not of equal quality, there is still
enough which is excellent; enough to demonstrate beyond all question,
that if our Bards would only take courage, and rise superior to the
fear of foreign rivalry, the highest success would crown their
efforts. Among the pieces which have afforded us more than ordinary
pleasure, we may be allowed to enumerate the "_Peasant-Women of the
Canaries_," "_The Heart_," and that which we have taken the liberty to
designate by the title of "_True Consolation_." The oftener that we
read these, the more we like them; but we shall restrain the ardor of
our own feelings, lest our readers should suppose we indulge the
presumptuous thought of influencing their judgments.

It is with real pleasure that we insert two productions from the pen
of the _Hon. R. H. Wilde_. These would be enough of themselves to
disprove the charge of plagiarism preferred against that gentleman
during the Georgia election, in respect to the charming lines which
appeared in our first number, and which we stated were generally
ascribed to him. It is to us passing strange, that the sacred repose
of the republic of letters, should be disturbed by the agitations and
conflicts of party politics. Notwithstanding that the authorship of
"_My Life is like the Summer Rose_," has been confidently claimed by
some for O'Kelly, an Irish poet,--and by others for an ancient Greek
bard named Alceus, we still adhere to the opinion that that beautiful
effusion is the bona fide and genuine offspring of Mr. Wilde's muse.
Upon this subject, however, we shall reserve a more particular
expression of our sentiments for a future number.

{192} We have already expressed our opinion of the bards of Mobile and
Tuscaloosa. May we not expect a continuance of their favors?

The humorous "_Parody on Bryant's Autumn_," or rather on his piece
called the "_Death of the Flowers_," will strike every one acquainted
with the productions of the New York bard, as an admirable imitation
of his style. It is the more excellent, as Bryant's sombre imagery has
been made to assume a light and sportive dress.

We could say much in commendation of many of our other poetical
contributors, if it were not somewhat improper to invade too much the
province of our readers. We hope, therefore, that they will not for a
moment believe that we slight or undervalue their favors.




EXTRACTS FROM THE LETTERS OF CORRESPONDENTS.


FROM AN EMINENT LITERARY GENTLEMAN, NOW A RESIDENT OF LOUISIANA.

"I am domiciliated in the south for the residue of my days; and so far
as residence, pursuit, and the home of those most dear to me may be
supposed to impress local preferences, I am and long have been a
southern man. But we all love our dear common country better than all
that belongs to district and climate; and so loving my country, and so
being proud of its best fame and honor, its literary advancement, I
was decidedly pleased with your periodical. The writing, the printing,
_the revision of the proofs_, the _ensemble_, are all unquestionably
creditable to you. I am too old and too much hackneyed in the style of
periodicals to compliment. The Richmond Messenger gives respectable
promise. Periodicals have to me a kind of physiognomy. Some look
sickly and death-doomed from their birth. Yours give signs of a
vigorous and healthful vitality. May it live long and prosper."


FROM A DISTINGUISHED LITERARY LADY IN NEW YORK.

"I owe you a very humble apology for not having earlier acknowledged
your first communication and the receipt of the first number of your
work, which you were so kind as to send me. I was absent on a very
long journey when they reached my residence, and then my reply fell
into the ever open grave of deferred duties. I have since been
gratified to hear from various sources that your enterprise was
succeeding. It could hardly be otherwise, if you could once rouse the
minds in your beautiful state, where inspiring subjects every where
abound. Your request is very flattering to me, and I should most
willingly comply with it, but that I have at present more work on my
hands than I have energy to accomplish. At some future time, should
you continue to desire my services, it will give me pleasure to render
them."


FROM EASTERN VIRGINIA.

[A correspondent from whom we have received many favors, indulges in
the following sportive strain. So far from being willing that he
should "_sail before the mast_," we would rather see him take rank as
OUR POST CAPTAIN.]

"I sincerely rejoice in the success thus far of your undertaking, and
trust you have now been sustained long enough to give time to abler
men to come to your assistance. I wish you a good crew and a pleasant
voyage for your little frigate. I shall still occasionally sail with
you before the mast as a common sailor, until somebody gives me the
cat-o'-nine-tails, and then perhaps I shall stay at home and mind my
business, which is _clodhopping_, and which is perhaps more suitable
than the occupation I have lately been following."


"To read your paper is the _only one thing needful_ to enlarge its
circulation, to attract the attention, and to gain the affections of
the reading part of the community. It is a work peculiarly interesting
to southern literature, as its appeals are direct to the love of
letters, to the generous pride, and to the chivalric patriotism of
southerners. The monotonous sound of politics cannot but be
disgusting."




ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS TO CONTRIBUTORS, CORRESPONDENTS, &C.


We tender our thanks to the editor of the _Farmer's Register_ for
setting us right in respect to Mr. Peter A. Browne's letter on the
mineral resources of Virginia. The republication of that letter in the
Register had escaped our recollection entirely. We shall be much
gratified in having the able co-operation of Mr. Ruffin upon a subject
we have much at heart, to wit: a geological and mineralogical survey
of the state. When the legislature shall have settled the exact limits
of federal power, and the precise boundaries of state rights--if
indeed these things can be done in our time--or when we shall have
laid the broad and permanent foundation of a system of internal
improvement,--we hope then at least to see Virginia treading in the
paths of other states, and turning her attention to her own vast, and
in some respects, hidden resources.

We owe a similar acknowledgement to Mr. Fairfield, editor of the North
American Magazine, who informs us that Mr. Browne's letter also
appeared in one of his numbers, but which in like manner escaped our
notice.

The "_Remarks Delivered to the Law Class at William and Mary_," upon a
subject deeply interesting to the south, shall appear in our next
number.

The "_Letters from a Sister_," we have only had opportunity to glance
at. We have no doubt that they will furnish a rich store for the
entertainment of our readers.

The _Selections from the Manuscripts of Mrs. Wood_, are reluctantly
but unavoidably excluded from the present number, but shall certainly
appear in our next.

We have on hand a variety of poetical contributions, from which we
shall cull liberally for our pages. As some literary appetites
however, are cloyed by too many dainties, we must be somewhat
particular in the arrangement of our table.




The _Publisher_ offers an apology to his patrons for the delay in the
publication of the present number. The close of the year being, by
common consent, a season of holiday recreation rather than of
business, all just allowances will be made. He promises (always
excepting unforeseen accidents and contingencies) to be more punctual
hereafter. It is his desire to issue the Messenger, if possible,
regularly between the 20th and last day of each month. Contributors
ought to be governed accordingly. He tenders the compliments of the
season to his patrons.


{193}


SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. I.]  RICHMOND, JANUARY 1835.  [NO. 5.

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




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY

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

No. III.


From 1798 to 1803, William Eaton, formerly a captain in the army of
the United States, was their consul[1] in Tunis. As the character of
this remarkable man will be best illustrated by the account of his
proceedings in Barbary, it will be sufficient to premise that he had,
before his mission to that country, given proofs of more than ordinary
courage and capacity, and that the utmost confidence was placed in his
honor and integrity by those who possessed the means of forming an
opinion with regard to him. These are admirable qualities for a
diplomatic agent; on the other hand, he was irritable and cynical, and
was considered eccentric by persons who were unable to comprehend his
views or his plans. Ever open and liberal himself, he could not easily
conceal his contempt for those in whom he discovered signs of
duplicity or meanness; and his irrepressible frankness on such
occasions, was not calculated to render him an object of favor with a
government which reprobated treachery only when it was unsuccessful.

[Footnote 1: The consuls residing in the Barbary States, are
considered as the representatives of their several governments, and
are essentially diplomatic agents; although they are not so termed,
out of respect for the Porte.]

The Bey Hamouda, to whom Eaton was accredited, was a man vastly
superior to the generality of Barbary sovereigns; though free from
none of the vices which appear to have fixed their seat in that
portion of the earth, he was yet by no means their slave, being
neither a brutal ruffian nor a luxurious sybarite. His passions,
though violent, seldom obscured his observation, or led him to the
commission of imprudences or wanton cruelties; and it was only by
means of sagacity, energy and laboriousness such as he possessed, that
the throne of Tunis could have been held by one man for thirty-two
stormy years (1782 to 1815).

The intercourse between these two shrewd and fiery spirits, was a
continued series of discussions and struggles, of attempted
encroachments on the part of the Bey, and of obstinate resistance on
that of Eaton. The African Prince soon perceived that the American was
of a different stamp from the consuls to whom he had been hitherto
accustomed, and whom he regarded in general as mere intriguers, or
instruments for the conveyance of flattery and presents; and Eaton,
although he could not like or respect the Bey, yet seems to have
excepted him from the anathema of contempt in which he involved all
other inhabitants of Barbary. In the accounts of their interviews, we
see Hamouda ever anxious to secure advantages, yet at times displaying
something like a feeling of national pride; Eaton placing the honor of
his country as the first consideration, yet mindful of its smallest
interests when they could be reconciled with this primary object: the
Bey endeavoring to inveigle or surprise the American consul into a
promise of his influence to obtain some future concession from his
government; Eaton carefully avoiding, or boldly refusing the slightest
encouragement to such expectations, well knowing that it would be
construed and afterwards quoted as a definite or a partial engagement.
These accounts are indeed only to be found in the despatches of Eaton.
But independently of the character of the writer, his details bear
every mark of truth, and together present one of the most original and
interesting specimens of negotiation to be found in the annals of
diplomacy. The strength and the weakness of these anomalous
governments are there clearly exposed; and after the demonstrations
thus given, it would have been unpardonable in the Americans to have
longer persisted in the submissive course which they had been induced
to adopt.

Eaton's first business was to have amendments made in a treaty which
had been concluded between the United States and Tunis, through the
agency of a Frenchman named Famin; this was effected, after a display
of great ingenuity on both sides, and some mutual concessions. Then
came the arrangement of the presents from the American government,
which the Bey attempted to raise far beyond the amount agreed on,
hinting that war might be the consequence of refusal. It was on this
occasion that Eaton commenced his solicitations for the despatch of an
American squadron to the Mediterranean--"Send the _stipulated_
presents," said he, "but accompany them by a respectable force, and
let them be tendered under our guns; if then refused, the obligation
is at an end; delay, and we shall soon be obliged to redeem our
citizens from slavery." No ship of war appearing to support the
resistance of the American consul, the Bey increased his demands,
requiring at one time a frigate, and afterwards ten thousand stand of
arms. At length the appearance of Dale's squadron (1801) induced him
to lower his tone and to suspend his exactions.

The war between the United States and Tripoli soon occasioned new
difficulties, in the course of which the Bey showed himself well
acquainted with the received principles of national law; and
unfortunately the manner in which the operations of the American
squadron were conducted, gave him the advantage in the argument.
Tripoli had been declared in a state of blockade; yet months elapsed
during which no ship appeared on the coast to enforce it; indeed the
frigates (of which, with the exception of the schooner Enterprize, the
American squadron was entirely composed,) were nearly useless for that
purpose; the shallowness of the water enabling lighter vessels to
leave or enter the port, by running some distance close to the shore.
Eaton was unceasing in his solicitations to his government, and to the
officers of the squadron, for the pursuance of more energetic
measures; but his government adhered to its system of caution, and the
naval commanders appear to have been affected with that jealousy or
distrust which always exists in the minds of {194} such officers with
regard to the representatives of their nation abroad, particularly
towards those who are termed consuls. They received his
recommendations with hauteur, and treated them with neglect; and on
one or two occasions only could he obtain their co-operation.

The Bey seeing this, demanded passports for his vessels to carry grain
to Tripoli, which they had been in the habit of supplying with that
article. Eaton refused, alleging that it would be an infringement of
the blockade. The Bey replied that no blockade existed _de facto_; and
a series of discussions ensued, in which we see the Barbary Prince
insisting on an observance of the rules of national law, and the
American representative agent upholding a paper blockade.

The difficulties between Eaton and the Bey were much increased by the
intrigues of the Tunisian ministers and officers; particularly by
those of Sidi Yusuf, the _Seid-e-Tapa_, or Keeper of the Seal,
commonly called the Sapatapa, a wretch who by the most infamous
practices had amassed an immense fortune, and raised himself from the
condition of a Georgian slave to the highest place in the ministry. To
their ceaseless importunities for presents Eaton at first yielded; but
finding that compliance only rendered them more frequent, and that the
requests put on the form of exactions, he at length plainly refused,
frequently clothing his denial in a sarcastic dress, or accompanying
it by observations which no interpreter could soften into compliments.
Indeed, on several occasions, when the inferior agents were insolent,
he did not scruple to lay his cane over their shoulders; and even
Famin the Frenchman, who had been the representative of his government
in the negotiation of the treaty, felt the weight of his arm. These
circumstances rendered him obnoxious to the whole Tunisian government,
and every attempt was made to get rid of him, in order to obtain
another consul who might be of more pliable stuff. Intimidate him they
could not, but they succeeded fully in disgusting him.

Circumstances at length occurred which revived his hopes of seeing the
honor of his country vindicated, and its relations with the Barbary
powers established on a fair and firm basis. It has been stated that
Hamet, the exiled Prince of Tripoli, had sought refuge in Tunis from
the persecutions of his brother; he was there received and supported
by the Bey, partly from compassion, but principally from political
motives, as he might thus be employed to keep Yusuf in check. In the
summer of 1801, it was suggested to Eaton by the ex-consul Cathcart,
that the restoration of Hamet to the throne of Tripoli might in all
probability be easily effected through the assistance of the United
States, and that it would prove highly advantageous to American
interests. Eaton at first paid but little attention to the suggestion;
but afterwards having obtained information from Tripoli on which he
could rely, that the Pasha was very unpopular, and his subjects ripe
for revolt, he became acquainted with the Prince, and gradually
communicated to him his views. He proposed that Hamet should proceed
to Tripoli with the whole American squadron, and be there presented to
the people as their rightful sovereign; if accepted, peace was to be
made, on terms of which the principal were stated, one of them being
the delivery of Yusuf to the Americans; if the inhabitants should
however refuse to receive him, the war was to be prosecuted with vigor
to a conclusion.

Hamet at first appeared to enter into the plan, and communicated
information from which its success appeared still more probable; but
his natural irresolution soon returned, and innumerable difficulties
presented themselves to his imagination. The most serious ground of
objection taken by him was, that his family were still retained as
hostages in Tripoli, and the ruthlessness of his brother's character
rendered it highly probable that he might exercise towards them any
degree of violence, when prompted either by interest or revenge. To
this, Eaton opposed the consideration, that the appearance of an
overwhelming force, with the country too in arms against Yusuf, would
impress upon him the inutility of resistance, and oblige him to enter
into some arrangement for the release of Hamet's family, and the
surrender of the throne. The exiled Prince would however make no
promises, until he had been assured of the assistance of the American
force, which Eaton immediately endeavored to obtain; but neither his
instructions, nor those of the commander of the squadron, would
warrant such proceedings; and indeed, as the proposition came from
Eaton, it was of course reprobated and pronounced visionary by the
latter. The consul therefore wrote to his government, detailing his
plan, and urging its attention; and his health being much enfeebled,
he determined to await an answer in Italy, for which country he sailed
in December, 1801.

These projects could not be devised so secretly as to escape the
vigilance of the Tunisian government; and they were soon communicated
to Yusuf, by one of its ministers whom he kept in pay. They created in
him the utmost alarm. He had just then involved himself also in a war
with Sweden, and a fleet from that country had already entered the
Mediterranean under Admiral Cederstrom, who had orders to act in
concert with the Americans. His two largest vessels were lying useless
at Gibraltar; and Morat Rais, without whom he could do little towards
equipping others, was also at that place closely watched by his
enemies.

In this state of things, he endeavored to amuse the Americans with
propositions of peace; and the sovereigns of Algiers and Tunis being
in consequence engaged by him as mediators, sounded the consuls of the
United States at their respective courts, as to the dispositions of
their government. Nothing definite could be drawn from either: they
merely hinted what they hoped and believed, that nothing would be
paid, either for peace or as tribute; and the mediators were not
disposed to continue their good offices on such grounds. The Emperor
of Morocco also undertook to load the ships lying at Gibraltar with
wheat, and to procure for them, as his own property, American
passports for Tripoli. These were however refused by the consul of the
United States at Tangiers, and by the commander of their squadron; at
which the Emperor was so much incensed, that he ordered the American
consul to quit his dominions, and commenced hostilities against their
commerce. Morat Rais, the Scotch renegade, was however conveyed on
board a British ship of war to Malta, whence he easily passed over to
Tripoli, much to the disappointment of Eaton, who considered him as
the chief exciter of the difficulties, and as the only person in the
Pasha's {195} service at all acquainted with naval affairs. But very
little advantage was derived from his skill; worthy Peter had indeed
found it much easier to profit by the licenses of his new creed, than
to submit to its restrictions, and some of his old propensities had
probably been revived during his residence at Gibraltar; for after his
return to Tripoli, he remained some time in a constant state of
intoxication.

Yusuf still carried on his preparations for defence with great energy.
Moors and Arabs were called in and enrolled, some principal persons
from each village or tribe being kept as hostages in the castle. The
Swedish and American prisoners were employed in repairing the
fortifications, making gun carriages, &c.; and as no vessels could be
built in Tripoli, some were purchased and prepared for use as
cruisers.

But he had another object in view, of still greater importance; which
was to get Hamet again in his power. In this the Bey of Tunis
consented, it is said reluctantly, to aid him. Hamouda had no
objection to see the Pasha of Tripoli in an embarrassed state, or
indeed to have Hamet placed on the throne; but he was little inclined
to favor the pretensions of the latter on the score of _legitimacy_,
he himself being a usurper, and the heir to the throne of Tunis by
regular descent, being a prisoner in his castle; he also apprehended
that the success of Eaton's plan would encourage other christian
powers to interfere in the concerns of Barbary. It was therefore
proposed to Hamet to return to the government of Derne, which with his
family, Yusuf offered to restore to him; and the proposition was
accompanied by a hint that he would receive no farther supplies in
case he remained in Tunis. The poor Prince thus driven to extremities
was obliged to yield; a Russian vessel was in consequence engaged to
convey him to Derne, and he was to be escorted by a guard of honor
consisting of forty Tripoline soldiers, who had been sent to Tunis for
the purpose.

Had these arrangements proceeded much farther, there can be little
doubt as to what would have been the fate of Hamet; but information of
them was conveyed to Eaton by the Sapatapa, whose services he had
engaged before leaving Tunis. He was then at Leghorn, awaiting the
determination of his government; no answer to his communication with
regard to the restoration of Hamet had arrived, but he had just
received a letter from the Secretary of State which authorized him to
suppose that his plan would be favorably received. Therefore
considering that the present circumstances were too important to
permit delay, he hastily purchased and manned a vessel of fourteen
guns, called the Gloria, and sailed in her for Tunis, where he arrived
on the 18th of March, 1802. The Bey instantly demanded of him a
passport for Hamet and his suite, who were on the point of departure.
This he of course refused. Hamouda became outrageous, threatened to
imprison him, and to declare war against the United States; but
threats only suggested new resources to this energetic man, and his
determination was soon taken. In order to secure himself however, he
called a consultation of the principal Americans then in Tunis who
having approved his measures, the Gloria was despatched with letters,
to be delivered to the commander of the first American ship of war
which could be met with, communicating the state of the affair, and
requesting assistance to prevent the Prince from entering the
Tripoline territory. The frigate Boston was luckily soon found; her
commander, O'Neill, readily agreed to what was requested, and having
commissioned the Gloria as an United States ship, to act against
Tripoli, he sailed for the coast of Derne, in order to intercept the
vessel carrying Hamet. The Gloria returned in a few days to Tunis. In
the meantime Eaton had, by a promise of ten thousand dollars to the
Sapatapa, to be given in case of the success of his plans, opened a
communication with the Tripoline Prince, whom he was not permitted to
see. Every means was used to operate on his hopes, his fears, and even
his superstitious feelings. The prospects of his restoration by the
aid of the United States, were contrasted with the danger, nay the
certainty, of death, to which he exposed himself, by confiding in his
cruel and perfidious brother; the prophecies of a Marabout, respecting
his being replaced on the throne of Tripoli, by a people from the
setting sun, were gravely and ingeniously repeated; and when all these
representations had proved ineffectual, he was plainly assured that he
would not be allowed to reach Derne, but that he would be attacked on
his passage by the American squadron, and treated if taken, as a
Tripoline enemy. The miserable exile had no other resource than to
throw himself on the protection of the American consul. It was
therefore arranged that he should sail ostensibly for Derne, furnished
with a passport and also a private letter from Eaton, to be delivered
to any American commander or other authority with whom he might fall
in; and that the vessel should on the way put into Malta, under
pretence of avoiding the Americans and Swedes. This was done, and
Hamet landed safely at that island on the 11th of April.

The news of his arrival excited the strongest interest throughout
Barbary. The Bey of Tunis pronounced that all was over with Yusuf,
unless he made peace at once. The people of Tripoli were also much
excited, as they expected an attack to be immediately made. Yusuf,
though greatly alarmed, continued his preparations for defence; and it
is said, assembled in the course of the summer, fifty thousand troops
about the city; this was probably however, an exaggerated statement.
His naval force ready for sea, amounted to one vessel of eighteen
guns, one of sixteen, three of fourteen, and one of ten; with these,
Morat Rais when a little sobered, proposed to sail for Gibraltar, and
after releasing and manning the two vessels there lying, to put out on
the Atlantic, where he expected to reap a rich harvest of prizes. In
order to escape observation, he had provided his sailors with the
dresses of christian nations; but this _ruse_, as well as the plan it
was intended to promote, were soon communicated to the watchful Eaton,
and by him to the officers of the squadron.

However Tripoli was so carelessly blockaded, that some of the vessels
got to sea, one of which captured the brig Franklin, of Philadelphia,
and carried her into Algiers, where an attempt was made to dispose of
her and her crew. The American Consul at Algiers, remonstrated against
this proceeding, and endeavored to procure the surrender of the brig
and men, on the grounds that the Dey was bound, as guaranty of the
peace between the United States and Tripoli, to cause her {196}
delivery. The Dey replied, that he had engaged to act only as
mediator, but not to employ force in having the treaty respected; and
that moreover the principal parties to it being then at war, and the
United States actually holding Tripoli under blockade, the treaty as
well as the guaranty were in fact at an end. However, after some
delay, the Tripoline was ordered to quit the place, which he did,
taking his prize with him, to the little port of Biserta, in the
Tunisian territory, sixty miles from the capital; and the next day
(July 8) the brig and her crew were advertised for sale at Tunis. What
were the feelings of Eaton on this occasion may be conceived; his
application to Commodore Murray who commanded the squadron nominally
blockading Tripoli produced no effect; and to his mortification he saw
the cruiser quit the place with the American captives in irons, (the
brig being left at Biserta,) and heard of its safe entry into Tripoli
actually in sight of the frigate Constellation. As a last resource, in
order to alleviate the miseries of their captivity, he wrote a
moderate and conciliatory letter to the Pasha, recommending him not to
allow the American prisoners to be sold as slaves, but to have them
treated with lenity, to refrain from farther hostilities, and even to
receive Mr. Morris, the captain of the Franklin, as the agent of the
United States until affairs could be arranged.

The American ships of war soon after quitted that coast, to which they
did not return until the spring of 1803, leaving the consuls to defend
as they could their refusal to grant passports for Tripoli. Eaton
maintained his ground with obstinacy, the others yielded; the consul
at Algiers gave his passport to vessels which he knew were to be laden
with wheat for Tripoli; and the agent at Tangiers actually gave his,
to one of the Tripoline vessels of war which had been lying at
Gibraltar, and which accordingly sailed for Tripoli, laden with wheat
from Morocco. These circumstances when known, put an end to all
consideration and respect for the American consul, and even for the
American name in Tunis; as Eaton says, "it was a matter of exultation
at that piratical court, that _the American consul had been abandoned
by his countrymen_, and the occasion was seized _to humble his
pride_." He had involved himself in great expenses in furtherance of
his plans respecting Hamet, without authorization from his government;
a portion of the sums expended had been obtained in Tunis, and the ten
thousand dollars promised to the Sapatapa as a bribe, and which had
been forfeited by his treachery, were now demanded as the balance in a
mercantile transaction. Neither party could bring any written proofs,
the case was therefore referred to the Bey, who of course decided
against Eaton, and the successful minister on retiring from the hall
of justice, sarcastically remarked, that _in Tunis they knew how to
keep consuls to their promises_. The demand for a frigate from the
United States was renewed, which Eaton, in spite of threats and
attempts to bribe him, having refused even to submit to his
government, his brig, the Gloria, was seized and charged with the
conveyance of a letter to the President, containing the requisition;
she however got safely to Leghorn, where she was sold.

All these things Eaton could only represent to his government, which
he did in forcible language; he demonstrated the weakness of the
Barbary States, and showing that they had not a single ship capable of
withstanding a sloop of war, again urged the employment of smaller
vessels. Finally he expressed a desire to "_be supported or
displaced_," and that "_if farther concessions were to be made, he
might not be the medium through which they were to be presented_."

Although Eaton almost despaired of procuring the means for executing
his plan upon Tripoli, yet he maintained an active correspondence with
Hamet, for whose support he advanced the necessary funds. Soon after
the arrival of that Prince at Malta, he had met with Captain O'Neill,
of the Boston, who appeared ready to forward the project by every
exertion in his power, as also did the Swedish commander. Commodore
Murray too, who came there with the Constellation, thought better of
the affair, and offered to take him to Derne; but he preferred going
privately, in an English brig, which he had chartered, and at length
sailed in November (1802) for that place, where he was received with
every demonstration of affection by the inhabitants, and the
surrounding Arab tribes. He was soon after joined by a nephew, who had
been living in exile in Egypt, at the head of a considerable force;
and thus considering himself strong enough to commence his march upon
the capital, he despatched a confidential messenger to Eaton, in order
to inform him of the state of his affairs, and to hasten the arrival
of the expected succors; he even assured him that the appearance of a
single American frigate before Tripoli, would be sufficient to cause
its surrender.

The receipt of this information must have been martyrdom to Eaton; he
restrained his vexation as he could, and kept the messenger concealed
in his house. At length, on the 22d of February, 1803, Commodore
Morris appeared off the harbor in the frigate Chesapeake, and soon
after landed with one or two of his officers. The object of his visit
was to contest the demand made by the Bey, for the restoration of some
Tunisian property, which had been seized in an Imperial vessel while
it was endeavoring to enter Tripoli. After some discussion, it was
agreed that the property should be restored; but this compliance only
emboldened the Bey and his minister, to demand immediate payment of
all Eaton's debts in Tunis, real or pretended; and on refusal of both
the commodore and the consul, the former was actually detained in
Tunis, and not allowed to communicate with his ship. As they were thus
completely in the power of the Bey, who had besides, at least the
semblance of right in his pretensions, nothing was left but to pay the
money, which was done. During these proceedings Eaton by his animated
remonstrances, and by the charges which he openly advanced against the
minister, had so far irritated the Bey, that he ordered him
immediately to quit the place, declaring, "that he was a man of a good
heart, but a wrong head; too obstinate and violent;" and that he "must
have a consul more congenial with the Barbary interests." Eaton
therefore took his leave, and quitted Tunis on the 10th of March.
Before his departure he had introduced Hamet's agent to the commodore,
and the plans and resources of that Prince were exposed to him. Morris
however, either did not partake of Eaton's conviction relative to the
practicability of the scheme, or did not anticipate from its success
results so favorable to his country as to warrant his interference. He
therefore refused all immediate {197} assistance, and only promised to
appear before Tripoli in June, when, "_provided an equivalent were
guarantied to the United States in the event of success_," he would
furnish Hamet with "_twenty barrels of powder_." He did indeed appear
before Tripoli about the end of May, with five frigates and a
schooner; but, with the exception of an unsuccessful attempt to
destroy some vessels laden with wheat, which had been chased into the
harbor of Old Tripoli, (the ancient Sabrata) he confined himself
entirely to negotiations. Yusuf demanded two hundred thousand dollars
and the expenses of the war "_for a peace_," and on this being
refused, he told the Commodore that "the business was at an end, and
that he must depart." Morris quitted the coast immediately, leaving
two frigates to blockade the port; he soon after received orders to
return to America, where he was tried before a court martial, and
received severe censure for his inactivity and incapacity. Captain
John Rodgers who was left in command, succeeded on the 21st of June in
destroying the Tripoline ship of war of twenty-two guns, which as
before stated had sailed from Gibraltar, loaded with wheat by the
Emperor of Morocco. With Hamet no communication appears to have taken
place.

Eaton arrived at Boston on the 5th of May 1803, and in June proceeded
to Washington, to adjust his accounts and to urge the adoption of more
rigorous measures towards the Barbary powers. He appears to have been
coldly received. His expenses incurred on Hamet's account, were not
allowed by the Department of State, nor indeed were they completely
admitted until they had been before Congress during its two ensuing
sessions. His desire to be relieved from his situation, unless a more
determined course were pursued, was considered as a resignation of his
office, in which Mr. Cathcart had been appointed to succeed him; and
instructions had been forwarded to that gentleman to negotiate both
with Tripoli and Tunis, _on the amount_ to be paid as presents and
yearly tribute. To crown all, a letter had been written to the Bey, in
which Eaton was declared "_to have gone beyond the letter and spirit
of his instructions_," and his acts were "_disclaimed as in opposition
to his orders_." With all these circumstances he was not indeed made
acquainted immediately; but the manner of his reception did not
impress him favorably with respect to the members of the
Administration, and much increased his natural irritability.

The American government did not however neglect to take advantage of
his information and experience; and news having arrived of some
success on the part of Hamet, it was determined to send a much larger
force to the Mediterranean. This squadron sailed on the 13th of
August, under the command of Commodore Preble; and after halting a few
days in the Straits of Gibraltar, in order to settle affairs with the
Emperor of Morocco at Tangiers, it joined the other ships off Tripoli
in October. A circumstance here occurred of the most disastrous
nature, and which probably contributed more than any other, to prevent
the dethronement of Yusuf, or the termination of the differences
between the United States and the Barbary nations, in a manner
entirely satisfactory to the former. The frigate Philadelphia, while
in chase of a Tripoline ship on the 31st of October (1803), struck
upon a rock at the entrance of the harbor of Tripoli with so much
violence, that she remained immoveable by any means at the disposition
of the crew, and consequently defenceless. Her situation being
ascertained in the city, a number of gun boats were instantly sent
out, to which, as no resistance could be made, she was of necessity
surrendered. The crew, consisting of three hundred, with their captain
Bainbridge, were transferred to the city; two days after the ship was
got off, towed into port, and being easily repaired, was likely to
prove a valuable accession to the naval strength of the Pasha.

The capture of the Philadelphia was however calculated to produce a
moral effect infinitely more injurious to the American cause than the
mere loss of the ship, and her acquisition by Tripoli. The skill, and
even the personal bravery of the naval men of the United States, had
been rendered doubtful by the proceedings of the two previous years;
these doubts now assumed the form of a certainty, the most unfavorable
and mortifying; and unless something had been immediately done to
retrieve the honor of the flag, it must have quitted the Mediterranean
in disgrace, or designated every ship over which it waved, as the
bearer of tribute.

But there were noble spirits in the American squadron who determined
that this should not be. On the night of the 15th of February, 1804,
Lieutenant Stephen Decatur, accompanied by seventy resolute men,
entered the harbor of Tripoli, in a small schooner which he had
previously taken and called the Intrepid, and succeeded in boarding
the Philadelphia, then lying under the guns of the castle. In a few
minutes the Tripoline crew were overpowered; many were killed, others
swam to the shore, and communicated the astounding facts. A terrible
fire was instantly opened upon the ship from the castle and batteries,
aided by those of two vessels lying near; and it being impossible to
carry off the Philadelphia, she was set on fire. The Americans
retreated to the Intrepid; a breeze fortunately sprung up; they were
soon beyond the power of their enemies, and reached the ship which
awaited them, without losing a man. The Philadelphia was totally
destroyed.

This heroic achievement restored confidence to the Americans, and
determined Commodore Preble to make a desperate attempt upon the city.
His force had however been much reduced by the loss of the
Philadelphia and the recall of other ships; and judging that an
addition was necessary to afford any prospect of success, he proceeded
to Naples, where he obtained from the King the use of two bomb vessels
and six gun boats. These were strong, heavy, flat bottomed vessels,
bad sailers, but manageable by oars, and well calculated for harbor
operations. The gun boats mounted each a long twenty four pounder, and
were manned by thirty-five men; the bombs carried thirteen inch
mortars and forty men; several Neapolitan gunners and bombardiers were
also engaged to assist in working them. The whole American force thus
amounted to one frigate, (the Constitution,) three brigs, three
schooners, two bombs, and six gun boats, carrying in all about one
hundred and twenty guns, and one thousand and sixty men; and with this
armament Preble appeared before Tripoli on the 25th of July, 1804.

Yusuf was not however taken unawares, and he had made formidable
preparations for resistance. The number of his troops in the city was
supposed to be twenty-five thousand; the batteries mounted one hundred
and {198} fifteen pieces of cannon; besides which, the harbor was
defended by nineteen gun boats, two gallies, two schooners of eight
guns each, and a brig of ten guns.

The weather was for several days unfavorable for an attack. At length
on the 3d of August the American squadron approached the harbor, and
began to throw shells into the town. The fire was returned from the
batteries and vessels, and during five hours a constant cannonade was
kept up on both sides. Three of the Tripoline gun boats were boarded
and taken; their other vessels were materially injured, and much
damage was done to the town and fortifications: but as nothing more
could be effected, the squadron withdrew, having lost only one man,
Lieutenant James Decatur, and had thirteen wounded.

The results not proving sufficient to bring Yusuf to terms, another
attack was made on the 7th of August, which terminated less favorably
to the Americans; one of their prizes having been blown up, and their
whole loss amounting to fourteen killed, and four wounded, without
having produced any notable injury to the Tripolines. On the evening
of this day a frigate arrived from the United States, bringing
information that a large reinforcement might be soon expected, under
the command of Commodore Samuel Barron, who being the senior officer,
would supercede Preble. This news caused a suspension of the attacks,
during which Yusuf made offers of peace, on consideration of receiving
five hundred dollars as the ransom of each of his prisoners. This
offer was rejected at once, and the expected reinforcement not
appearing, Tripoli was bombarded on the night of the 24th of August.
On the 28th another attack was made, by which the castle and town
suffered considerably, and three of the Tripoline gun boats were
destroyed; and on the 3d of September another, with less success.

On the 4th a bold attempt was made to set fire to the vessels lying in
the harbor, and injure the batteries. The schooner Intrepid, with
which Decatur had executed his enterprise on the Philadelphia, was
converted into a fire ship, being filled with powder and combustibles;
and in it, with merely a boat attached in order to return after the
fire had been communicated, Lieutenants Wadsworth, Somers and Israel
embarked, and steered in the direction of the vessels. Two of the
Tripoline gallies were seen to row towards the Intrepid, and place
themselves one on each side of her; a terrific explosion then took
place; the three vessels were shivered into atoms, and a number of
shells fell, spreading destruction on the unfortunate town. Of those
who had embarked in the Intrepid, nothing was ever heard. It is
supposed that seeing escape impossible, they had involved themselves
and their enemies in one common destruction.

No more attempts were made upon Tripoli during this season. The storms
which prevail on that coast in the Autumn had commenced, and it was
considered improper to expose the small vessels to their violence.
They were therefore sent to Syracuse, the Constitution and two brigs
remaining to keep up the blockade.

Information of the capture of the Philadelphia did not reach the
United States until March, 1804; and it seems to have produced upon
the American government the same effects which it had upon the
officers of the squadron. It infused energy into its councils, and
determined the President to act with more vigor than he had hitherto
manifested; he resolved "to send to the Mediterranean a force which
would be able, beyond the possibility of a doubt, to coerce the enemy
to a peace, on terms compatible with the honor and the interests of
the country." Four frigates were prepared for this purpose, and placed
under the command of Commodore Samuel Barron, who was furnished with
extensive authority, to act against or treat with the Barbary powers.

News had arrived that Hamet had met with some successes in his
expedition from Derne against his brother, and the President
"considering that concerted operations by those who have a common
enemy were entirely justifiable, and might produce effects favorable
to both, _without binding either to guaranty the objects of the
other_," says in his instructions to Barron, "with respect to the
ex-Pasha of Tripoli, we have no objection to your availing yourself of
his co-operation with you against Tripoli, if you shall upon a full
view of the subject, after your arrival upon the station, consider his
co-operation expedient." Eaton had been appointed to accompany the
squadron as navy agent for the Barbary states, with a view to his
being employed, in case a junction with Hamet were determined on; but
he was placed entirely under the orders of the Commodore, and is
merely mentioned in the instructions to that officer as likely to be
"_extremely useful_." Before the departure of the squadron,
information was received that Hamet had been deserted by his
followers, and had taken refuge in Egypt. Of his expedition no
particulars appear to be on record, and no account can be obtained of
the circumstances which led to his failure: but between Yusuf in
possession, and Hamet as pretender, unsupported too by any man of
strong character, and without resources, the contest could not have
been doubtful. No change however was made in the destination of Eaton,
who sailed with the squadron in the above mentioned capacity, in July,
1804, and arrived at Malta on the 5th of September following. He there
learnt that Hamet, fearing to trust himself in the hands of the
Turkish authorities in Egypt, had taken refuge among the revolted
Mamelukes, in one of the provinces up the Nile. This did not
discourage Eaton; determining at least to have an interview with the
exiled Prince, he prevailed on Commodore Barron to commit the affair
to his charge, and sailed with Captain Isaac Hull in the brig Argus
for Alexandria, where he arrived on the 25th of November, 1804.

(_To be continued_.)




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

IMPROMPTU,

On seeing that the Publisher of the Messenger had changed the color of
its covers.


  So _you're changing your colors_, I see, master White,
  But say now d'ye think it is perfectly right?
  Yet I own, on reflection, it is not so wrong,
  And the reason, I think, is sufficiently strong:
  Give it up? Then I'll tell you at once to your shame,
  _You're a man of all colors yourself_--by your _name_;
  For all the seven colors, you know, must unite
  To make the commixture that people call _white_.

P. Q.


{199}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MR. WHITE,--On looking over a young lady's Album a few evenings since,
I met with the following lines, of which, with her permission, I
immediately took a copy. I now enclose them to you for insertion in
the Messenger, hoping that some one of your numerous readers may not
only be able to tell me in what language they are written, but let me
still further into the secret by giving me a translation of them.

  "'Adhmhur mar dhia neo bhasmhor 'ta
  "'N t'oglach gu caidreach a shuis re d' sqa:
  "Sa chluin, sa chìth re faad na hùin
  "Do bhriara droigheal, 's do fhrea gradh cùin."

I was also allowed to transcribe from the same source, two other
pieces which I send you herewith, under an impression that they are
well worthy a place in your interesting miscellany.

* * *

STANZAS

ADDRESSED TO MISS ----.


    Younger heads will bow before thee,
  Younger hearts than mine adore thee,
  Younger lips due praises sing thee,
  Younger hands choice flowers shall bring thee--
  But when Time's unmelting frost,
  Once hath chill'd Love's altar-flame,
  Breasts, to passion's impulse lost,
  Never after burn the same:
  Then what has Age like mine to do
  With youthful Beauty, pretty Lou?

    Brighter eyes will sparkle near thee,
  Quicker ears rejoice to hear thee,
  Gayer forms around thee pressing,
  Woo thy gentle arms' caressing:
  But when Fate's severest blow,
  Bursts the heart's most cherish'd ties;
  Lays its long-nurs'd wishes low,
  Hope dismay'd from misery flies:
  Then what has grief like mine to do
  With joyous Beauty, pretty Lou?




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE SYBIL'S LEAF.


  Raven-hair'd! and yet so fair, in opening youth!
  Dark-eyed! with snowy brow of beaming truth!
    How can thy Destiny but happy be?
  Loved of a hundred hearts! bright rising star!
  Light that shall bless admiring eyes afar!
    How many breasts shall wildly throb for thee?

  Thine too, for one of kindred worth shall sigh,
  With thought deep-seated in his soft blue eye,
    Fair, but with sun-tinged roses on his cheek;
  Liberal in speech, in action bold and free,
  Save when with timid love he bows to thee
    And silent muses what he dare not speak.

  Thou hast not yet beheld, but shalt ere long--
  And loved, drink in the music of his tongue,
    And feel thy bosom a strange thrill pervade:--
  Fortune and health shall on your union smile,
  And lisping lips shall every care beguile,
    Till late in peace, thy lamp of life shall fade.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

And Ruth said, entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from
following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where
thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God
my God.

Where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried: the Lord do
so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me.--Ruth i.
16, 17.

TO MY WIFE.


  Where e'er thou goest I will go,
  And share with thee in weal or wo--
  And where thy wearied footsteps rest,
  Thy head shall pillow on my breast.

  Thy people shall my people be--
  Thy kindred find a friend in me--
  Thy God shall be my God--one hope
  Shall bear our fainting spirits up.

  My earthly joys with thee shall die,
  And in thy grave forgotten lie--
  So God in justice deal with me,
  If aught but death part me and thee.

HANOVER.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE KISS.--_A la Moore_.


  'Tis a sweet boy! his eye is bright,
    Smooth is his cheek, and velvet soft,
  And his rosy, pulpy lips invite
    The kiss I give, in sooth, full oft.
  How glows my eye, and my heart, how wild
    It beats, as I kiss the lovely child!

  But there's a cause ye little ken,
    Why thus I love to kiss the boy!
  If _thou wert absent_, Julia, then,
    The kiss I love so soon would cloy,
  'Twould not be half so oft as now,
    'Twould not be half so sweet, I trow.

  I mark when thy lip presses his,
    And, ere the dewy moisture's flown,
  I steal it with another kiss,
    _And dream I rip it from thy own!_
  E'en _such_ a kiss thrills through my heart,
    What bliss would thine own lips impart!

P. H.

_Written in the summer of 1827_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LOVE--MUTUAL BUT HOPELESS.


  O! the light of thine Eye is the beam that falls
    Through the narrow grate, on the Dungeon floor,
  To show the sad captive the strength of his walls,
    And remind him of joys he must taste no more.

  And that melting voice is Love's whispered breath,
    By night through that grated casement stealing,
  To rouse him from slumbers as heavy as death,
    To hopeless wishes, and useless feeling.

  But that voice is dear to his wasted heart,
    And dear to his eye is that lonely ray;
  Though they wound his bosom, he loves the smart,
    Nor wishes for death, but when these are away.


{200}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO DESPAIR.


  Hail to thy tranquil and secure abode,
    The gloomy refuge of the tortured breast;
  Where anxious Care resigns his weary load;
    And wasted Sorrow sighs herself to rest.

  No treacherous Hope here flatters and deceives,
    No shortlived Rapture cheats the ravished sense;
  No airy dreams delirious Fancy weaves;
    Hope--Rapture--Fancy--all are banished hence.

  Here Fear, with startling cry, no more appals,
    For he who knows the worst no harm can dread:
  And keen affliction's dart as harmless falls,
    As the vain storm that pelts the senseless dead.

  Here no _fierce_ Passions agitate the breast,
    But Rage is quelled, and Hate forgets his foe:
  Pride stoops; Ambition vails his haughty crest;
    And Envy covets nought that kings bestow.

  But Love still feeds the never dying flame,
    Whose cold pale light scarce breaks the settled gloom,
  Like the Sepulchral lamp, whose livid gleam
    Watches above the Silence of the Tomb.

  That light no more the dazzled sense beguiles;
    That flame no more the frozen bosom warms;
  Yet dear, as when, all bright in rosy smiles,
    It led my faithful Laura to my arms.

  But she is lost; and now this calm abode
    Affords a refuge to my weary breast;
  And Care, at length resigns his weary load;
    And wasted Sorrow sighs herself to rest.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

My grandfather who had died at the age of eighty-six, was the first
object I examined; his snowy locks had become, through the influence
of the leaden mantle which enveloped him, of a blood color, &c.
&c.--_Prince Puckler Muskau's visit to the vault of his ancestors_.


  "Have ye torn away the fun'ral pall?--
    Did ye strip each corpse to sight?--
  Then leave me, in my ancestral hall,
    I visit the dead to-night--"

  The clock struck twelve and I took the lamp
    With a solemn step and slow--
  Down--down I went, and my echoing tramp
    Rang deep in the vault below.

  I saw the dust of centuries round;
    And I felt my courage droop;--
  My eyes were rivetted--strained--spell-bound--
    By three of that awful group.

  I stood in the charnel house of those,
    Whose blood in my veins now ran;
  My current of life seem'd nearly froze
    As I strove the scene to scan.

  An aged man with his "_gory locks_"
    And sightless sockets was there,--
  And _staring_ seem'd from his leaden box
    With a stern--reproachful air.

  Wrapp'd in embroider'd cloth of gold,
    Lay a noble knight and tall--
  And I knew at once the warrior bold,
    Who hung in my castle hall.

  At head of his Cuirassiers,--there he
    Was charging the flying Swede;
  But here--oh pitiful sight to see!
    The victor lay low indeed.

  In a gorgeous robe of silk, here lay
    The finest of female forms;
  I did but touch her--she pass'd away--
    My hand was alive with worms.

  I sunk on my knees in fervent prayer;
    Tears fell--and my bosom thaw'd;
  Horror gave place to the feeling, there
    Of trust in the mighty God.

  I rose without or shudder or dread,
    And I kiss'd that aged face;
  I took a lock from the sightless head,
    And calmly quitted the place.

  But never again till I drink the cup
    Of death--will I enter there--
  The power of prayer, might bear me up--
    But God, he hath said--forbear!!!




At the suggestion of a friend, whose fine taste selected the following
effusion of the celebrated "Ettrick Shepherd," from some of the
periodicals of the day, we gladly insert it in our columns. It is a
most touching tribute of fraternal affection to an elder sister, from
one of the most distinguished bards of modern times.

THERE'S NAE LADDIE COMING.

BY THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.


  There's nae laddie coming for thee, my dear Jean,
  There's nae laddie coming for thee, my dear Jean;
  I hae watch'd thee at mid-day, at morn, an' at e'en,
  An' there's nae laddie coming for thee, my dear Jean.
  But be nae down-hearted though lovers gang by,
  Thou'rt my only sister, thy brother am I;
  An' aye in my wee house thou welcome shalt be,
  An' while I hae saxpence, I'll share it wi' thee.

  O Jeanie, dear Jeanie, when we twa were young,
  I sat on your knee, to your bosom I clung;
  You kiss'd me, an' clasp'd me, an' croon'd your bit sang,
  An' bore me about, when you hardly dought gang.
  An' when I fell sick, wi' a red watery ee,
  You watched your wee brother, an' fear'd he wad dee;
  I felt the cool hand, and the kindly embrace,
  An' the warm trickling tears drappin aft on my face.

  Sae wae was my kind heart to see my Jean weep,
  I closed my sick ee, though I wasna asleep;
  An' I'll never forget till the day that I dee,
  The gratitude due, my dear Jeanie, to thee!
  Then be nae down-hearted, for nae lad can feel
  Sic true love as I do, or ken you sae weel;
  My heart it yearns o'er thee, and grieved wad I be
  If aught were to part my dear Jeanie an' me.


{201}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

REMARKS ON THE REVIEW OF GOVERNOR TAZEWELL'S REPORT.


MR. WHITE:--I have just read the Review of Governor Tazewell's Report
to the Legislature, upon the subject of a Deaf and Dumb Asylum, in
your last number, and am sorry to find that, amongst many things which
I like, it contains some misstatements which, I think, do great
injustice to that document, and to its author; and which I must
therefore beg leave to correct.

In the first place, in noticing that part of the paper in which the
Governor argues that as the last census shews that the whole number of
deaf mutes in our State is only about four hundred and twenty-two, and
the experience of other States, particularly Pennsylvania and
Connecticut, has proved that only one-fifteenth of the whole number in
any community can be drawn to such an institution, it is fair to
conclude that the actual number of pupils who could be drawn to our
asylum would not exceed twenty-eight; the Reviewer remarks that the
Governor "seems to have founded his argument upon the supposition that
the deaf and dumb pupils to be educated at the proposed asylum in
Virginia, are to be maintained from their own resources, or the
private liberality of their friends; whereas the very object of
applying for legislative aid, is to enable many of these indigent
children of misfortune to obtain instruction at the public expense."
But this is obviously a misapprehension of the document; for the
Governor says expressly in a passage quoted by the Reviewer himself,
"the question seems to be resolved into this,--Can the Legislature
reasonably promise itself, that _by the employment of any means which
it ought to use_, it may concentrate at any point within this State
_sufficient inducements_ to draw thither the proper number of such
pupils?" But it is quite apparent that among the "any means," and
"sufficient inducements," which he was here speaking of, he included a
provision for the support of indigent pupils, as a matter of course.
Indeed, the very _object_ of the establishment, as the Reviewer
himself remarks, _implies_ the propriety of such a provision, and the
whole tenor of the Report accordingly takes it for granted throughout.

But the Reviewer asks: "If this was not the ground of the Governor's
reasoning, why does he suppose that not more than one-fifteenth of the
whole number of deaf mutes could be induced to resort to a seminary
for instruction?" Why, for the reasons which he has so clearly stated,
and which the Reviewer ought to have understood; that such had been
the experience of other States, particularly Pennsylvania and
Connecticut, and there was nothing to authorize the hope of a
different result in our own case. Yet he asks, "Does he mean that a
larger number could not be obtained if the public expense were
proffered for their education and subsistence?" Undoubtedly he means
this; for he says expressly in a passage which the Reviewer quotes,
that in those States to whose experience he refers, "the _most liberal
means_ have been employed to attract to their long established asylums
_all_ of that class who might be induced to resort thither;" and he
adds still more explicitly in another passage which the Reviewer does
not quote, but which he ought to have read, speaking of the same
institutions of Pennsylvania and Connecticut, "The only other aid"
(besides acts of incorporation,) "which either of these seminaries has
ever received since, from the several States within the limits of
which they are situated, has been _the appropriation of a sum of money
annually to pay for the instruction of a certain number of persons,
the children of citizens of these States respectively, whose parents
were in such indigent circumstances as not to be able to defray the
charge of their education_." It is apparent, then, that the Governor's
reasoning on this point is entirely sound; whilst the criticism of the
Reviewer upon it is founded altogether upon a mere misconception of
his own.

But taking it for granted that the number of pupils in our asylum
would not exceed twenty-eight, the Governor proceeds to inquire
whether it would not be better to provide for the support and
education of them, that is, of the indigent ones of course, at the
asylum of one of our sister States, rather than to establish a new
seminary for them within our own bounds; and suggests several reasons
in favor of such a course. First, it would aid the cause of science,
which he thinks would be much better promoted, in the "more sublime
and long-hidden" branches of it at least, by all communities sending
in their contributions to a common stock, wherever that may happen to
have been first begun, rather than by their separately exerting
themselves to domesticate those mysterious novelties prematurely
within their respective bounds. Secondly, it would save money, which
is the sinews of charity as well as of war, and ought therefore to be
husbanded with great care. And thirdly, and above all, the proceeding,
or rather perhaps the principle which it involves, would tend to
strengthen the union, and bind the states together. Thus he says: "To
all this let me add, that if there is any thing better calculated than
any other to cement our union, and to keep bright the chain which I
trust will bind these states together while time lasts, it will be
found in the contribution of each to objects approved by all, without
any jealous regard to the actual spot at which such a general good may
commence. If a generous spirit of this sort is but once manifested,
its effects will be soon seen and felt by all. Acts of kindness will
not fail to induce forbearance, and to generate sympathy. When each
State shall feel that for the aid it requires to accomplish any object
of general utility, it may rely confidently on its co-states, there
will be no more applications to the federal government to pervert the
language of the constitution, in order to accomplish the unholy scheme
of robbing a minority to enrich a majority. Then those who contend but
for the spoils of the vanquished, may be safely left to the contempt
which such a motive cannot fail to inspire with all the generous and
the good. It would have been worthy of Virginia to set such an
example; it is worthy of her to imitate that which others have already
taught."

Now these views of the Governor may not be exactly correct, and I
freely acknowledge that I do not adopt them myself; but what is there
in any of them, I ask, that ought to excite the alarm, or kindle the
indignation of the Reviewer? Obviously nothing at all. Yet after
quoting them at full length, he proceeds to comment upon them in the
following words: "It is in these passages that we think lurks the
fallacy, and we might add the _mischief_ of the Governor's views. He
sets out first by deprecating all legislative interference on the
subject." Where? In what part of the Report? For I {202} have not seen
such a thought in it; and I have read the whole, though the Reviewer
it seems has not; and the passages under his notice most certainly do
not suggest any thing like it. On the contrary, they directly advise
that the Legislature _shall_ interfere in the case, although not
precisely in the Reviewer's way. But he goes on: "'Let us alone' is
his cardinal maxim, and the maxim of the school of politicians to
which he belongs. Let individuals take care of themselves, and of each
other; but let not government presume to thrust its paternal care upon
the community." And where does he get this idea from again? Not
certainly from any thing in the Report before him. And was it right,
then, was it courteous in him to travel out of the record to arraign
the _political_ opinions of the Governor, and the school of
politicians to which he belongs? Was it proper even to glance at such
a martial topic in the amicable columns of the _Literary_ Messenger?
Or if it was, and if the Reviewer believed that the favorite maxim of
the Governor, and the school of politicians to which he belongs, is,
"Let us alone," did he think it fair to represent him as holding it in
all the extent of its terms, without limitation or reserve? Or, is the
maxim itself utterly and absolutely false, to all intents and purposes
whatever? And is there nothing--nothing at all--to which it may be
properly applied? Is there nothing which the Legislature ought not to
meddle with? If this is his opinion, it is easy to see to what class
of politicians _he_ belongs, and it is one whose
_latitudinarianism_--but I will not follow the bad example which he
has set me, and abuse your peaceable pages to expose the danger of its
doctrines, and the folly of its flights.

But the Reviewer proceeds: "In the next place, however, if the State,
according to his Excellency's notions, will officiously obtrude into
these private matters, why then let the funds of the Commonwealth go
abroad and enrich some sister State. These kind offices will brighten
the chain of union which binds the states together. They will teach us
all to rely more upon each other, and less upon the general
government.--This is the sum and substance of the Governor's
reasoning; and dangerous and fallacious as we believe it to be, we
feel the stronger obligations, coming from the high quarter it does,
to resist and refute it if we can." But is this a fair representation
of the Governor's reasoning? Is it not rather a gross caricature of
it? For, has the Governor hinted any thing like a proposal that our
State should send her funds abroad to aid all the institutions of her
sister states, instead of keeping them at home to support her own? On
the contrary, does he not say expressly, "I will not admit that there
is a single citizen within the limits of Virginia more desirous than I
am to domesticate here every thing needful to the well being of the
State?" And does he not accordingly take good care to confine his
recommendation of a contribution to the institutions of other states,
to cases of a peculiar character, in which, as in the instance of a
deaf and dumb asylum, the object in view is to furnish a small portion
of our citizens with the means of access to the "more sublime and
long-hidden truths of modern science?" And does he not, moreover,
declare it to be a part of his plan that every other State shall
reciprocate the generosity of ours, so as to return a pretty fair
_quid pro quo_ into our exchequer? And what is there, then, that is so
very "dangerous" in the Governor's reasoning? Nothing at all that I
can see. Yet our Reviewer is so much alarmed at it, or rather at a
phantom of his own imagination which he mistakes for it, that he flies
off from the true point of inquiry, and instead of calmly answering
the argument before him, as he might have done, breaks out into a warm
and impassioned strain of protestation against a mere figment of his
own, which is truly imposing; but unfortunately without object, and of
course without point. Thus he asks, "did any one ever dream that
Kentucky had given cause of offence to her sister states by erecting
an asylum for the poor deaf mutes? We apprehend not." Why then does he
ask the question? Has the Governor written any thing which fairly
suggests such a singular query? Or was the Reviewer himself dreaming
when he wrote? Yet he adds, "the truth is, that his Excellency the
Governor is entirely mistaken in his views upon the subject!"--whereas
the truth is, that his Highness the Reviewer is entirely mistaken in
his views of the Report. But he keeps on, and adds: "What a ridiculous
business it would be, if twenty-four families in the same neighborhood
were to act upon the principle, that each was to take care of all the
rest in preference to itself!" Very true; but it is his own idea. The
Governor's seems to be, that if the good old lady at the head of any
one of these families should choose to send her little deaf and dumb
daughter to the learned French master who was teaching a class of
_sourd-muets_ in her neighbor's house, instead of importing another
Frenchman, (or Yankee, who stands ready to take any body's place,) to
open a similar school in her own domicile, it might save money and
increase love--especially if all the rest would act on the same
principle in return. And is there any thing so very ridiculous in
this? The same sort of hallucination runs through the remainder of the
paragraph; but I cannot think it necessary to expose it any further.

I will only add that I agree entirely with the Reviewer in much, and
perhaps all, that he has written so handsomely in favor of internal
improvement, in the fullest sense of the phrase. I agree with him,
more particularly, and most cordially, in thinking that we ought, by
all means, to furnish and adorn our native state, as soon as possible,
with every thing that can promote her happiness and honor, and make
her as perfect and complete within her own limits, as any kingdom or
commonwealth on earth can be. Of course, I agree with him also in
condemning and stigmatizing, as he does, that abject and disgraceful
spirit of apathy which has so long paralyzed our citizens, but which,
I trust, we have now shaken off forever. But, at the same time, I am
persuaded that Governor Tazewell would cheerfully unite with us in
these views, to a considerable extent; and I cannot think it right or
fair to charge him, either directly or by implication, with errors
which, I am confident, he does not hold, and which, most certainly, he
has not avowed in his Report.

A READER.




We extract the following from the "_Remains of the Rev. Charles
Wolfe_," being the description of the "Dargle," or "Glen of the Oak,"
an enchanting scene in Wicklow county, Ireland, of which country Mr.
Wolfe was a native.

{203}

THE DARGLE.


We found ourselves at Bray about ten in the morning, with that
disposition to be pleased which seldom allows itself to be
disappointed; and the sense of our escape from every thing not only of
routine, but of regularity, into the country of mountains and glens
and valleys and waterfalls, inspired us with a sort of gay wildness
and independence, that disposed us to find more of the romantic and
picturesque than perhaps Nature ever intended. If, therefore, gentle
reader, thou shouldest here meet with any extravagances at which thy
sober feelings may be inclined to revolt, bethink thee, that the
immortal Syntax himself, when just escaped from the everlasting
dulness of a school, did descry a landscape even in a post,--a
circumstance which probably no one had ever discovered before.

We proceeded to the Dargle along the small river whose waters were
flowing gently towards us after having passed through the beautiful
scenes we were to visit. It was here a tranquil stream, and its banks
but thinly clothed; but at the opening of the Dargle-gate, the scene
was instantly changed. At once we were immersed in a sylvan
wilderness, where the trees were thronging and crowding around us; and
the river had suddenly changed its tone, and was sounding wildly up
the wooded bank that sloped down to its edge. We precipitated
ourselves towards the sound,--and when we stopped and looked around
us, the mountains, the champaign, and almost the sky had disappeared.
We were at the bottom of a deep winding glen, whose steep sides had
suddenly shut out every appearance of the world that we had left. At
our feet a stream was struggling with the multitude of rude rocks,
which Nature, in one of her primeval convulsions, had flung here and
there in masses into its current; sometimes uniting into irregular
ledges, over which the water swept with impetuosity;--sometimes
standing insulated in the stream, and increasing the energies of the
river by their resistance;--sometimes breaking forward from the bank,
and giving a bolder effect to its romantic outline. The opposite side
of the glen, that rose steeply and almost perpendicularly from the
very brink of the river, was one precipice of foliage from top to
bottom, where the trees rose directly above each other (their roots
and backs being in a great degree concealed by the profusion of leaves
in those below them,) and a broken sunbeam now and then struggled
through the boughs, and sometimes contrived to reach the river.

The side along which we proceeded was equally high, but more sloping
and diversified; and the wooding, at one time retiring from the
stream, while at another a close cluster of trees of the freshest
verdure advanced into the river, bending over it in attitudes at once
graceful and fantastic, and forming a picturesque and luxuriant
counterpart to the little naked promontories of rock which we before
observed. Both sides of the glen completely enclosed us from the view
of every thing external, except a narrow tract of sky just over our
heads, which corresponded in some degree to the course of the stream
below; so that in fact the sun seemed a stranger, only occasionally
visiting us from another system. Sometimes while we were engaged in
contemplating the strong darkness of the river as it rushed along, and
the pensive loveliness of the foliage overhanging it, a sudden gleam
of sunshine quietly yet instantaneously diffused itself over the
scene, as if it smiled almost from some internal perception of
pleasure, and felt a glow of instinctive exhilaration. Thus did we
wander from charm to charm, and from beauty to beauty, endlessly
varying, though all breathing the same wild and secluded luxury, the
same poetical voluptuousness. This new region, set apart from the rest
of creation, with its class of fanciful joys attached to it, seemed
allotted to some creature of different elements from our own,--some
airy being, whose only essence was imagination. As the thought
occupied us, we opened upon a new object which seemed to confirm it.
The profuse wooding which formed the steep and rich barrier of the
opposite side of the river, was suddenly interrupted by a huge naked
rock that stood out into the stream, as if it had swelled forward
indignantly from the touch of cultivation, and, proud of its primitive
barrenness, had flung aside the hand that was dispensing beauty around
it, and that would have intruded upon its craggy and original majesty.
It was here that our imaginations fixed a residence for the Genius of
the river and the spirit of the Dargle. A sort of watery cell was
formed by the protrusion of this bold figure from the one side, and
the thick foliage that met it across from the other, and threw a
solemn darkness over the water. In front, a fragment of rock stood in
the middle of the current, like a threshold, and a spreading tree hung
its branches directly over it, like a spacious screen in face of the
cell. From this we began gradually to ascend, until _our_ side became
nearly as steep as the opposite, while the wooding was thickening on
both at every step; so that the glen soon formed one steep and
magnificent gulf of foliage. The river at a vast distance, almost
directly below us; the glad sparkling and flashing of its waters, only
occasionally seen, and its wild voice mellowed and refined as it
reached us through thousands of leaves and branches; the variety of
hues, and the mazy irregularity of the trees that descended from our
feet to the river,--were finely contrasted with the heavier and more
monotonous mass that met it in the bottom, down the other side.

In stepping back a few paces, we just descried, over the opposite
boundary, the top of Sugar-loaf, in dim and distant perspective. The
sensations of {204} a mariner, when, after a long voyage without sight
of shore, he suddenly perceives symptoms of land where land was not
expected, could not be more novel and curious, than those excited in
us by this little silent notice of regions which we had literally
forgotten,--so totally were we engrossed in our present enchantment,
and so much were our minds, like our view, bounded by the sides of the
glen. This single object let in a whole train of recollections and
associations: but the charm could not be more gradually and more
pleasingly broken. The glen, still retaining all its characteristic
luxuriance, began gracefully to widen,--the country to open upon us,
and the mountains to rise; and at length, after a gentle descent, we
passed the Dargle-gate, and found ourselves standing over the
delightful valley of Powerscourt. It was like the transition from the
enjoyments of an Ariel to those of human nature,--from the blissful
abode of some sylphic genius, to the happiest habitations of mortal
men,--from all the restless and visionary delights of fancy, to the
calm glow of real and romantic happiness. Our minds that were before
confused by the throng of beauties that enclosed and solicited them on
every side, now expanded and reposed upon the scene before us. The sun
himself seemed liberated, and rejoicing in his emancipation. The
valley indeed "lay smiling before us;" the river, no longer dashing
over rock and struggling with impediments, was flowing brightly and
cheerfully along in the sun, bordered by meadows of the liveliest
green, and now and then embowered in a cluster of trees. One little
field of the freshest verdure swelled forward beyond the rest, round
which the river wound, so as to give it the appearance of an island.
In this we observed a mower whetting his sithe, and the sound was just
sufficient to reach us faintly and at intervals. To the left was the
Dargle, where all the beauties that had so much enchanted us were now
one undistinguishable mass of leaves. Confronting us, stood
Sugar-loaf, with his train of rough and abrupt mountains, remaining
dark in the midst of sunshine, like the frowning guardians of the
valley. These were contrasted with the grand flowing outline of the
mountains to our right, and the exquisite refinement and variety of
the light that spread itself over their gigantic sides. Far to the
left, the sea was again disclosed to our view, and behind us was the
Scalp, like the outlet from Paradise into the wide world of thorns and
briers.




  From the Cincinnati Mirror.

PHRENOLOGICAL EXAMINATIONS.


There never was an important discovery presented to the consideration
of men, which was not opposed by all the force that scepticism could
call to its assistance.--Truths, which at the present time are
universally recognized, had to accomplish conquests over many
obstacles, before their necessity or importance was admitted. The
all-important and sublime discoveries of Galileo, Newton and Hartly,
were first sneered at, then ridiculed, after a while considered, and
subsequently adopted. Truths do not burst in splendor from heaven on
the benighted understandings of men; but their progress ever has been
and ever must be gradual. Night, in the intellectual as in the outward
world, relinquishes its empire slowly; and hence, doctrines
appertaining to science, which seem at this time to contain within
themselves the qualities of their own illumination, were originally
rejected as unworthy of the sanction of the understanding.

Phrenology has offered no exception to the general rule which we have
referred to. Whether it be true or false, it has at least participated
in the destiny common to truth. It has been met at every stage of its
progress with whatever of reason, ridicule, or wit, subtlety or
ingenuity could suggest. Ardent opponents have inflicted what they
have supposed deadly wounds upon it, and have anticipated the epitaph
which would be written to its memory. But these visions have not,
unfortunately for the reputations of those who indulged them, been
realized; and the period at which they predicted the extinction of the
science, has been the season of its proudest triumphs. If it be a
heresy, it is a bold one; and, like that of the Albigenses, spreads
most where opposition is deadliest.

Phrenology is emphatically a science of observation;--by it, it has
been built up; and on it, it mainly depends. Observation and
application form the tests of scientific doctrines, and they are
invoked as the formidable auxiliaries of this science. To a mind
disposed to investigate before it decides upon the merits of
doctrines, a few interrogations present themselves forcibly. Among the
advocates of phrenology, have not some names, remarkable for ability
and inquiry, been numbered? Were these men imposed on by the fallacies
of the science, or did they wish to impose a fallacy upon the
credulity of others? Are not these suppositions effectually silenced
by an appeal to the well-determined moral and intellectual qualities
of those advocates? If phrenology be false, how has it happened that a
science which triumphantly appeals to observation, and which, in
consequence, must be susceptible of easy support or overthrow, has for
years sustained itself against the combined efforts of genius and
intelligence? Is it asked why scientific individuals have not
universally ranged themselves under the banners of this science? Two
answers immediately suggest themselves:--First; the reluctance with
which the human mind ever foregoes or substitutes its acquisitions;
and, secondly, the disinclination which men always manifest at
prosecuting inquiries into the nature of {205} doctrines which are not
corroborated by previous studies, and which they are pleased to term
innovations.

Phrenology must stand or fall by facts; supported by them, it must be
sustained; opposed in this wise, it must fall. Without committing
ourselves in favor of, or in opposition to its doctrines--for, in
truth, we have not yet yielded its doctrines our assent--we desire to
record a few facts which make for its truth, and which have come
within our notice.

Doctor Powell, well known as an able and enthusiastic advocate of
phrenology, at present lecturing in the city, confident in the truths
of the science, pronounces upon character agreeably to the external
configuration of the crania with fearlessness the most perfect. Since
his arrival here, we have known him examine three different crania,
which were presented to him for the purpose of testing the truth of
phrenological doctrines. The two first were handed him by Mr.
Dorfeuille, the intelligent proprietor of the Western Museum. The
first one, which Doctor Powell saw, he immediately perceived the
preponderance of the vicious propensities over the moral sentiments,
and unhesitatingly said, its owner, according to the laws of the land,
deserved hanging, if he were not actually executed. The second one was
presented, and he forthwith pronounced its possessor equally bad with
the former, although unpossessed of his recklessness, and greatly more
cautious and secretive. Mr. Dorfeuille then stated, that the sculls
belonged to two negro fellows who were executed some years ago in New
Orleans, and whose heads after execution were stuck on pikes. The
first fellow was notoriously vile and daring; the other was more shy,
and against him no absolute proof could be brought; but he was
convicted on evidence so strong as to defy the resistance of the
judgment. The delineation of their characters upon the principles of
phrenology he acknowledged to be most complete.

On last Monday evening, professor Cobb, of the medical college, sent a
cranium to Doctor Powell for examination, in the presence of his
class. He took it up and pronounced its prominent developments to be
those of combativeness, destructiveness, secretiveness,
acquisitiveness: he said that each of these propensities might have
manifested itself singly; but the probability was that they
co-operated, and the consequence was, that their subject was addicted
to robbery on the highways, and was highly combative. After he had
finished his examination, he called on professor Cobb to state what he
knew of the character of the individual. He arose, and said that, so
far as he was aware, the lecturer had determined truly. The skull had
belonged to a Spaniard confined under suspicion of piracy, in the
Cincinnati jail last winter, and who, while there, had committed
suicide, and thus escaped trial.--An examination of his body proved
what the lecturer had said in regard to his combativeness, as it was
scarified in many places. We have since understood, that this Spaniard
was arrested for attempting to stab a person in the street, and while
in confinement, was recognized as a pirate, and, in order to avoid the
consequences of a trial on the charge of piracy, he had cut the
principal arteries of both arms, and died from the wounds thus
inflicted. Dr. Powell had no intimation of the character of either of
the individuals, which he portrayed with such exactness; but relied
solely on phrenological science. If the doctrines be untrue, how are
these results ascertained by them to be accounted for?

Our only object has been to give the lecturer as well as the science
he espouses, the benefit of facts we have narrated, and to which they
are so justly entitled. We leave comment for those who are curious
upon the subject. We feel assured that what we have stated must be
interesting to those who are desirous of investigating the science,
for the purpose of determining the amount of plausibility on which it
is grounded.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MR. WHITE,--As a subscriber and very sincere friend to your paper, let
me beg of you to find room as soon as you can, for three extracts, all
of which together, will not occupy more than three or four pages of
the Messenger, and yet embrace as much deeply interesting matter on
the all important subject of education, as can any where be found
within the same compass. The first two you will find in the September
number for the past year, of "_The Annals of Education_," a periodical
published in monthly numbers of forty-eight pages each, for three
dollars and fifty cents a year; or for three dollars if paid by the
first of April, or for two dollars and forty cents if five copies are
taken together and paid for in advance. Of this work I can affirm,
without hesitation, that it contains more highly useful information on
the subjects of which it treats, and at less cost, than all the other
works together that are published in the United States on the same
topics. Nay, I will venture farther to assert that there is not a
parent or teacher in our whole country, who might not derive essential
service from its perusal. This, my good sir, is no exaggeration, but
my deliberate opinion; given, I acknowledge, with some hope of
promoting the circulation of this highly valuable periodical from
Yankee land, but without any other interest in it than every man ought
to feel who is so thoroughly persuaded as I am, of the absolute
necessity for educating our whole people on principles materially
different from any that have yet been put into practice among us.

The third extract is from a new work by James Simpson, lately
republished in New York and {206} Boston, on "_The Necessity of
Popular Education as a National Object_." The short introduction is
all that I will ask you to insert in your paper, as I have persuaded
myself to believe that no friend to popular education can read it
without feeling a strong desire to peruse the whole volume. It
contains a mass of facts, illustrations, and arguments, exhibited in a
style at once so perspicuous, forcible, and persuasive, as must carry
conviction to every understanding capable of comprehending and feeling
the vital importance of the subject in all its bearings, both upon
individual and national happiness. In numbers one and two of the
appendix, the topics of criminal and medical jurisprudence are treated
of in a manner which, although concise, is well worthy the deepest
attention of every legislator and statesman, for they contain hints
for improving our criminal code that seem to me of the utmost
importance to the general good.

Deem me not importunate if I petition you to publish _another_ extract
of quite a different character from the foregoing. It is from the pen
of the admirable _Mrs. Norton_, and expresses conjugal affection with
so much touching pathos, that surely no married man, especially one
from the Emerald Isle, can read it without deep emotion. It is called

SONG OF THE IRISH PEASANT WIFE.


  Come, Patrick, clear up the storm on your brow,
  You were kind to me once,--will you frown on me now?
  Shall the storm settle _here_, when it from Heaven departs,
  And the cold from without find the way to our hearts?
  No, Patrick, no; surely the wintriest weather
  Is easily borne, while we bear it together.

  Though the rain's dropping through from the roof to the floor,
  And the wind whistles free where there once was a door;
  Can the rain, or the snow, or the storm wash away
  All the warm vows we made in love's early day?
  No, Patrick, no; surely the dark stormy weather
  Is easily borne,--so we bear it together.

  When you stole out to woo me, when labor was done,
  And the day that was closing, to us seem'd begun,
  Did we care if the sunset was bright on the flowers,
  Or if we crept out amid darkness and showers?
  No, Patrick; we talk'd while we brav'd the wild weather,
  Of all we could bear, if we bore it together.

  Soon, soon, will these dark dreary days be gone by,
  And our hearts be lit up by a beam from the sky;
  Oh! let not our spirits, imbittered with pain,
  Be dead to the sunshine that comes on us then:
  Heart in heart--hand in hand--let us welcome the weather,
  And sunshine or storm, we will bear it together.




  From the New England Magazine.

A GLIMPSE AT BASIL HALL.


At the palace of the Prince Borghese in Rome, several young English
and American artists were engaged, last winter, in copying the
renowned productions of the old masters. Portray to yourself, kind
reader, two large halls--the walls of which are lined with paintings,
and intercommunicating by a side door, now thrown open for the benefit
of the parties. In the first of these apartments are erected three
easels--before which, in the attitude of painters, stand--first, a
Virginian, intent upon the exquisite Magdalene of
Correggio,--opposite, the native of a country town of Great
Britain--transferring, as nearly as possible, the Prodigal Son, of the
great Venetian,--while, within a few feet of the former, a Londoner is
travailing for the inspiration of Titian, by contemplating his "Sacred
and Profane Loves." The artists may thus be said to occupy,
relatively, the three points of an isosceles-triangle. Gaze now,
through the above-mentioned passage, and behold, at the extremity of
the second and lesser hall, the figure of a Baltimorean--fancying,
perchance, the surprise of the natives when they see _his_ copy of the
inimitable Cupid beside him.

These worthy followers of the rainbow art were wont to amuse
themselves, and beguile the time, with conversations upon the merits
and manners of their respective countries; and occasionally, by a very
natural process, such amicable debates would assume not a little of
the earnest spirit of controversy. Then would the brush fall less
frequently upon the canvass--their eyes linger less devotedly upon the
great originals around, and ever and anon the disputants would step a
pace or two from the object of their labors, raise aloft their
pencils--as though, like the styles of the ancients, they subserved
equally the purposes of art and of warfare, or wave their mottled
pallets as shields against the errors of argument. A full history of
these discussions, hallowed by the scene of the combat, diversified by
the characters of the combatants, and disguised by the nature of the
points contested--would doubtless be a valuable accession to our
literature. The great topics of national policy, domestic manners,
republicanism, aristocracy, slavery, corn laws, etc. as unfolded, in
the elegant and discerning disputations of the absentees in a Roman
palace, would prove something new, vivid and seasonable. But to me
falls the humbler task of narrating one scene of the drama, as
illustrative of the wisdom and safety of keeping one's own secret.

On a day, when the war of words had ran unusually high, there was a
momentary, and, as it were, a spontaneous quietude. After the manner
of their predecessors in the same city--years bygone, the gladiators
rested upon their arms. There was an interlude of _silence_. They
gradually reassumed the appropriate occupations of the hour. A few
unusually fine touches were bestowed upon the slowly-progressing
copies--when the aspiring portrayer of the beautiful parable thus
opened a new cannonade:

"Well, smooth over, as you may, the blot of slavery--and deny or
palliate, as you best can, the charge of non-refinement, the world
will never admit the existence of true civilization in a country where
so barbaric a practice as _gouging_ prevails."

At the commencement of this speech, the pencil of the Virginian had
stopped transfixed within an inch of the pensive countenance on his
canvass; and with nerves braced in expectancy, he awaited the issue.
And when the orator, like a second Brutus, paused for a reply, his
adversary was mute--perhaps from indignation, probably in the
absorption consequent upon {207} preparing to refute and chastise. The
Londoner wheeled around, and, with a nod of congratulation to his
brother islander, and a provoking and triumphant smile upon the
Virginian, begged to be informed "of the origin and nature of the
_American_ custom of gouging?" When lo! there were heard quick steps
along the polished floors, and as the eyes of the artists followed
their direction, the form of the Baltimorean emerged from the
adjoining hall. His painter's stick, pallet and brush, were grasped
convulsively in his left hand, as with energetic strides he reached
the centre of the arena, and gazed meaningly upon the disputants.

"You would know, sir," he exclaimed, eyeing fiercely the hero of the
British capital, "what is gouging? Go, sir, to Basil Hall--your
literary countryman: when ascending the Mississippi, _he_ was put on
shore by the captain of a steamboat for ungentlemanly deportment--and
on the banks of that river, sir, _he was gouged!_" As the last
emphatic words exploded, a gentleman, who had been viewing the
paintings, abruptly left the room. The Londoner looked wonders, his
compatriot tittered, the Cupid-limner wiped his brow. "Who was that?"
inquired the Virginian. "That, sir, was Captain Hall!"

H. T. T.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE PASSAGE OF THE BERESINA.

"The moan of mortal agony which arose from the despairing multitude
became at this crisis for a moment so universal, that it rose shrilly
audible over the voice of the elements and the thunders of war, above
the wild whistling of the tempest and the sustained and redoubled
hourras of the Cossacks. The witness from whom we have this
information, declares that the sound was in his ears for many weeks.
This dreadful scene continued till dark, many being forced into the
icy river, some throwing themselves in, betwixt absolute despair and
the faint hope of gaining the opposite bank by swimming, some getting
across only to die of cold and exhaustion."--_Scott's Napoleon, Vol.
II. Page 385_.


  What scene is here? The dying moan, the wailing cry
  Come on the gusty blast that speeds so swiftly by;
  The river rolls heavy as it struggles with dead,
  Who writhe in their blood ere the spirit hath fled--
  And chafed by the winds in the wrath of the storm,
  Its red clotted waters flow tortured and warm.
  Thousands lie here; kindred and aliens in race,
  They are rigid and fixed in death's cold embrace;
  They clench and they cling in the last dying grasp,
  And the living, the dead, reluctantly clasp:
  Or, fearing a friend in his last cold embrace,
  They spurn him beneath to his dark dreary place.
  A many-voiced moan now saddens the air,
  Whose tones are all blent with wild curses and prayer;
  And the deep hollow moan that wails o'er the flood,
  As spirits pass away in storm and in blood.
  In the sad welkin tremble heart-rending shrieks,
  So piercing, that startled, the deep echo speaks.
  There's mirth that's of madness, one laughs in his fear,
  And prayer thrills in tones of the wildest despair;
  And the deep solemn curse from the blasphemer stern,
  Who weeps not, who wails not, tho' his dying soul burn.
  Oh spirits pass away so sad in their strife,
  That the living still cling more closely to life:
  With unearthliest cries, grim phantasied shapes
  Brood o'er the senses ere the spirit escapes;
  On the wings of the wind how swift speeds the blast,
  With pinions all viewless it fleets as the past;--
  Oh say, does it bear the spirits that have fled,
  In the last bitter strife, ere the dying be dead?
  To the last dying sense comes a vision more dread,
  For Death flaps his wings o'er the fields of the dead:
  His deep hollow tones called away and away
  Spirits immortal, disengaged from their clay;
  And rearing aloft his deep sable plume,
  On wings of the wind rose in shadow and gloom,
  Still bearing them on with invisible trace,
  As he swept the broad fields of infinite space--
  Whilst Terror, all wild in his deep, horrid lair,
  Made sad with his moans the invisible air.

  The night wind sighs drear, in its last dying breath;
  The clouds fleet away, like the shadows of death,
  From the face of the moon, whose sepulch'red light
  Steals softly upon the dark bosom of night,--
  As the last smile of hope, ere the spirit hath fled,
  Lingers tranquil and bright o'er the face of the dead.

ALPHA.




The lines which follow ought to be preserved in a more permanent form
than the columns of a newspaper. They were written and published
before Mr. Johnston's lamentable death. It will be recollected that he
perished by the explosion of a steamboat, ascending the Red River.

After the above was penned, the melancholy intelligence reached us of
Mr. Davis's death. Patriotism will mourn his loss, and the Columbian
Muse hang a garland over his tomb.

  From the Augusta (Geo.) Chronicle.

The following beautiful parody, which we met with in the hands of a
respected friend, and were permitted by him to take a copy for
publication, is attributed to the Hon. Warren R. Davis of South
Carolina--a gentleman no less distinguished, admired and beloved for
his many and striking literary acquirements, private virtues, social
qualities, fine manners, polished, varied and brilliant wit and vivid
fancy,--than for his ardent patriotism, open and fearless honesty,
independence, eloquence, and disinterested devotion to his gallant and
glorious state. It is said to have been written, on the sportive
suggestion of the moment, as a contribution to the Album of the
talented, accomplished and witty lady of the Hon. Mr. Johnston of the
United States Senate from Louisiana. The old air of "Roy's Wife of
Aldavalloch" is, we think, one of the most rare and beautiful
specimens of that class of Scottish music, which was probably
introduced from Italy, in the time of the brilliant but unfortunate
Queen Mary.

PARODY.


      Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
      Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
      The fairest flower that ever bloomed
      In southern sun or gay savannah.[1] {208}
  The Inca's blood flows in her veins--[2]
  The Inca's soul her bright eyes lighten;
  Child of the sun, like him she reigns,
  To cheer our hopes, our sorrows brighten.
      Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
      Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
      The fairest flower that ever bloomed
      In southern sun or gay savannah.

      Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
      Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
      She hath a way to win all hearts,
      And bow them to the shrine of Anna!
  Her mind is radiant with the lore
  Of ancient and of modern story--
  And native wit of richer store
  Bedecks her with its rainbow glory.
      Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
      Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
      She hath a way to charm all hearts,
      And bow them to the shrine of Anna!

      Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
      Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
      The hapless bard who sings her praise,
      Now worships at the shrine of Anna?
  Twas such a vision, bright but brief,
  In early youth his true heart rended,
  Then left it like a fallen leaf,
  On life's most rugged thorn suspended.
      Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
      Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
      The hapless bard who sings her praise
      Wept tears of blood for such an Anna!

[Footnote 1: "The gayest scene in nature is a southern savannah,
enamelled with its rich variety of flowers."--_Humboldt_.]

[Footnote 2: "The Incas claim their descent from the sun."--_Las
Casas_.]




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

BEAUTY WITHOUT LOVELINESS.


  He looked on the chiselled _form_ and _face_,
    And the roseate blush beguiling,
  And the arch of the eye-brow's pencilled trace,
    And the lip in moisture smiling:

  He looked on the raven _curls_ that fell
    O'er the _brow_ of Parian whiteness,
  And the _silken lash_ that softened the spell
    Of the _eye_ that swam in brightness:

  He looked on the _slender hand_ that shone,
    Where the sparkle of gems abounded,
  Like the star of eve on her vesper throne,
    By the pearls of the sky surrounded:

  He looked on the _arm_, as in floating grace,
    It waved o'er the chords entrancing,
  And the feathery _foot_, as it marked each trace
    Of the melody in dancing.

  He looked on all these, while links of gold
    With the silken chain were blended;
  And yet in his bosom calm and cold,
    No wave of the soul ascended.

  No rapture glowed in his tranquil gaze,
    The tremulous thought revealing;
  He looked for the light of soul in the face,
    And saw not a ray o'er it stealing.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

HAPPY LOVE.


  The Nightingale sings to the midnight air,
    All darkling and alone:
  And the Lover's lute, mid the gloom of despair,
    Gives forth its sweetest tone.

  But the Lark springs up with the morn's first blush,
    And mounts the clouds above;
  As he sings to his mate, in the hawthorn bush,
    The tale of his happy love.

  But hark, that note from the clustering shade!
    It has reached his listening ear;
  And, with pinions closed, to her leafy bed,
    He comes, like a falling star.

  O! happy Love! O happy pair!
    O for that tuneful art!
  That I might breathe in my Lucy's ear
    The voice of a happy heart.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SORROWS OF LOVE.

TO A BEAUTIFUL GIRL ON SEPARATION.


  Oh! weep not tho' we're bid to part,
    Since time nor distance e'er can sever
  The links that bind my changeless heart,
    To thy angelic form forever.

  As summer clouds that hide the sun,
    When once removed restore him brighter;
  This night of woe as soon as done,
    Will make our love-day morn the lighter.

  Affliction now our hearts has proved,
    And shown our passion's depth more clearly;
  In joy we might have known we loved,
    But grief has taught us, oh! how dearly.

The foregoing was written by a gentleman of fine genius, and is
published without the author's knowledge.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXTEMPORAL LINES.

On hearing Mr. Wickham's Speech at the Bar of the House of Delegates,
on the 6th instant.


  When Wickham stood up at the bar of the House,
  And every one there was as still as a mouse,
  I trembled myself, (to acknowledge the truth,)
  Lest his age should forget the fine feats of his youth;
  And I thought that his Horace had warned him in vain,
  "Release the old racer in time from the rein,
  Lest he falter at length in a laughable pace,
  And finish his course in diverting disgrace."
  But soon, very soon, all my fears were relieved,
  And hopes took their places that were not deceived;
  For I saw that his motions were sprightly and strong,
  And, spite of his weights, he went gaily along,
  Till, safe at the goal, pleasure broke from my lips,
  And I cried out delighted, "hurrah for Eclipse!"[1]

_January, 1835_.

[Footnote 1: Solve senescentem maturè sanus equum, ne
             Peccet ad extremum ridendus, et ilia ducat.
                            _Hor. Epist. Lib. i. 1._]


{209}


MRS. WOOD'S MANUSCRIPT POEMS.


The pious and excellent Mrs. JEAN WOOD, who died in this city some
years since, was the relict of General James Wood, a distinguished
officer of the revolution, and afterwards Governor of Virginia. The
qualities for which she was remarkable, were familiarly known to a
very large circle of friends, by whom, at least such as survive her,
her memory is still held dear. She was indeed in the justest sense, a
mother in Israel,--a lady of shining christian benevolence, whose
kindly feelings towards her race did not consist in mere sentiment
only,--but were evinced in a life of active, useful, and
unostentatious charities and labors of love. Her piety moreover,
though profound and ardent, was free from austerity; and there was a
grace and cheerfulness in her manner and conversation, which won upon
all of every age and condition who approached her. Well known as she
was however, and universally respected for her virtues, there were but
few comparatively who were apprised of her varied endowments or who
knew that her practical good sense and experienced judgment were
united to the lighter attractions and more ornamental graces of the
intellectual character. Literature was to her the solace which
refreshed the intervals in her works of goodness; it furnished that
balmy repose to the spirit,--which it often needs amidst the conflicts
and agitations of human life, even in its most favored condition. The
proud, the selfish and avaricious, or the gay and luxurious, may each
indulge in his own enjoyment or follow his own delusive phantom,--but
next to the consciousness of doing good, there is no earthly happiness
so pure and unalloyed as that which springs from the silent communion
with our own spirits, or with the marvellous and multiform external
objects which surround us. "There is a pleasure in poetic pains which
only poets know." There is an exalted sense of enjoyment in
contemplating all that is beautiful and good in the moral and physical
world, and this indeed constitutes the empire of poetry in its more
general and unrestricted sense. We do not claim for Mrs. Wood very
extraordinary powers in this enchanting department of literary
effort,--for how few of the thousands who have ever essayed to climb
the hill of Parnassus have reached its highest pinnacle; and on the
contrary how many have been content to tune their unambitious lays in
humble seclusion--without courting or even desiring renown. Mrs. Wood
wrote neither for fame nor the public eye, and it is this circumstance
alone which will impart an additional interest to the natural and
unstudied effusions of her muse. Her numerous friends and relatives
will at least experience a melancholy pleasure, in tracing in these
_memorolabilia_ of their deceased friend, some of those qualities of
mind and heart, which rendered her in life an object of respect and
love,--and in death,--of veneration and regret.

The first poem we have selected, entitled "Retrospection," appears to
have been written in 1809--when a severe illness threatened the life
of her husband. In the frame of mind natural under such circumstances,
she recalls the principal sorrows of her life, and among them there
was none more poignant than the loss of an only child, a daughter of
eighteen years old. The closing lines will indicate the source to
which she was accustomed to look in the season of human affliction.

RETROSPECTION.


  Why should mysterious Heaven bestow
    A warm and feeling heart--
  Yet doom it naught but pain to know,
    And rankle in its smart?

  That it might agonize and bleed
    At every suffering pore,
  The soft affections why decreed
    To centre in its core?

  The tender ties my heart has proved
    That heart has held most dear,
  And those most dearly, fondly loved,
    Have cost the bitterest tear!

  A tender parent's weeping nurse
    My early youth I pass'd;
  And Heaven did but those tears disperse
    To bid them flow more fast:

  For rich in worth, a youth appear'd--
    I gave my virgin heart;
  But Hymen scarce our vows endeared
    Ere we were doomed to part:

  He, through war's ravaged fields to roam
    Eight sad revolving years--
  I, droop'd, a widow'd wife at home,
    In unavailing tears:
  But ah! the pang was yet to feel,
    (The worst the heart can know,)
  The pang no earthly power can heal,
    The climax of all woe!

  To me a cherub fair was given,
    I placed it next my heart;
  It seemed the choicest gift of Heaven--
    My bosom's dearest part:
  While yet I mark'd each opening charm
    That graced its baby brow,
  Disease approach'd, in direful form,
    To lay each promise low.

  And oh! how worse than death to see
    The ruins of a mind,
  Which, in its dawning, seem'd to be
    For better hopes design'd;
  To watch with anxious hopes and fears
    The daily deep'ning gloom,
  Till eighteen sad and suffering years
    Had laid her in the tomb.

  Though keen the parting pang I felt,
    And did my child deplore;
  Yet soon in gratitude I knelt--
    _Her_ sufferings were no more.
  My mind's composure once regain'd,
    A competence still ours;
  My loved companion, too, remain'd
    To cheer my lonely hours:

  Fondly I hoped life's evening shade
    Might yet in peace descend,
  And grief no more my heart invade
    Till closing life should end. {210}

  But now alas! the transient calm
    Flits fast and far away--
  The hope that o'er my fancy swam,
    And soothed my wasting day;
  For dire disease again appears
    To break the mild serene;
  Again commands my streaming tears,
    And clouds our closing scene!

  Why, then, my God! thus closely twine
    Around this bursting heart,
  Those fond affections which are mine,
    Such misery to impart!
  Dare I, presumptuous, seek to know
    What mocks our mortal sight;
  Enough for me, thou will'st it so--
    It, therefore, must be right.

The piece which follows, our readers will agree with us, is not only
very agreeable verse, but what is still better, is replete with pure
moral sentiment.

THE CAPTIVE BIRD.


  Say, little caged flutterer, say,
  Why mournful waves thy drooping wing?
  Why silent sit, the live-long day?
  Nor Vespers chaunt, nor Matins sing.

  When first a captive thou wert made
  And in thy wiry dwelling swung,
  Suspended in the leafy shade
  Or sunny door, you gaily sung.

  My careful hand supplied thee store
  Of ripest berries from the hill;
  Thy cup replenished, strewed thy floor
  With glittering gravel from the rill.

  Beneath the same luxuriant vine,
  The same kind hand supplies thy fare;
  The sun's first cheering rays are thine,
  Yet thou art sad and silent there.

  Ah! little captive, couldst thou see
  What passes in this wayward breast,
  Thou'dst ask, perhaps, the same of me,
  And why vain wishes break my rest.

  Thou'dst ask me, why this quiet shade
  Which late a paradise I deem'd,
  Though still in verdant sweets array'd,
  A melancholy prison seemed?

  And bid me mind, each passing day
  That wholesome viands crown'd my board,
  That flowers and fruits and sunshine gay
  For me, too, vernal sweets afford.

  Nay, more,--that liberty is mine
  And lends a ray to every joy--
  While sad captivity is thine,
  Mingling with all its sad alloy.

  Thou "still small voice" that will be heard,
  Whose whispers thrill the inmost soul!
  Reproving friend--beloved and feared--
  Conscience, this is thy mild control!

  Oft hast thou urged this conscious truth,
  When gloomy tears have fill'd mine eye;
  Or discontent, with brow unsmooth,
  Was fain to force th' unwilling sigh.

  'Tis thy reproving voice I hear,
  When from the poor and lowly cot
  Content and cheerfulness appear,
  Though mark'd by penury their lot.

  Then shall I bear a pining heart--
  While friendship, health, and peace combine
  Life's dearest comforts to impart--
  Ah! shall a thankless heart be mine!

  No sure--content's too cold a name
  For what my bosom ought to feel;
  Thus favored, gratitude's sweet claim
  With thanks unceasing bids me kneel:

  Bids me, thus lowly bending, vow
  Before the awful throne of Heaven--
  Children of want, to share with you
  The good its gracious power has given.

In the lines which we next select, it will be perceived that to minds
of delicate fibre and poetic temperament,--the most familiar objects
in nature will often suggest mournful images and recollections. A
flower will awaken affecting reminiscences of some long lost and
beloved object.

THE BELLE DU JOUR, OR CONVOLVULUS MINOR.


  Sweet floret! beauty of a day,
  And transient as thou'rt sweet;
  Scarce opening to the morning ray
  Ere shrinking from its heat:

  Noon faded sees each early charm,
  Thy blue eye closed in death;
  And evening's breeze, thy wasted form
  Wafts lightly o'er the heath.

  While thus, sweet child of summer skies,
  I see thee bloom and die;
  What tender recollections rise
  To prompt the pensive sigh:

  For once in this lone bosom grew
  As fair, as sweet a flower,
  That smiled and budded forth like you
  In morn's propitious hour;

  But ah! while joy and hope were new
  And promised bliss secure;
  Like you, it drooping faded too--
  And sunk to bloom no more.

  Oft as I through the twilight gloom
  A wandering mourner stray;
  Pale shadowy tenant of the tomb,
  She seems to cross my way:

  For every object, every scene
  Does my lost love recall,
  From cheerful morning's rising beam
  To mournful evening's fall.

Our readers must not be induced to cast aside the {211} following
poem, from its length. It is full of genuine feeling and pious
sentiment.

EVENTIDE.

[Written in a dejected and visionary state of mind.]


    Sweet beams the cheerful morn o'er happy hearts,
  And every smiling scene new bliss imparts;
  Each gay unfolding bud, each new born flower
  Exhaling odors, owns the sun's warm power;
  The new-waked birds their notes of gladness raise,
  The trembling dew-drop rainbow tints displays,
  In pendant beauty gems the lofty bough,
  Or glitters in the velvet turf below.

    On active wing abroad, the industrious bees
  Their busy hum mix with the passing breeze,
  The light breeze curls the silver-bosom'd flood,
  Or freshening whispers through the waving wood;
  The sun, now mounting, gilds the eastern skies,
  Bright'ning the landscape with its glowing dyes--
  Gay beauty smiles along each field and grove--
  Congenial smiles--for youth, for joy, and love.

    But when the soul, long since, has ceased to prove
  The tender fallacies of youthful love--
  And soberer joys, no more, the way adorn,
  The sad heart, sick'ning, turns from sprightly morn--
  Turns, pensive eve, to seek thy milder charms,
  And dewy haunts, which no gay sunbeam warms.

    When closing day shuts o'er its busy cares,
  And onward stealing, twilight meek appears,
  Drowns in obscurity the distant scene,
  And casts a softening charm o'er all between--
  'Tis then the sad, the lacerated mind,
  Does in thy gentle gloom a soother find--
  Sighs with less pain beneath its load of cares,
  And mourns its sorrows with relieving tears.

    Disrobed of gayer tint and gaudy hue,
  Sweet Eventide! thy objects meet the view;
  In modest russet clothed each shrub and flower,
  Shades ever sacred to thy silent hour--
  Shades how congenial! every heart must find,
  Which long, long suffering, feels, but is resign'd.
  So we oft see in life's bright morn display'd,
  A youthful beauty gorgeously arrayed!
  Unbent by care, her form erect she bears,
  Bright are her eyes, unsullied yet by tears;
  By thought unclouded her fair polish'd brow,
  Nor does her buoyant heart a sorrow know:
  Gay as the lark's first carol is her song,
  As with light agile step she moves along;
  Each young unwary heart to love she warms,
  A sparkling wonder, and a blaze of charms!

    But when this dazzling radiance is o'er
  And morn's bright beauties fade to bloom no more;
  When noontide clouds for evening showers prepare,
  And the gay crowd no longer hail her fair--
  Then, if beneath this form so heavenly bright
  Some latent virtues rest--obscured from sight,
  (By suffering taught its own intrinsic worth)
  The struggling heart first learns to call them forth:
  Taught by her own to feel another's woes,
  The sweets of Heaven-born charity she knows;
  While sympathetic tears unbidden flow,
  And gentle pity does its balm bestow.
  Now softened every gaudy trait is seen
  To milder russet changed her vivid green;
  Her morning splendors caught the young and gay,
  But the meek mourner loves her eventide ray.

    Ah! hour of twilight russet--thou art past--
  And hope, sweet star of eve! has shone its last--
  Nor can a ray of cheering light impart
  Where midnight darkness ever wraps the heart.

    At thy soft silent hour, in pensive mood,
  Sweet eventide, I love to seek the wood;
  And as I, musing, wind my devious walk,
  With visionary forms hold fancied talk;
  Forms that the cold embrace of death enfolds,
  But which my soul in fond remembrance holds,
  Down the lone walk, or midst the cluster'd trees,
  I hear a well known voice in every breeze--
  The passing object, or the shadowy green
  Through their tall bolls in dim perspective seen,
  Soft flitting forms present to fancy's eye,
  That seem to glide with gentle greetings by.

    Hail gentle spirits! Shades of friends revered--
  By tender recollections now endeared;
  And you, my earliest loss, parental pair--
  Though o'er your tombs the oft revolving year
  Has shed its winters frost and vernal dew,
  Still faithful memory fondly turns to you--
  For often in idea still are seen
  Your silver locks, and venerable mien.
  If conscience tells me I have err'd in aught,
  Your cold reproving frown straight strikes my thought;
  But if my heart acquits me of all guile,
  It feels the joy of your approving smile.
  A brother here, the worthiest of mankind--
  Oft I recall--with pain and pleasure joined;
  Two sisters--one advanced in matron grace,
  Strong sense and feeling blended in her face;
  Plain worth and warm affections fill'd her heart,
  And to each action did their hue impart:
  Benevolence and truth still led her way
  And held their tenor through each well spent day:
  The other, just a bride, in youthful charms,
  With grace and beauty fill'd her husband's arms--
  When Heaven, aware a mind so finely wrought,
  So mild, so gentle, so refined in thought,
  With erring mortals peace could never know,
  Hasted to call her from a scene of woe;
  And early placed her in those blest abodes
  Where care no more afflicts, nor grief corrodes.
  Sure, thou Supreme! of all thy works, the part
  Most form'd for woe, is the soft female heart;
  Her breast, the seat of innocence and love,
  Was doom'd, alas! composure ne'er to prove--
  What others felt, with but a passing sigh,
  Kept the meek tear forever in her eye;
  The varying blush that mental suffering speaks
  In quick suffusion on her lovely cheeks--
  Ah gentle Anna! leave thy Heaven awhile,
  Greet a lone sister with one tearful smile.

    Aerial music oft I seem to hear
  In gentle breathings, strike my listening ear-- {212}
  Full and melodious sounds, in swelling strains,
  Then soothing soft, each dying note complains;
  High o'er my head in trembling cadence plays,
  Or lightly passes on the sighing breeze--
  The ambient air a balmy fragrance fills,
  And the charm'd sense each earth-born sorrow stills;
  A lambent light pervades the dewy scene,
  Illumes each branch and brightens o'er the green.
  Sweet powers of Fancy! can this work be thine,
  Or are these sounds, these forms, indeed, divine?
  For see, where lightly borne on seraph wing,
  An angel band their hallelujahs sing--
  Its course, a form etherial this way bends,
  Stooping to earth, and at my feet descends!

    Oh, beauteous shade of what was once my child!
  Wept when I wept, and smiled but as I smiled;
  Phantom of what long filled this vacant heart,
  That still would claim thee as its dearest part--
  That still must hold thy cherish'd memory dear,
  And greet thy much loved image with a tear.
  In thy translated spirit sure I trace
  Each mortal beauty of thy gentle face;
  Shaded by silken curls of auburn hue,
  Meet thy soft eyes of mild etherial blue;
  Their look of patient innocence still feel
  Touch my heart's finest nerve, with tender thrill,
  See them in silent fondness fix'd on mine,
  See thee for my maternal kiss incline--
  With offer'd lip and fond extended arms,
  While love ineffable my bleeding bosom warms!

    Oh vision fair, of many an airy dream!
  Of all my youthful hopes the darling theme;
  Wreck of an anxious mother's early cares,
  Loved object of her late regrets and tears--
  Why, beauteous messenger, why hither sent,
  On what mild purpose is thy errand bent?
  For thou couldst only leave the blest above
  On errands mild, and purposes of love.
  Comest thou to warn me from this life of pain?
  To bid me hope we soon shall meet again?
  Sure in thy dulcet voice I hear thee say,
  "Come, poor lone mourner, come to peace away:"
  Welcome the sounds, for wretched must I be
  While weary life divides my soul from thee.
  Ah, no! that softly sorrowing look declares
  Thou comest to chide my impious grief and tears--
  Grief, that would thee recall to pain and woe,
  Tears, that alone from selfish motives flow:
  To bid me sink on an adoring knee
  And thank my God, whose mercy shelter'd thee!
  Who, while he seem'd, in each severe command,
  To press me with a harsh chastising hand,
  Prepared the balm that now my heartfelt woes
  And anguished bosom, can alone compose;
  And bad me know, in the conviction blest,
  Though here thy suffering body knew no rest--
  That thy pure soul, as spotless as 'twas given,
  By his creating hand has wing'd its way to Heaven.

    With sad solicitude 'twas mine to watch,
  In silent woe, my angel's midnight couch,
  Guide her uncertain steps the live-long day,
  Or pine in trembling terrors when away--
  To see the impending stroke I could not ward,
  And mourn the sufferer that no love could guard;
  But this blest certainty my heart repays,
  And bids it throb with gratitude and praise.
  Yet pardon, Lord! my bosom's sorrowing swell,
  When on past scenes I yet too fondly dwell;
  And you who ne'er have felt the cruel pang,
  Who still can o'er your cherish'd darlings hang;
  Who have not learn'd how hard it is to part,
  And bear about a sad bereaved heart--
  Or not possessing, ne'er conceive the charm
  With which maternal love the heart can warm--
  With kind indulgence hear pale sorrow's moan,
  Nor lightly judge the woes you have not known.

    Should the Supreme a cherub fair bestow,
  More sweet than all his hand e'er form'd below;
  While all that helpless infancy endears
  Wakes into life a mother's hopes and fears--
  And if thy heart shall love as mine has loved,
  And prove the bitter pangs that mine has proved,
  Then may'st thou judge--for thou wilt truly know
  That keenest pang, a tender mother's woe;
  Then wilt thou, pitying, hear pale sorrow's moan,
  And kindly mingle with her sighs, thy own.

    Thus, shadowy eve, allured and soothed by thee,
  A wand'ring visionary I shall be--
  And when o'er earth thy dewy breezes sweep,
  Seek thy sequestered shades to muse and weep;
  Not bitter tears--or without comfort shed,
  A tribute to the loved, the honor'd dead.

    Hail gentle spirits! while thus memory true
  In fancy's wanderings oft communes with you,
  This world recedes--the silent grave appears
  A blest asylum from all earthly cares!
  And faith, the hope inspiring, sooths my breast,
  That _there_ the sad and weary shall have rest.

We shall for the present, conclude with the following "_Lines written
on hearing a lady use the expression of smiling autumn_."

SMILING AUTUMN.


  Autumn, how should that languid air
    That smoothed thy brow erewhile,
  Be (though a frown thou dost not wear)
    Mistaken for a smile?

  The glow that dyes thy tawny cheek,
    The gleam that lights thine eye,
  Nor smiling grace, nor joy bespeak--
    Thy every breath's a sigh.

  Or if, perchance, a transient smile
    Breaks o'er the fading scene,
  To cheer thy plaintive brow the while
    And wake its sad serene;

  'Tis like the sickly smile that sits
    On hidden sorrow's brow,
  Or with the last faint hectic flits
    When life is ebbing low.

  From such heart-chilling smiles as these
    Winter, I turn to thee--
  Thy frowning skies and leafless trees
    More welcome are to me.


{213}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

STUDY OF THE LATIN AND GREEK CLASSICS.


Of all the "death-bed sayings" on record, none please me more than
that of Beausobre to his son: Go, said he,

  "Argentum et marmor vetus, æraque et artis
  Suspice.
            Suspice, et forma non fragilis
  Movebit in pectore delectationis multum.
  Ibi, cum Euroauster, tum erit admiratio--
  Flori felicitatis suavis et jucunda."

Moving among the solid temples of "silver," and of "marble," reared by
ancient literature, the intruder finds the holy beauty around him
giving softness to his step, and banishing all ungentle levity. The
plastic mind gradually yielding to the touch of that loveliness which
has crept in through the senses, becomes of itself grand and lovely.
The heart too receives its coloring--even as the cheek is colored,
when standing beneath the stained windows of some real temple.

These truths have come home to _me_, at too late an hour, and a quill
or two will not be worn out sinfully, in an attempt to impress their
importance upon younger men.

If I fail, as most probably I shall, the consciousness of having
consumed a day in useful effort, will be a tolerable reward--perhaps
reward enough.

"The inner man moulds the outer," is an old and true saw. Its truth
may be seen, reader, by looking around you--indeed, by looking _at
yourself_. If you are a philosopher--a genuine philosopher--your glass
will image forth an aspect of serene dignity. If a sophist, one of
perplexed cunning. In the first instance, your _manner_ will be lofty
yet affable--a key to the better feelings of all:--in the latter
grovelling, yet scornful--to every one food for the most unreserved
contempt. Yielding that these different appearances are produced by
the workings of the inner man, can you hit upon a mode for ennobling
these workings, in themselves confused and feeble, so evidently
effectual as the introduction of knowledge and its all-arranging hand?
Some may say that the manner is of no moment. The effects produced
under every one's own observation would, if remembered, serve to
stifle this assertion. Why was it that the most eloquent of Grecians
struggled for years to remove the defects of a faulty bearing, if no
valuable end was to be attained?

It follows then that dignity and suavity are of service: that
these--in many cases essential--are the offspring of a confidence in
one's own knowledge. And now, I ask, whence may we draw richer
supplies of this than from the pages of ancient writers? Are they not
rife with all the useful reasoning--the philosophic intelligence--the
happiness of application, that cultivated man could devise for the
assistance of untutored intellect?

From the logic of the sage we learn, by a spirit of imitation natural
to human beings, to quicken our own powers of reasoning. The
perspicuity of arrangement and expression, so admirable in our master,
becomes gradually a part of our own style. We are led by the strength
of example to lop off the redundancies of a corrupt method, and by the
acquirement of correct notions of purity, enabled to render our
productions chaste and clear. And these improvements in the reasoning
powers are effected at the same time that we possess ourselves of the
richest treasures of lore!

But this is only one source of advantage among many as valuable. Wit,
a power of the mind seldom granted with a liberal hand by
nature--receives, in the course of communion with the playful and
keen, a training of no little value. Charmed by the attic grace which
softens and mellows the satire of our companions, (for let us conjure
up at the hearthside the great masters of the past, and through their
works hold with them 'pleasant converse,') our efforts will be to
increase by farther intercourse, the small store already laid up
perhaps unintentionally. Thus may we, if naturally possessed of wit,
so polish and sharpen the gift of nature, that no armor may resist its
progress: or, if destitute of this strong weapon, form for ourselves
one less beautiful indeed, but of scarce less real worth.

Without this chastening influence, native wit degenerates into a
harshness excessively grating to the ear of refinement, and productive
of no single good effect.

Thus is improved or created a quality allowed by all to be of much
utility in the contests between mind and mind. And what is life but a
field of conflict, wherein the passions of one--perpetually at strife
with those of another--are forever calling to their assistance the
weapons of intellect!

I have before spoken of the effect produced on the manner by a
confidence in one's acquired resources. Carrying this a step farther,
I will remark, that many of the qualities regarded as amiable among
men, such as urbanity and modesty, may be gained not only by the act
of storing the mind, but from the actual lessons and counsels of the
bland teachers from whom these stores are received. Will any one deny
the happy consequences of an urbane and modest deportment, in man's
intercourse with his fellows? Surely none would so far forget the
beauty of virtue as thus to sneer at its manifestations.

We can scarcely find among the various pursuits of men, one in which
the pursuer may not be assisted by the experience and lessons of his
predecessors on the same path. The painter esteems himself happy when
able to collect in his studio the meanest of the antique models. The
sculptor contemplates among the relics of the past those
master-efforts, so deservedly famous, and is indefatigable in a study
essential to the production {214} of purity in his own manner. Extend
this to eloquence. Most truly the orators of antiquity have been
sturdy pioneers upon a noble path, and to neglect their guidance would
retard the pursuer of the same course, and entangle him in many
difficulties. Indeed, with the works of these, elocutionists have
invariably recommended familiarity. The strength of
Demosthenes,--_monte decurrens velut amnis_--the 'abundant grace' of
the polished Tully, are of themselves milk for a giant's nurturing.
But they have not come forth alone from the wreck of time. They are
attended by worthy companions.

The depths of a strong mind teem with the seeds of fine thought. Ideas
lofty and rich are then in embryo, and it is a tedious but an
essential task to bring them to maturity. The lessons and practice of
those by whom excellence was most nearly approached, cannot do other
than afford aid of the strongest nature to the student, who has in
immediate view an anxious care of these germs, and looking forward to
the season when a gigantic growth has rewarded his culture, longs with
a virtuous ambition for its coming, that he may scatter among men the
fruits of mature strength. Let all remember this, and seek not only
rule of guidance, but successful illustration among the pages of the
past.

It would be no difficult matter to point out other important
qualities, ripened by a study of the ancient classics. To show how
strongly assisted the organs of judgment, &c. may be by the
strength-infusing food of knowledge, winnowed as it has been by time,
would be truly _labor absque labore_. But I have already trespassed on
the reader's courtesy, and shall leave the unfilled catalogue to be
completed, if he thinks it worth the while, at his own leisure.

It has been my object to show that "the classical student's own good
and that of his fellows, would be advanced by his assiduity:" and as I
have not yet remarked distinctly upon the latter, I will do so now,
and briefly.

Men unable individually to defend and protect their rights, enter into
compacts for mutual assistance. Certain laws are drawn up, guiding the
administrator of justice. This justice is the main duct by which the
social body is supplied. With it, order and tranquillity shed their
light upon a nation's progress towards happiness. Without it, the
members within, and the body sinks under a benumbing paralysis. It is,
then, the part of every good citizen to see that justice be maintained
free from impurity, and by precept and example to enliven its
energies. And what is it that gives weight to counsel, if it be not
the adviser's learning and reputation?

  "Insani sapiens nomen ferat, æquus iniqui."

What, in a just man's practice, so softens down to our feelings all
necessary roughnesses, as a secret veneration for himself?

I have shown, or attempted to show, that the character becomes chaste
by communion with those exalted spirits from whom are drawn the
supplies of wisdom; and we now see that both the possession of these
supplies and the reputation gained thereby, are of service to the
public--moreover that skill, necessary in the management of public
affairs, is generated, or to say the least increased--so rendering the
ruler more capable of furthering the interests of the ruled.

We see then, that the individual and the public good are advanced by
the study in question. Let us now examine whether this advancement may
not be effected by confining ourselves first to translations, secondly
to our own legitimate literature.

With regard to the first, others have pointed out the futility of all
such transfers. The Turk exchanges his turban and robe for the
habiliments of the Christian. Through the mask of this assumed garb
what eye can detect the original Mussulman? Is he swarthy! others of
his adopted brethren are equally so. Does the tuft of long hair by
which Houri hands are to draw the faithful into Paradise, differ from
the unshorn locks of those around him? his assumed head-gear conceals
the difference.--Thus does he lose all trace of his former being, and
since the assumed qualities sit on him but indifferently, the change
is always for the worse. Are we to doubt the truth of this
illustration? All experience forbids us so to do. The sterling gold of
Shakspeare--converted into French tinsel--was only so converted to
meet with ridicule and contempt.

Secondly, may not these advantages be gained by researches into our
own literature? I would say, in the first place, that this latter is
but a branch engrafted on the ancient tree; and if we wish to effect
thorough familiarity, we must examine downward--solving difficulties
as we proceed--until we come to the root, from whence springs all
lore. Farthermore:--Acquaintance with "our own literature" being but
one move towards the attainment of thorough knowledge, this very
admission stamps it as an inferior degree of excellence, and will any
one doubt the utility of gaining the greatest in a generous pursuit?

This connexion of past lore with the present, suggests to me an
important point, upon which I shall linger for a brief space.

Few are ignorant of the close connexion between the ancient and modern
languages themselves. It was the influence of the polished and manly
Latin that gave euphony to the barbarous jargon brought by the German
tribes from their forests. It was this that spread over the nations of
modern Europe, mellowing in one instance the roughness of the Norman
idiom, and in fine, entwining itself inseparably with the mongrel
plant {215} brought into being in England, after the conquest of Duke
William. Indeed, so much incongruity pervaded this, that many great
writers have believed it a vehicle too rude and perhaps unsafe, for
the conveyance of their harvests to posterity. Under this belief Bacon
wrote his "_Novum Organum_," as well as many of his more important
works, wholly in Latin.

So close, therefore, is the union, that familiarity with one of the
principal languages of antiquity has become absolutely essential to a
_thorough_ intimacy with our own.

Upon the connexion with the other I will barely remark, that the
precept and practice of learned men most assuredly carry a weight at
home, and was it not natural for these, filled as they were with the
beauty of that tongue, whose melody and richness had lent a charm even
to the outpourings of wisdom, to introduce its merits into their own
less noble one? This they have done; and so originated a connexion
important and harmless, inasmuch as it has benefitted the one greatly,
without injuring the other.

I will now observe upon the time of life most suited to an attainment
of that skill, essential in opening to the neophyte these well-stored
magazines of useful and pleasing information. If the candidate for
distinction in any, the simplest profession, had at the time of
entering upon it, yet to master the rudiments of his language, would
he not contemplate the double task in despair? Knowing that the
greatest genius on earth, if without the means of expressing the
teeming thoughts of a crowded mind, is but a "mighty savage," he
feels, if success be his object, the absolute necessity of beginning
the almost endless labor. From childhood to manhood he should be
furbishing this key to his mind's resources.

And the case is the same with regard to the study of the elements
which throw open the riches of the past to our conception. These
riches are very seldom possessed when the means of doing so are not
gradually acquired in very early years. The hours are not then
counted--the labor does not present itself in a huge and startling
mass to the narrow view of youth, but is seen part by part as the
student advances. With years of inactive life before him, his time is
his own, and we may almost say unlimited. Undeterred by the calls of
the world, he has leisure to possess himself of every requisite for
enjoying the feast to be partaken of hereafter. Turn to one who, after
neglecting the acquisition of that which he has at length learned to
look upon as most valuable, attempts to rectify his error. With the
duties of life accumulating every moment on his hands--with the toil
to be endured spread out like a map before his eye, he rarely has
energy enough to persevere. The task is given up as a hopeless one,
and his judgment, on the ground of interference with essential duties,
sanctions the decision urged by timidity. Then deprived of all means
of gaining the treasure, he laments the error by which its acquisition
was deferred until too late a season.

I have said nothing of the exquisite entertainment to be drawn from
the study before us. My object has been to work on the feelings of
real and palpable interest, so effectual in ruling men of the present
day.

Let us now turn to a picture, to me of great beauty. The strifes and
toils of the world are left behind us. We have sought the shades of
retirement, to consume in domestic happiness the few remaining years
of our earthly term. The merchant has come from the hills and valleys
of the east to the banks of the Nile. He brings with him

                   "Munera terræ
  Et maris extremos Arabas distantes et Indos."

His wanderings have been among the groves of spice, and over the sands
of the great deserts. His cheek has been shaded by the palm and the
cool cedar, but it has too been blistered by a scorching sun. All this
is at length passed, and chaunting the "Allah Acbar," wearied--yet
joyful in his weariness--he plants his pavilion on the quiet shore,
there in patience to abide the coming of Dyerm or Xebeck, appointed
for his passage to the destined mart. Thus after experiencing the
various fortunes of active life, we sink into ease.

To him who has no '_munera scientiæ_'--no attachment to polite
research, from which to draw pleasure in the hours of solitude, this
seclusion is worse than a foretaste of that grave so soon to succeed
it. His mind is a mere void, aching to be filled. Accustomed to
satiety, before the affairs of life were relinquished, the contrast is
now all the more painful. It is this that accounts for the discontent
of those "_refugees from the closed shop_," whom we see around us. But
on this picture I do not love to linger. There is another, possessing
in the home of his retirement, a home of placid delight. Surrounded by
the fruits of mental exertion--the parent tree long dead--he revels
among the richly flavored and the luscious, until existence becomes
one continued feast. His influence in the world is undiminished--his
works are remembered with feelings of reverence and affection. Afar
from the restless crowd he is, as has been beautifully said, like the
moon in her relation with ocean; and rendered no less influential by
the tranquil steadiness with which he keeps aloof from the scenes of
his influence. To such a man the treasures of ancient lore are
invaluable; they are charms possessing power to call up the host of
worthies, by nature and assiduous cultivation, great and excellent. In
the sacred recesses of his studio he communes with these. He is
cheered by his intercourse with companions so pleasing, and his path
to the grave is smoothed by {216} flowers of the softest leaf. At
length the drama draws to a close! Like the chaste Talbot, he breathes
his gratitude to those who have been to him the fountains of 'sweet
joy.' It is his last breath. Loved for his virtues, and venerated for
his good works, he sinks to the grave, on whose brink he has long been
lingering, and whose ideal horrors, the lessons of true knowledge have
rendered to him objects to be welcomed, not dreaded--loved, not
feared.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MEMORY.--AN ALLEGORY.


An evil genius visited the happy islands which repose upon the bosom
of the deep blue sea. In these smiling gardens the blest recline,
remote from the turmoil and confusion of life: there are trees loaded
with golden fruits--flowers of a thousand hues, and sweet fountains of
limpid water spread their silvery lines along the emerald lea. The
melody of singing birds, the soft murmur of running streams, and
sounds of distant music, fall upon the ravished ear. The wanton breeze
steals fragrance from the flowers as it passes on, and sweet perfumes
scent the air. Here childish innocence reposes on beds of flowers;
there groups of maturer years recline on verdant knolls, enjoying the
passing hour. Pairs wander arm in arm in pursuit of pleasures that
never pall, and gay crowds lightly dance their hours away in mirth and
song. The genius pronounces the fatal word, and each breathing figure
is transformed to mute and changeless stone. The voice of mirth is
hushed, the tones of music have fled, years roll away, and the living
statues still look in marble coldness on the changing scene. Its
flowers wither--its trees of golden fruits die one by one away--the
birds flee from their green retreats, and the creeping serpent hisses
in the tangled brake--tall rank grass covers the favorite walks, or
choke the streams, whose turbid waters force their sluggish way. At
length a passing vessel stops--a stranger wanders over the wondrous
scene. On a pillar an inscription is engraved; he pauses to read the
word, and instantly the spell is broken--the marble statues melt into
silent shadows of the human form, and flitting forth in pairs and
groups, they wander over their once loved home. They seek their
familiar haunts; they search for the objects of their love; and each
shadow as it passes, whispers, _gone_: and returning to their places,
their forms resume their marble lineaments, and stand once more cold
monuments of their former selves. Such indeed is the human mind. First
comes youth's genial season; hopes linked with loves in happy pairs,
wander around the smiling scene, which fancy decks with flowers. Here
joy dancing to the song of mirth, lightly whiles his hours away; there
young affections and gentle thoughts, like virgin sisters of a
primeval race, pursue their quiet way to the bright abode which fancy
hath created so beautiful and fair. But at length sorrow comes to
breathe its spell. How many hopes, and loves, and pure affections, and
pleasant thoughts, are changed and gone! Inurned in icy coldness, they
are sepulchered in memory's cave; and yet, perhaps, some simple word
of other times is breathed, its spell evokes departed joys and buried
loves. Dim shadows of the past arise--they fleeting come. But fancy
too is changed; it no longer forms the gay creations of its youth, but
fills its gloomy fields with pictures at which the heart doth shrink.
The very thoughts for which we sighed, are now without a home, and
seek to pass away.

ALPHA.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

The following lines were found, written in a "delicate bird-quill
hand," on a blank leaf on the Petrarch of one, among the prettiest of
my fair cousins. The authoress perhaps caught a certain quaintness of
expression from the strained verses of the Italian lover; but the idea
I am inclined to believe original, notwithstanding the assertion "This
was stolen from Boccacio," with which the lines are capped. Stevens,
the Puck of commentators, asks "What has truth or nature to do with
sonnets?" and Byron echoes the question. There may be some truth in
this, though the opinion of the first sprung from hatred towards
Malone, and that of the latter from chagrin at his own want of
success. If the proper characteristic of the sonnet be an artificial
quaintness, my cousin has succeeded admirably,--which I presume Mr.
White will have too much gallantry to deny.

THE CREATION OF THE ANTELOPE.


    The tone of coming Ariel's voice was sweet
  To wise Prospero; he had flown the girth
  Of this green sphere, and gifts from wave and earth
  Were bound with flowers upon his pinions fleet,
  As singing came he to his master's feet.
  Four aspen leaves plucked in the shivering north--
  The Palmiste bough and fruit--of eastern birth--
  And leaf of Abelè--a thorny sheet--
  Were there: And in a cask of quaint device
  Was pent the flash thrown from the gaudy plume
  Of Sopor's empress-bird, of thousand dyes--
  Then by this flash begot--from glamour's womb,
  Gleamed into being two most gorgeous eyes
  Like those twin stars that lit creation's gloom.

    And hoofs most delicate the wise man wrought
  Of Ariel's gift of restless aspen leaves:
  And skilfully as slim Tarantul' weaves
  The curtain to her silken couch, soon brought
  The sheet of Abelè to beauty: naught
  Torn from Earth's Edens by his wily thieves
  So soothed their master as this gem of leaves!
  With downy softness from his magic caught,
  It lay a snowy skin. Next of the bough
  And fruit pluck'd from the Palmiste's sinewy stem,
  A neck and graceful head formed he: Life's glow
  Then tinged each vein. "'Tis done--gleam thou bright gem,"
  Pleased Prospero said, "on Hemalaya's brow,
  A living jewel to his diadem!"

E. D.


{217}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM NEW ENGLAND.--NO. 3.

BY A VIRGINIAN.


_Pittsfield, Mass., July 26th, 1834_.

One means by which Prussian tyranny sought to break down the spirit
and health of Baron Trenck, during his long and rigorous imprisonment
at Magdeburg, was to have him roused by a sentinel, every fifteen
minutes of his sleeping hours. You can form a lively conception of the
efficacy of the plan, if you have ever been compelled by exhausted
nature to woo her "sweet restorer" in a stage-coach, over a very
uneven road: but what think you of dozing it _outside_, on the
driver's seat? Instead of _two_ this morning, the waiter called me at
_one_; when I had not slept a single wink--("sleepless myself, to give
my readers sleep.") Sickened by the motion of the close and crowded
coach, I presently mounted beside the driver; where drowsiness soon
overcame me. So, tying one arm with my handkerchief to the iron on the
stage roof, I took, for about two hours, such slumber as was permitted
by the heavings of our vehicle, on a hilly road: such slumber, as one
might enjoy while tossed in a blanket, or "upon the high and giddy
mast," rocking his brains, "in cradle of the rude imperious surge." On
fully awaking, half an hour before sunrise, I found we were ascending
a mountain (part of the Green Mountain,) by a gentle slope of three or
four degrees, continuing for six miles. The scenery, (wildly
picturesque in itself,) bursting thus suddenly upon the view, was
particularly striking. Indeed, no day of my tour has presented a
greater number of boldly beautiful landscapes. That I never try to
spread these beauties upon my page, you must ascribe to the fear that
they would but 'evanish' in the endeavor, and by no means to any
profane contempt--unpardonable, you know according to Dr. Beattie, for

          --------"the boundless store
  Of charms which Nature to her votary yields;
  The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,
  The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields;
  All that the genial ray of morning gilds,
  And all that echoes to the song of even;
  All that the mountains sheltering bosom shields,
  And all the dread magnificence of Heaven"--

I most devoutly worship them all. But humbler themes befit and demand
my pen.

It is a New England custom, to bury all the dead of a township, or of
a certain subdivision of it, in a common grave yard; usually, not
within any village, and apart from any church. This yard is enclosed
with a wall; and every grave is marked by a stone (commonly hewn
marble,) with a neat and simple inscription of name and years,
supplying "the place of fame and elegy." By a sort of tacit consent,
each family is allowed to cluster its dead together in a separate
portion of the ground; sometimes in a capacious vault, marked with the
family name. The curious may at any time find an hour's
amusement--aside from the more serious thoughts proper to the
place--in reading, on the tombstones, the surnames common and peculiar
to New England, and the Christian names--mostly scriptural--betokening
the original and enduring sway of Puritanism. A southerner naturally
wonders why the grave yards are without the villages. To an inquiry of
mine into the reason, a _'cute_ female (evidently far wiser than her
husband, who was also in company,) answered, that it was "to
accommodate those who live at a distance." How it did this--or how, if
the distant on one side were accommodated, those on the other were not
equally incommoded--my sage instructress did not expound. The village
itself (at least its ordinary _nucleus_, the meeting-house) is usually
central to the town, for the equal convenience of all. It seems more
probable that _health_, and the readier command of space, influence
the location of burying grounds.

One of the objects that have struck me most pleasingly, is the
_Liberty Pole_, in almost every village. Its use is to hoist a flag
upon, on the Fourth of July, and other festal days. It figures
exquisitely in "McFingal"--that best poem, of its length, that America
has produced; so often quoted for Hudibras, and so inadequately
honored, not only in the south, but here, in its native north. Do take
down the book, or, if you have it not, go straight and buy it; turn to
the second or third canto--I forget which--and be grave if you can,
while you read how the Tory hero "fierce sallied forth" attended by

  "His desperate clan of tory friends:
   When sudden met his angry eye
   A pole ascending thro' the sky:--"

the ceremonies of its rearing and consecration; the attack, not
_wordy_ alone, of the hero upon it; his inglorious discomfiture; his
wadling flight,

  ("With legs and arms he worked his course,
    Like rider that outgoes his horse;")

his fall, and decoration with tar and feathers; the hoisting of the
tory constable by a rope fastened to his waistband,

  "Till, like the earth, as stretched on tenter,
   He hung, self-balanced, on his centre;"

where, as Socrates (according to a witty comic poet of his day) got
himself swung in mid air to clear his perceptions,

  "Our culprit thus in purer sky,
   With like advantage raised his eye;
   And looking forth in prospect wide,
   His _tory errors clearly spied_."

I had enjoyed so many a laugh at the whole scene, that when a Liberty
Pole was first shown me (at Hartford) by an interesting fellow
traveller, it required all my phlegm to refrain from clapping my hands
with pleasure.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Albany, July 27_.

It was nearly eleven--two hours later than usual--when we arrived last
night. A series of little casualties delayed us: a thunder storm,
quite as magnificent as most that we have in Virginia, only our
thunder and lightning are far superior; a tree, of eight or nine
inches diamater, blown across the road by a _semi_-tornado that
accompanied the cloud; and divers other detentions. The storm met us
near the top of a mountain, upon the line of Massachusetts and New
York; obliging us to halt, and fend off the rain as best we might, by
buttoning down the curtains. The descent hitherward, winds, for
perhaps a mile, along the steep mountain side; commanding a fine view
of the pretty village of Lebanon, and its prettier valley. Near
Lebanon is a settlement of Shakers. The only incivility I have {218}
yet experienced from a stage driver, was a few miles this side of
Lebanon; when, availing myself of a brief halt at a hotel to get some
refreshment, I received an indistinct notice that the stage could not
wait: and a minute or two after, some one called to me, "you are left,
sir!" On going to the door, sure enough, the horses were in a sweeping
trot, twenty or thirty yards (or, as they say here, four or five rods)
off. I soon overtook them; and was admitted, the driver surlily
grumbling at the unreasonableness of expecting him to _wait all day_.
He was soured by being so late. And whoever considers how nice a point
of honor--aye, and of duty, and interest--it is with that fraternity
to be punctual, will not blame him very severely. They have been civil
and obliging to me; the one by whom I slept yesterday morning, was
even kind.

So well established is this good character of New England stage
drivers, that ladies often travel by stage for scores of miles, with
no other protector. And the driver does protect them, vigilantly.
Every way, however, the freedom with which females trust themselves
abroad there, and in the south, is remarkably different. I have seen
handsome young ladies, of refined appearance, driving in a chaise,
with no male attendant, to a town seven or eight miles from their
home. And such things are of every day occurrence, attracting no
especial notice. This freedom arises, I believe, from several causes.
It is unquestionably owing, in part, to the sober, honest, and
peaceful habits of the people, and to the certainty, that any wrong or
insult offered to a female, would be promptly resented and punished;
as in Ireland, under the reign of Brien the Brave, a beautiful damsel,
richly attired, could walk alone, safe and fearless, from end to end
of the kingdom.[1] Contiguity of residences aids this effect. Then, in
the country villages of the north, there are many more ladies than
gentlemen, from the emigration of the latter westward, and from their
resorting to the maritime cities and to the ocean, for trade and
seafaring employment. Besides, New Englanders have less time for
pleasure than we have; and no Virginian will deny that "to tend the
fair" is a _pleasure_. But the freedom of female movements is partly
attributable also to the prevalence, among the New England men, of a
less tender and obsequious _manner_ at least, towards the fair sex,
than southrons habitually shew. They do not practise those minute,
delicate attentions--that semi-adoration--ingrained in the very
constitutions of our well bred men. (Not dandies--I speak of _men_.)
Indeed our claim to superiority may be pushed still further. In
affability to inferiors, our northern brethren are decidedly behind
us. In their middling and lower classes, nay and in the lower _tier_
of their upper classes, this short-coming is particularly discernible:
and extends even to their deportment towards equals. Clowns and
servants--I beg pardon--"_helps_"--seem not to expect, or to relish,
the courtesy which, in the Old Dominion, every true gentleman pays to
the poorest man. Soon after entering the country, I found it
necessary, if I would have respect from them, to abate much of the
respectful address, which habit had rendered essential to my own
comfort. Can these deficiencies of manner--supposing them to
exist--and _my_ belief of them is confirmed by that of others--be
ascribed to the utter proscription of _duelling_--that vaunted nurse
of courtesy? I should rather attribute them to three other causes.
_First_--a dislike to outward displays of emotion; a hard-featured
sturdiness of soul, which, content to _feel_ kindly and deeply, and to
_act_ kindly too in things of solid import, forgets or disdains the
petty blandishments of _manner_, as idle forms, often the offspring of
deceit, and unworthy of a mind bent upon substantial good. This
estimable, but unamiable trait--derived purely from his sire, John
Bull--makes Jonathan disliked on a superficial view. But those who
consider him with candid attention, and bearing in mind the true
saying of honest Kent, that

  "They are not empty-hearted, whose low sound
   Reverbs no hollowness"--

perhaps find the unsightly iron casket stored with the richest jewels.
_Second_--(a less creditable cause; applicable only to the imputed
want of courtesy towards inferiors)--The employment of whites, as
servants. A master cannot treat these as his equals: it is utterly
incompatible with the relation. His demeanor towards them, he
naturally extends to their kindred, and to their class; that is, to
all the poor around him. According to that general principle of divine
wisdom and goodness, which, by a counterpoise of good and evil,
equalizes every human lot, the blighting curse of slavery seems to
carry this mitigation along with it--a more delicate and scrupulous
regard, in the free, to even the _minute_ gratification of their
fellow-free. Hence--and from their greater leisure to cultivate
_manner_--chiefly arises, we may suppose, the superiority of
slave-holders in the several points of politeness. Just so, according
to Montesquieu, good-manners characterize a monarchy. Those who can
see in this, a recompense either for a privation of the glorious right
of self-government, or for the unmeasured ills entailed by domestic
slavery upon a community, are welcome to the consolation.
_Third_--(applicable, like the last, only to intercourse with
inferiors)--the system of electioneering practised in the northern
states. Usage and public opinion allow no man to declare himself a
candidate for office. His doing so, would be political suicide. He
must be _nominated_ by a CAUCUS--or CONVENTION, as "ears polite" now
require it to be called. The convention is got up in this wise: One,
or two, or three, tolerably influential men, having a friend whom they
wish to exalt, call a private meeting of those over whom their
influence especially is, and after insinuating his merits into the
minds assembled, get a resolution passed, for a general _caucus_, of
the whole party, in the _town_, or election district. All who were at
the private meeting, bestir themselves diligently to congregate at the
caucus, such persons, chiefly, as they, or some of them, can control:
and in this they are so successful, that a nomination there, of the
individual designated by the first movers of the scheme, is almost
sure to result. This nomination goes abroad, as made by a _meeting of
the people_; and unless some more skilfully conducted or powerfully
headed counter movement take place, our candidate may count with
reasonable certainty upon his election. Such is the machinery by which
aspirants get themselves hoisted into office; as explained to me by
one familiar with it--who had actually profitted by it more than
once--and who owned that it was rather a shabby {219} feature in the
politics of his country. All aspirants, therefore, (and in our
country, how few are not so--openly or covertly!) pay court, not to
the people at large, but only to the known leaders of the caucus.
Contemning the passive wires and puppets, they regard only the hand
that works them. Thus the commonality, losing their importance in
elections, lose their strongest hold upon the civility of their
superiors. I need not run out the process. 'Twere well, if deprivation
of bows, and smiles, and kind words, were all that the million suffer
by the caucus system. But, by rendering them _insignificant in the
body politic_, that system threatens popular government itself with
overthrow. I wish, I long, to see my fellow Virginians copy our
brethren of the north in many things: but _this system_, may they shun
as the cholera! May they always adhere to their own frank and manly
plan, of having the candidate appear before them, and face to face
declare his sentiments and manifest his ability to defend the great
interests with which he asks to be entrusted!

[Footnote 1: See T. Moore's Irish Melody--

  "Rich and rare were the gems she wore."]

While talking of _manners_, it would have been seasonable to speak of
the _impertinent inquisitiveness_, commonly ascribed to the Yankees. I
have seen no trace of the fault: not even so much as our own people
sometimes shew. While on foot, in the country, I was sometimes asked
_where I was from_; but it was always where the question was suggested
and justified by the course of conversation, or by the tenor and
number of my own inquiries; or, to furnish a starting place for our
colloquy--a platform whence to toss the ball of discourse: never, in a
manner the least abrupt or offensive. Among the better classes, such
as are casually met in stage-coaches and hotels, there was all the
delicate forbearance in this respect, which marks true politeness
every where.

Again--Our brother Jonathan is reputed, with us, a great sharper.
_Yankee tricks_, and _Yankee knavery_, are ideas inseparable from the
word _Yankee_. Now my own experience does not enable me to add a
single one to the catalogue of anecdotes, by which that characteristic
is supposed to be proven. Not a single cheat--not a single trick--was
practised upon me during my sojourn in Yankee land: unless, indeed, it
was so adroitly done, as to have been hitherto imperceptible to me.
The fact is, our ideas on this point are derived almost entirely from
those delectable samples of honesty, ycleped "Yankee pedlers," who for
many years have so swarmed over the south: a race, by whom their
countrymen at home protest, with hands uplift, against being judged;
and by whom, in very truth, it is no more fair to judge them, than it
would be to judge of us by the vilest scum of our society, who may
have fled to Carolina or the Western forests, from the just punishment
of their crimes, or from the detestation that dogged their vices.

It hardly needs be said--common fame loudly enough proclaims--that
religion flourishes in New England, as much as in any part of the
world. Yet it does not obtrude itself upon the traveller's notice. It
is a quiet, Sabbath-keeping, morals-preserving, good-doing, and
heaven-serving religion, free from several extravagancies, that have
elsewhere crept into christianity. Meetings for eight, ten, or twelve
days together, and suspending, meanwhile, all attention to important
secular duties, I have not seen or heard of: even a meeting at all, on
a working day, did not meet my view during the (nearly) four weeks of
my stay; except funerals. The people seem to think both parts of the
third commandment alike binding: "_Six days shalt thou labor_," as
well as "_Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy_." Dancing is by
no means proscribed, or unusual. It is taught at many or most of the
high female boarding schools. Even in Connecticut, "junkettings" are
not unfrequent, lively enough to have pleased our venerable Pendleton,
yet "soberly" enough conducted, to have suited Lady Grace. At New
Haven, within bowshot of Yale College, a dance was kept up for two
successive nights till eleven or twelve o'clock, in an apartment just
across the street from my lodging. True, I have seen no match for my
father's friend and mine, Dr. K----, who, since the birth of his
seventh grandchild, has so often realized that pleasing trait in the
picture of French rural life--

  "And the gay grandsire, skilled in gestic lore,
   Has frisked beneath the burthen of three score;"

but I saw as great a wonder, in a church last Sunday. The music struck
me as particularly fine; I doubted not that it was an organ; till,
looking up to the gallery, there sat a gentleman scraping away with
might and main _upon a violin_, and another upon a bass viol:
accompanied by a flute, and an admirably tuned choir. "Our armies
swore terribly in Flanders:" but it was nothing to the deep,
anathematizing abomination with which some "unco guid" folks of my
acquaintance (not of yours) would have beheld this uncommon mode of
"hymning the great Creator." Even me, it affected very singularly: I
thought of the war-lock-dance in Kirk Alloway; of Auld Nick in shape
of "towsie tyke, black, grim and large," whose province it was to "gie
them music;" how

   "He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl,
    Till roof and rafters a' did dirl;"
  While "hornpipes, jigs, strathpeys and reels,
  Put life and mettle in their heels:"
   "Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu'
    Which e'en to name wad be unlawfu':"

and I did not know what catastrophe might ensue, from the profanation.
Happily, however, none occurred.

In the formalities of piety, the descendants of the Pilgrims are
radically changed from the puritanical strictness of their
forefathers. The quaint names, indeed, are retained; but the
straight-lacedness they imply is gone: you find _Leah_, or _Naomi_,
upon near approach, to be as arch a lass, and _Jeremiah_, or
_Timothy_, as merry a grig, as any Sally, or Betty, Tom, or Bob, south
of the Potomac.

No one in Massachusetts is any longer compelled by law to pay for the
support of religion, its temples, or its ministers. The law, requiring
the citizen to do so, only letting him choose the sect or the minister
to whom his contribution should enure, was repealed last year. Each
religious _society_--answering to _congregation_ with us--has a sort
of _corporate_ faculty, involving the power to tax its members for
church expenses, and to coerce payment by distress if it be withheld.
Even this is a stride towards hierarchy from which _our_ lawgivers
have shrunk ever since 1785; and which our people will probably never
permit.

I must say more to you, of the goodly land I have {220} just left. My
having quitted it, need subtract nothing from the credit attached to
my observations: for I shall touch no topic, which is not as fresh in
my mind, and as susceptible of truthful representation, as if the
local scene itself stretched around me. Adieu




  From the Western Monthly Magazine.

AMERICAN LITERATURE.--ITS IMPEDIMENTS.


We live in a country pre-eminently rich in mental and physical
resources. We have whatever internally or externally is requisite to
promote national greatness and prosperity. We live in the full
possession and enjoyment of a government founded on the experience of
the past, and reared by the genius and wisdom of an unrivalled
ancestry. The mind here blooms and grows under the protecting wings of
the Genius of Freedom--its native boldness and vigor unrestrained.
Here it may be aroused to all that is noble in enterprise, or
excellent in virtue. Here the aliments of its growth are as rich and
as inspiriting, as they are abundant. It enjoys the choice fruit of
the loftiest minds of departed ages; and may feast on the wisdom and
learning of every modern age. It enjoys the bland influence of the
christian spirit; and may attain a superior standard in moral
greatness and power. But these are not the only advantages which tend
to the development of American mind. In whatever direction we gaze,
nature's beauties, as profuse and lovely as the stars of the sky, meet
the vision. We behold landscape after landscape, enchanting beyond
measure; the graceful undulations of luxuriant prairies; tall forests,
clothed in the magnificent robes of summer, or cheerless with the
storms of winter; noble and beautiful rivers, over whose placid waters
genius and enterprise have scattered the wonders and researches of
science; towering mountains, fairy groves, and silver-sparkling lakes.
Add to these, the wild traditions of a people unknown to former minds:
traditions, over which curiosity loves to linger, and philosophy to
speculate; traditions, which, imbodying the terrific, the romantic,
and the ennobling of the savage state, throw over the page of fiction
a charm and an interest, enchanting and enchaining.

From this view, we might indulge the prophetic thought, that our
national mind would attain to the highest degree of intellectual
pre-eminence. Now, the mind is the prime source of literature,
creating it, and giving to it an enduring form. If all its powers are
fully developed in their varied beauty and might, that literature to
which it gives character, will be of an exalted nature. Should then
our national mind be made to appreciate its advantages, it naturally
follows, that our literature will be all that is grand and
sublime--will soar to the loftiest summit of the Olympian mount. But
whatever will have a tendency to pervert these advantages, to draw the
mind into pursuits below its real nature, will impede its growth. We
behold around us such impediments. It shall be our object to exhibit a
few of them, feeling convinced that if the obstacles which retard the
transit of our literature in its ascent to greatness, be once known
and surmounted, its destiny will be bright and glorious.

Individual character is the combined result of early impressions. The
same is true in regard to national character. Whatever most influences
the young mind, gives tone to its future action. Those circumstances,
which most excite and agitate the mind of a nation, likewise mould and
shape its future action. What has most deeply interested the American
mind? If we trace back the chain of our history to the fearless days
of our infancy, we shall find that its absorbing interests have been
of a political nature. True, there were some minds among that
matchless band of our New England ancestry, who, with the great volume
of nature open before them, wrote with a spirit of inspiration, and
soared to the high heavens of literature. They were few in number. We
need not ask what now moves and engrosses the thoughts and feelings of
the American mind. We need not now ask what form of character it is
fast assuming: for it is truly becoming a political mind. Now, what
will be the effect of such a cast of intellect in impeding the march
of our literature, is obvious to any one of common discernment. The
_mind_ that would create an exalted literature, should drink at all
the fountains of knowledge; should be clothed in forms of grace and
loveliness; should have all its powers and faculties developed; its
delicate and masculine, its placid, its stormy and religious: it
should be like Phidias' Minerva, perfect in all its proportions.
Political pursuits do not produce _this mind_. If we examine them, we
shall find their elements to be the united effects of _bad_ ambition
and immature intellect. It is true, they encourage activity of mind;
but it is not that kind of activity which develops its beauties and
majesty. That mental action which they promote, has its origin in
lawless passions, in inordinate and ungenerous emulation. The
political aspirant of the day is attracted by the false glory which
beams around our political temple, and thinks no means too low, too
debased, to gain entrance there. It is true, politics may bring into
the field of competition, timid and shrinking intellect; but they do
not impart to it a masculine boldness and nobleness. They train it to
deeds of cunning and hypocrisy. We have reference now to the general
politics of the age. Party strifes, the natural result of excess in
politics, keep the mind in an unhealthy state: at one time raising it
to the highest pitch of excitement; at another, causing the most
extreme depression. That calm serenity, which moderates and chastens
its powers, passions and emotions, is a stranger in a political
contest. That mind, inured to party feelings and party interests, can
never attain its full vigor and manhood--such is the nature of excess
in political pursuits. We would ask, do they cause a full development
of the mental powers? Do they awaken the fancy? Do they clothe human
thoughts in radiant and brilliant robes? Do they promote mental
research? Do they create pure and soaring eloquence? or tune the lyre
of poesy to notes celestial? Let the genius of American Literature, as
she wings her slow flight upwards, give the answer.

This political spirit, contagious and diffusive in its nature, has
spread itself throughout the entire frame of our government. All
classes of society, from the proudest to the humblest spheres of life,
have imbibed it, feel it, and act under its influence. It composes the
chief interests, and engages the active feelings, of almost every
community. Who can be insensible to the fact, that our universal mind
has already assumed a political character? The aspect of the times
prove it beyond the shadow of a doubt. The consequences to our {221}
literature are obvious. The majority of our gifted, shining minds,
prefer the honors of state to classic fame--rush headlong into fierce
unnatural intellectual conflicts, rather than enjoy the calm,
soul-ennobling, and sublime strifes of literary pursuit. The goddess
of learning is uncourted in her temple. Pure mental illumination
shines only on a few isolated spots. Public taste, which may be styled
the protectress of literature in every country, instead of being
refined and elevated, is corrupted and debased. In short, our literary
mind, which, under the influence of our free institutions, might, like
the eagle, soar with might and majesty, is chained down and impeded in
its action.

It cannot be expected, that such a state of society would patronize
noble, intellectual effort. Genuine literary merit, is unnoticed amid
the whirl of party. The beauteous and serene beams of the star of
science, are lost in the dazzling brightness of the political sun. How
feeble the inducement held out in our land to the poet, the historian,
or philosopher! The reading portion of our population is but a trifle,
compared with the whole. We have a few mature minds, who, soaring
above the common level, have taken their seats in the halls of
literary eminence. Are they appreciated? Their names are unknown to a
majority of the various classes of society? Who read the classic and
eloquent orations of Webster and Everett, full of deep principles and
splendid thoughts? Who, the placid, flowing and pathetic verse of
Bryant, whose thoughts, so melancholy, yet so beautiful, steal over
the soul like evening music on the still water? Who are delighted with
the brilliant imagery, and chaste conceptions of _Cooper_ and
_Irving_? Their productions, the results of long, close, and patient
thought, serve for parlor-ornaments, and parlor-reading. They are not
studied; and who, without studying, can master the real, pure meaning
of a fine thought? A work on modern philosophy is rarely seen, even
among the learned circles of society: it never reaches the great mass.
How could it be otherwise, when the general mind is agitated and
convulsed by political strifes! How could it be otherwise, when all
that is beautiful in the heart, and sunshine in the intellect, is
debased and destroyed?

We may be told, that learning has flourished in other countries, under
similar inauspicious influences; that the mightiest geniuses the world
has ever seen, wrote their superior works under the frowns of
patronage. They were exceptions to all rule. There are few minds cast
in the same moulds as those of Cervantes, Petrarch, Dante, Shakspeare,
and Milton. If we mark the history of mankind, we will find, that
there are now and then, in almost every nation, some unconquerable
minds that would, in spite of circumstance, illumine the world. But
the principle is a natural one. Mankind are fond of the fame of the
moment; self-love is the predominant feature of human character. Men,
in general, live not for posthumous glory. The present is more selfish
than past ages. There is something exhilarating, spirit-stirring in
the smiles and praises of our own countrymen. Genius, or _holy
ambition_, then, cannot be aroused to vigorous action, unpatronized.
Let it not be supposed, that we would have the mind think for gold. We
would have it write,--and it would write, and that, too, with an
immortal pen, in lofty and impassioned strains,--under the favor and
good-feeling of society. But how can the literary mind be thus
stimulated, when the general feeling of society is diametrically
opposite to its interests? As well might we ascribe the splendid and
magnificent architecture of the pantheon, to the skill and workmanship
of the unlettered barbarian. We would not be misunderstood. We would
not have our political interests forgotten. We would have them engage
a share, but not the universal mind of the nation. We would have
communities feel the same degree of interest in literary as in
political greatness. We would have them combined; for their united
results will increase our power, and throw around the arch of our
glory, a radiance, lovely and sublime.

What periods in the history of mankind, are most distinguished for
mental superiority? When did Grecian literature assume its brightest
charms? Who has studied the character of the Pereclean age, and not
experienced feelings of inexpressible delight, as he then beheld the
mind in its noblest form? Then, the true value of mind was
appreciated, and its efforts liberally patronized. Munificent gifts
were the reward of mental exertion. Then, all grades of society, on
the return of their Olympia, assembled with joyful hearts, to
celebrate the festivities of mind. Then, art shone in original
splendor; and science, in utility and nobleness, was unrivalled. Then,
the muses were courted in their heavenly abodes, and Grecian poetry
breathed a spirit of immortality. The tragedies of _Euripides_ and
_Sophocles_ still illume the path of the modern dramatist. Then, the
poor of Athens listened to the instructions of the divine _Socrates_.
Then, the sacred groves and shades resounded to the eloquence of
_Plato_, as the 'soul of philosophy' flowed from his lips. Then,
Athens became the magnificent sun of all antiquity. It was no
political age. All literary eras of the modern world, are analagous to
the Pereclean of the ancient world. The most resplendent galaxys of
modern mind have shone in times of the greatest literary feeling and
patronage.

But this political influence of national feelings and interests will
not be confined to the people. It will, indeed it has, entered within
the walls of our academies and universities. Now, it is founded in
reason and experience, that in the morning bloom of a literature,
there is most need of active mental vigor. It requires untiring and
unrelenting strength, to raise the stately pyramid. Alladin's magic
lamp of Arabian story, is not an inheritance of this age. Such
strength is in youthful mental cultivation. This invigorating
influence must then come from our seats of learning. They are to our
literature, what the consecrated groves and shades of Athens were to
the Grecian--the resort of its protecting spirits. Here, the mind
should be trained to action, should commence its acquisitions in
knowledge. Here, it should be taught to think, and to feel, with depth
and sublimity. Here, a fondness for whatever is great or commanding in
human thoughts, should be created. Here, the characteristic features
of such minds as Shakspeare and Milton, Newton and Franklin, should be
studied; for like bright stars they will shed a cheering light on the
obscure wanderings of the youthful intellect. When such is the case,
and it never can fail to be, if our universities preserve their
characters, the success of American literature will rest on a
steadfast foundation. But such cannot be, when their interests and
those of the people run in counter channels. In a {222} republic,
where public opinion works such magic spells, it is the interest of
the minority to yield to its sway. Upon a principle of human nature,
the weak cling to the strong. Can, then, our colleges maintain their
high, original standing? They must conform, in some degree, to the
feelings of the mass of society. Besides, the youth who resort to
them, come from the people, and must necessarily bear with them the
malady of the people. Who will deny, that this political spirit is
now, in many instances, the great stimulus of the American student? He
seldom turns his aspiring gaze toward the celestial mount of the
muses. He looks abroad upon society, and marks its character. His
grasping mind longs for fame. He beholds but one road to eminence--the
political. He beholds the splendid career of the mighty intellects of
the land; marks a growing and powerful people doing them reverence;
hears their name trumpeted by a thousand tongues; and like the Grecian
hero, whose slumbers were troubled by the trophies of Miltiades, he
burns for action. Nor is this all. In the political world, he sees
mind battling with mind; all life, all activity, the congenial
elements of panting, fiery ambition. In the literary world, he sees
the mind pursuing a silent, unobserved, noiseless march; and not
dreaming of the unfading brightness of its matured glories, he
disdains its pursuits as unworthy of his attention. The result is
natural. The grand, animating, and powerful thoughts of the splendid
intellects of the past and the present, which, when sought, come all
eloquent from the living page, never breathe their inspiriting
energies into his mind. His course being finished, he rushes, full of
sanguine hope, on the theatre of action, unskilled and unprepared. His
success hangs on a point. An inordinate ambition urges him onward; he
faces the storms and tempests, and opposes the thousand counter
currents which run in, and keep in perpetual commotion the mountain
wave of the political sea. His career is about closing, and, as he
imagines, the diadem of glory about settling on his forehead; by some
unforeseen stroke of bad fortune, he is hurled from his high
elevation, sinks, and falls, and is heard of no more. In this way,
many minds meet an unhonored and untimely end--minds, that might have
proved great and useful to society--minds, which might have
illuminated the arts and sciences with improved splendor--minds, which
might have been 'founts of beauty' to our literature.

What preserves, in its original strength and grandeur, the rich and
massy arch of German literature? The incomparable exertions of the
German student. The German student! whose mind knows no other commune
than the thoughts of the mighty dead. The German student! who knows
the power and majesty of truth, and thinks no care, nor labor, too
great to possess it; and whose intellectual eye takes in all that is
lovely and sublime in creation. The universities of Germany are
unequalled in the world. Is it wonderful that its literature is
unequalled? But they are supported by the good feeling of society. Let
then the current of public feeling be changed in our beloved land; let
the American mind feel sensible of the importance of youthful mental
cultivation; let the youthful intellect be taught to ascribe as much
value, as much greatness, and as much immortality, to literary as to
political interests. Let this be done, and our universities will
surpass even those of Germany; will furnish to their country, instead
of Schillers and Goethes, their prototypes, Shakspeares and Miltons.

But apart from these impediments to American literature, there is
another. It glares in the face of every one. It lies in the periodical
press. The benefits and glories of the press are familiar to every
mind. Disseminating knowledge with unexampled rapidity, its influence
is spread over and reaches the extreme borders of society. Being a
universal mental aliment, it moulds, and fashions, and directs the
thoughts and feelings of the man. Thousands on thousands of minds are
developed by its effects, never enjoying any other. To the growing,
varied classes of our society, it is the only light of information.
How important that its action be pure, healthy, and vigorous! How
important that it be the vehicle of virtuous and elevated thought! How
important that it send forth on its hundred rapid wings and eloquence,
which, like the written eloquence of the lamented Grimke, more
enduring than marble or brass, should beautify the affections, and
arouse to glorious action the intellect of this and coming ages! Thus
mighty in its influence, and thus important in its character, it
cannot maintain too high, too noble a standard. It should imbody
whatever is great and excellent in human thought. It should teach the
people how to apply the principles of science to the arts; and,
therefore, should ever preserve, with vestal care, the temple of
learning. In short, it should be the tribunal of public taste--an
ordeal of criticism--severe, but highminded. Such being its
characteristics, the periodical press will be the strongest pillar
that shall support the towering fabric of our literature. It cannot
fail to be, because through its instrumentality, public feeling is
formed and swayed; and we have seen, that the right direction of this
feeling will ever insure permanent, liberal, literary patronage. But
what is the general character of this branch of the press? Is it a
fountain from which flows the pure streams of knowledge? Is it a
messenger of eloquent and exalted thoughts? Is it a friend to
literature, or the efforts of original and powerful mind? Facts speak
to the contrary. The majority of our periodicals, bear upon their very
face, a political stamp. They contain in their broad folds, no more
than the creations of rankling and disappointed passion, of unripened
and undeveloped intellect. Do such minds as Johnson and Addison,
spread beauty and interest through their columns? How paltry, how much
to be lamented the spirit of their criticisms!--They breathe the
essence of fanaticism. True, we have a few quarterlys and monthlys,
that rise above the ordinary grade, and will compare, in all the
excellencies of thought, with any productions of the kind, in any
country or clime. The North American Review, is a fair and splendid
specimen of what should characterize that department of our
literature. Who ever closed its pages, beaming with a sun-like
brilliancy, without having, in some degree, his knowledge enriched,
his taste refined, his thoughts enlarged, and his intellect expanded?
But shining only on the high peaks of society, its glorious beams
never find their way to the mass: its influence, amid the universal
debasement of the press, is unseen, unfelt. We have, likewise, a few
literary papers; but in the delicate idea and beautiful expression of
one of the contributors of the {223} Magazine, they are the mere
"sprays of the intellectual wave." We repeat it, the periodical press
is, in the strongest sense of the word, political. Now, it is plain to
every observing mind, that being the most influential, it should be
the purest and noblest portion of our literature. How far it falls
short of such a standard, our national mind has fatally experienced.
Our country's glory and pride, our own genius, our own talent, call
loudly and decidedly for a reformation.

We have now set forth a faint view of some of the impediments to the
growth of American literature. We have seen, that political pursuits
do not tend to the full development and vigor of the mind, and that
without such a cast of mind, there cannot be eloquent and sublime
mental action. We have seen, that our nation's mind is absorbed in
political interests; in short, that the age is too political. We would
ask, if there is no necessity of a change? He who feels the heavenly
glow of patriotic devotion, and hopes to see his country the brightest
star in the firmament of modern glory, will return an affirmative
response.

Our literature has not, as yet, assumed any permanent form. Its
features are just beginning to develope. What character it will take,
we cannot judge with any degree of certainty. Now, it is a familiar
principle, that in the formation of the mind, there is need of the
most unceasing care and attention, to shape and direct its budding
energies to virtue and excellence. Let the American mind have this
attention, and we have a literature purer, nobler, and richer, than
has ever illumined mankind. Do we desire a glorious immortality? And
is not literary immortality--the mind set forth in visible,
enchanting, and enduring forms--far more desirable, than political?
How has the greatness and grandeur of all antiquity, been perpetuated?
Who will compare the Pereclean age of Greece--an age, as we have seen,
when literature shone purely, brightly--with those that followed, when
political feuds rent every state? Who will compare the fame of Homer,
the mirror-mind of the ancient world, with the most distinguished
politician of antiquity? of Milton, with that of Cromwell? of
Shakspeare, with that of the profoundest statesman of the Elizabethan
age. Political glory, is as the short-lived plant--literary, as the
majestic oak. Political glory, is as the flashing meteor--literary, as
the splendor of the noon-day sun.

H. J. G.




  From Mrs. Jamieson's Visits and Sketches.

THE INDIAN MOTHER.[1]

  There is a comfort in the strength of love,
  Making that pang endurable, which else
  Would overset the brain--or break the heart.
                                         _Wordsworth_.

[Footnote 1: This little tale (written in 1830) is founded on a
striking incident related in Humboldt's narrative. The facts remain
unaltered.]


The monuments which human art has raised to human pride or power may
decay with that power, or survive to mock that pride; but sooner or
later they perish--their place knows them not. In the aspect of a
ruin, however imposing in itself, and however magnificent or dear the
associations connected with it, there is always something sad and
humiliating, reminding us how poor and how frail are the works of man,
how unstable his hopes, and how limited his capacity compared to his
aspirations! But when man has made to himself monuments of the works
of God; when the memory of human affections, human intellect, human
power, is blended with the immutable features of nature, they
consecrate each other, and both endure together to the end. In a state
of high civilization, man trusts to the record of brick and
marble--the pyramid, the column, the temple, the tomb:

          "Then the bust
  And altar rise--then sink again to dust."

In the earlier stages of society, the isolated rock--the mountain,
cloud-encircled--the river, rolling to its ocean-home--the very stars
themselves--were endued with sympathies, and constituted the first, as
they will be the last, witnesses and records of our human destinies
and feelings. The glories of the Parthenon shall fade into oblivion;
but while the heights of Thermopylæ stand, and while a wave murmurs in
the gulph of Salamis, a voice shall cry aloud to the
universe--"Freedom and glory to those who can dare to die!--woe and
everlasting infamy to him who would enthral the unconquerable spirit!"
The Coliseum with its sanguinary trophies is crumbling to decay; but
the islet of Nisida, where Brutus parted with his Portia--the steep of
Leucadia, still remain fixed as the foundations of the earth; and
lasting as the round world itself shall be the memories that hover
over them! As long as the waters of the Hellespont flow between Sestos
and Abydos, the fame of the love that perished there shall never pass
away. A traveller, pursuing his weary way through the midst of an
African desert--a barren, desolate, and almost boundless
solitude--found a gigantic sculptured head, shattered and half-buried
in the sand; and near it the fragment of a pedestal, on which these
words might be with pain deciphered: "_I am Ozymandias, King of kings;
look upon my works, ye mighty ones, and despair!_" Who was
Ozymandias?--where are now his works?--what bond of thought or
feeling, links his past with our present? The Arab, with his beasts of
burthen, tramples unheeding over these forlorn vestiges of human art
and human grandeur. In the wildest part of the New Continent, hidden
amid the depths of interminable forests, there stands a huge rock,
hallowed by a tradition so recent that the man is not yet gray-headed
who was born its contemporary; but that rock, and the tale which
consecrates it, shall carry down to future ages a deep lesson--a moral
interest lasting as itself--however the aspect of things and the
conditions of people change around it. Henceforth no man shall gaze on
it with careless eye; but each shall whisper to his own bosom--"What
is stronger than love in a mother's heart?--what more fearful than
power wielded by ignorance?--or what more lamentable than the abuse of
a beneficent name to purposes of selfish cruelty?"

Those vast regions which occupy the central part of South America,
stretching from Guinea to the foot of the Andes, overspread with
gigantic and primeval forests, and watered by mighty rivers--those
solitary wilds where man appears unessential in the scale of creation,
and the traces of his power are few and far between--have lately
occupied much of the attention {224} of Europeans; partly from the
extraordinary events and unexpected revolutions; which have convulsed
the nations round them; and partly from the researches of enterprising
travellers who have penetrated into their remotest districts. But till
within the last twenty years these wild regions have been unknown,
except through the means of the Spanish and Portuguese priests,
settled as missionaries along the banks of the Orinoco and the
Paraguay. The men thus devoted to utter banishment from all
intercourse with civilized life, are generally Franciscan or Capuchin
friars, born in the Spanish colonies. Their pious duties are sometimes
voluntary, and sometimes imposed by the superiors of their order; in
either case their destiny appears at first view deplorable, and their
self-sacrifice sublime; yet, when we recollect that these poor monks
generally exchanged the monotonous solitude of the cloister for the
magnificent loneliness of the boundless woods and far-spreading
savannahs, the sacrifice appears less terrible; even where accompanied
by suffering, privation, and occasionally by danger. When these men
combine with their religious zeal some degree of understanding and
enlightened benevolence, they have been enabled to enlarge the sphere
of knowledge and civilization, by exploring the productions and
geography of these unknown regions; and by collecting into villages
and humanizing the manners of the native tribes, who seem strangely to
unite the fiercest and most abhorred traits of savage life, with some
of the gentlest instincts of our common nature. But when it has
happened that these priests have been men of narrow minds and
tyrannical tempers, they have on some occasions fearfully abused the
authority entrusted to them; and being removed many thousand miles
from the European settlements and the restraint of the laws, the power
they have exercised has been as far beyond control as the calamities
they have caused have been beyond all remedy and all relief.

Unfortunately for those who were trusted to his charge, Father Gomez
was a missionary of this character. He was a Franciscan friar of the
order of Observance, and he dwelt in the village of San Fernando, near
the source of the Orinoco, whence his authority extended as president
over several missions in the neighborhood of which San Fernando was
the capital. The temper of this man was naturally cruel and despotic;
he was wholly uneducated, and had no idea, no feeling, of the true
spirit of christian benevolence: in this respect, the savages whom he
had been sent to instruct and civilize were in reality less savage and
less ignorant than himself.

Among the passions and vices which Father Gomez had brought from his
cell in the convent of Angostara, to spread contamination and
oppression through his new domain, were pride and avarice; and both
were interested in increasing the number of his converts or rather of
his slaves. In spite of the wise and humane law of Charles the Third,
prohibiting the conversion of the Indian natives by force, Gomez, like
others of his brethren in the more distant missions, often
accomplished his purpose by direct violence. He was accustomed to go,
with a party of his people, and lie in wait near the hordes of
unreclaimed Indians: when the men were absent he would forcibly seize
on the women and children, bind them, and bring them off in triumph to
his village. There, being baptized and taught to make the sign of the
cross, they were _called_ Christians, but in reality were slaves. In
general, the women thus detained pined away and died; but the children
became accustomed to their new mode of life, forgot their woods, and
paid to their Christian master a willing and blind obedience; thus in
time they became the oppressors of their own people.

Father Gomez called these incursions, _la conquista espiritual_--the
conquest of souls.

One day he set off on an expedition of this nature, attended by twelve
armed Indians; and after rowing some leagues up the river Guaviare,
which flows into the Orinoco, they perceived through an opening in the
trees, and at a little distance from the shore, an Indian hut. It is
the custom of these people to live isolated in families; and so strong
is their passion for solitude, that when collected into villages they
frequently build themselves a little cabin at a distance from their
usual residence, and retire to it, at certain seasons, for days
together. The cabin of which I speak was one of these solitary
_villas_--if I may so apply the word. It was constructed with peculiar
neatness, thatched with palm leaves, and over-shadowed with cocoa
trees and laurels; it stood alone in the wilderness, embowered with
luxuriant vegetation, and looked like the chosen abode of simple and
quiet happiness. Within this hut a young Indian woman (whom I shall
call Guahiba, from the name of her tribe) was busied in making cakes
of the cassava root, and preparing the family meal, against the return
of her husband, who was fishing at some distance up the river; her
eldest child, about five or six years old, assisted her; and from time
to time, while thus employed, the mother turned her eyes, beaming with
fond affection, upon the playful gambols of two little infants, who,
being just able to crawl alone, were rolling together on the ground,
laughing and crowing with all their might.

Their food being nearly prepared, the Indian woman looked towards the
river, impatient for the return of her husband. But her bright dark
eyes, swimming with eagerness and affectionate solicitude, became
fixed and glazed with terror when, instead of him she so fondly
expected, she beheld the attendants of Father Gomez, creeping
stealthily along the side of the thicket towards her cabin. Instantly
aware of her danger (for the nature and object of these incursions
were the dread of all the country round) she uttered a piercing
shriek, snatched up her infants in her arms, and, calling on the other
to follow, rushed from the hut towards the forest. As she had
considerably the start of her pursuers, she would probably have
escaped, and have hidden herself effectually in its tangled depths, if
her precious burthen had not impeded her flight; but thus encumbered
she was easily overtaken. Her eldest child, fleet of foot and wily as
the young jaguar, escaped to carry to the wretched father the news of
his bereavement, and neither father nor child were ever more beheld in
their former haunts.

Meantime, the Indians seized upon Guahiba--bound her, tied her two
children together, and dragged her down to the river, where Father
Gomez was sitting in his canoe, waiting the issue of the expedition.
At the sight of the captives his eye sparkled with a cruel triumph; he
thanked his patron saint that three more souls were added to his
community; and then, heedless of the tears {225} of the mother, and
the cries of her children, he commanded his followers to row back with
all speed to San Fernando.

There Guahiba and her infants were placed in a hut under the guard of
two Indians; some food was given to her, which she at first refused,
but afterward, as if on reflection, accepted. A young Indian girl was
then sent to her--a captive convert of her own tribe, who had not yet
quite forgotten her native language. She tried to make Guahiba
comprehend that in this village she and her children must remain
during the rest of their lives, in order that they might go to heaven
after they were dead. Guahiba listened, but understood nothing of what
was addressed to her; nor could she be made to conceive for what
purpose she was torn from her husband and her home, nor why she was to
dwell for the remainder of her life among a strange people, and
against her will. During that night she remained tranquil, watching
over her infants as they slumbered by her side; but the moment the
dawn appeared, she took them in her arms and ran off to the woods. She
was immediately brought back; but no sooner were the eyes of her
keepers turned from her than she snatched up her children, and again
fled;--again--and again! At every new attempt she was punished with
more and more severity; she was kept from food, and at length
repeatedly and cruelty beaten. In vain!--apparently she did not even
understand why she was thus treated; and one instinctive idea alone,
the desire of escape, seemed to possess her mind and govern all her
movements. If her oppressors only turned from her, or looked another
way, for an instant, she invariably caught up her children and ran off
towards the forest. Father Gomez was at length wearied by what he
termed her "blind obstinacy;" and, as the only means of securing all
three, he took measures to separate the mother from her children, and
resolved to convey Guahiba to a distant mission, whence she should
never find her way back either to them or to her home.

In pursuance of this plan, poor Guahiba, with her hands tied behind
her, was placed in the bow of a canoe. Father Gomez seated himself at
the helm, and they rowed away.

The few travellers who have visited these regions agree in describing
a phenomenon, the cause of which is still a mystery to geologists, and
which imparts to the lonely depths of these unappropriated and
unviolated shades an effect intensely and indescribably mournful. The
granite rocks which border the river, and extend far into the
contiguous woods, assume strange, fantastic shapes; and are covered
with a black incrustation, or deposit, which contrasted with the
snow-white foam of the waves breaking on them below, and the pale
lichens which spring from their crevices and creep along their surface
above, give these shores an aspect perfectly funereal. Between these
melancholy rocks--so high and so steep that a landing place seldom
occurred for leagues together--the canoe of Father Gomez slowly
glided, though urged against the stream by eight robust Indians.

The unhappy Guahiba sat at first perfectly unmoved, and apparently
amazed and stunned by her situation; she did not comprehend what they
were going to do with her; but after a while she looked up towards the
sun, then down upon the stream; and perceiving, by the direction of
the one and the course of the other, that every stroke of the oar
carried her farther and farther from her beloved and helpless
children, her husband, and her native home, her countenance was seen
to change and assume a fearful expression. As the possibility of
escape, in her present situation, had never once occurred to her
captors, she had been very slightly and carelessly bound. She watched
her opportunity, burst the withes on her arms, with a sudden effort
flung herself overboard, and dived under the waves; but in another
moment she rose again at a considerable distance, and swam to the
shore. The current, being rapid and strong, carried her down to the
base of a dark granite rock which projected into the stream; she
climbed it with fearless agility, stood for an instant on its summit,
looking down upon her tyrants, then plunged into the forest, and was
lost to sight.

Father Gomez, beholding his victim thus unexpectedly escape him, sat
mute and thunderstruck for some moments, unable to give utterance to
the extremity of his rage and astonishment. When, at length, he found
voice, he commanded his Indians to pull with all their might to the
shore; then to pursue the poor fugitive, and bring her back to him,
dead or alive.

Guahiba, meantime, while strength remained to break her way through
the tangled wilderness, continued her flight; but soon exhausted and
breathless, with the violence of her exertions, she was obliged to
relax in her efforts, and at length sunk down at the foot of a huge
laurel tree, where she concealed herself, as well as she might, among
the long, interwoven grass. There, crouching and trembling in her
lair, she heard the voices of her persecutors hallooing to each other
through the thicket. She would probably have escaped but for a large
mastiff which the Indians had with them, and which scented her out in
her hiding place. The moment she heard the dreaded animal snuffing in
the air, and tearing his way through the grass, she knew she was lost.
The Indians came up. She attempted no vain resistance; but, with a
sullen passiveness, suffered herself to be seized and dragged to the
shore.

When the merciless priest beheld her, he determined to inflict on her
such discipline as he thought would banish her children from her
memory, and cure her forever of her passion for escaping. He ordered
her to be stretched upon that granite rock where she had landed from
the canoe, on the summit of which she had stood, as if exulting in her
flight,--THE ROCK OF THE MOTHER, as it has ever since been
denominated--and there flogged till she could scarcely move or speak.
She was then bound more securely, placed in the canoe, and carried to
Javita, the seat of a mission far up the river.

It was near sunset when they arrived at this village, and the
inhabitants were preparing to go to rest. Guahiba was deposited for
the night in a large barn-like building, which served as a place of
worship, a public magazine, and, occasionally, as a barrack. Father
Gomez ordered two or three Indians of Javita to keep guard over her
alternately, relieving each other through the night; and then went to
repose himself after the fatigues of his voyage. As the wretched
captive neither resisted nor complained, Father Gomez flattered
himself that she was now reduced to submission. Little could he fathom
the bosom of this fond mother! He mistook for stupor, or resignation,
the calmness of a {226} fixed resolve. In absence, in bonds, and in
torture, her heart throbbed with but one feeling; one thought alone
possessed her whole soul:--her children--her children--and still her
children!

Among the Indians appointed to watch her was a youth about eighteen or
nineteen years of age, who, perceiving that her arms were miserably
bruised by the stripes she had received, and that she suffered the
most acute agony from the savage tightness with which the cords were
drawn, let fall an exclamation of pity in the language of her tribe.
Quick she seized the moment of feeling, and addressed him as one of
her people.

"Guahibo," she said, in a whispered tone, "thou speakest my language,
and doubtless thou art my brother! Wilt thou see me perish without
pity, O son of my people? Ah, cut these bonds which enter into my
flesh! I faint with pain! I die!"

The young man heard, and, as if terrified, removed a few paces from
her and kept silence. Afterward, when his companions were out of
sight, and he was left alone to watch, he approached, and said,
"Guahiba!--our fathers were the same, and I may not see thee die; but
if I cut these bonds, white man will flog me:--wilt thou be content if
I loosen them, and give thee ease?" And as he spoke, he stooped and
loosened the thongs on her wrists and arms; she smiled upon him
languidly, and appeared satisfied.

Night was now coming on. Guahiba dropped her head on her bosom, and
closed her eyes, as if exhausted by weariness. The young Indian
believing that she slept, after some hesitation laid himself down on
his mat. His companions were already slumbering in the porch of the
building, and all was still.

Then Guahiba raised her head. It was night--dark night--without moon
or star. There was no sound, except the breathing of the sleepers
around her, and the humming of the moschetos. She listened for some
time with her whole soul; but all was silence. She then gnawed the
loosened thongs asunder with her teeth. Her hands once free, she
released her feet: and when the morning came she had disappeared.
Search was made for her in every direction, but in vain; and Father
Gomez, baffled and wrathful, returned to his village.

The distance between Javita and San Fernando, where Guahiba had left
her infants, is twenty-five leagues in a straight line. A fearful
wilderness of gigantic forest trees, and intermingling underwood,
separated these two missions;--a savage and awful solitude, which,
probably, since the beginning of the world, had never been trodden by
human foot. All communication was carried on by the river; and there
lived not a man, whether Indian or European, bold enough to have
attempted the route along the shore. It was the commencement of the
rainy season. The sky, obscured by clouds, seldom revealed the sun by
day; and neither moon nor gleam of twinkling star by night. The rivers
had overflowed, and the lowlands were inundated. There was no visible
object to direct the traveller; no shelter, no defence, no aid, no
guide. Was it Providence--was it the strong instinct of maternal love,
which led this courageous woman through the depths of the pathless
woods--where rivulets, swollen to torrents by the rains, intercepted
her at every step; where the thorny lianas, twining from tree to tree,
opposed an almost impenetrable barrier; where the moschetos hung in
clouds upon her path; where the jaguar and the alligator lurked to
devour her; where the rattle-snake and the water-serpent lay coiled up
in the damp grass, ready to spring at her; where she had no food to
support her exhausted frame, but a few berries, and the large black
ants which build their nests on the trees? How directed--how
sustained--cannot be told: the poor woman herself could not tell. All
that can be known with any certainty is, that the fourth rising sun
beheld her at San Fernando; a wild, and wasted, and fearful object;
her feet swelled and bleeding--her hands torn--her body covered with
wounds, and emaciated with famine and fatigue;--but once more near her
children!

For several hours she hovered round the hut in which she had left
them, gazing on it from a distance with longing eyes and a sick heart,
without daring to advance: at length she perceived that all the
inhabitants had quitted their cottages to attend vespers; then she
stole from the thicket, and approached, with faint and timid steps,
the spot which contained her heart's treasures. She entered, and found
her infants left alone, and playing together on a mat: they screamed
at her appearance, so changed was she by suffering; but when she
called them by name, they knew her tender voice, and stretched out
their little arms towards her. In that moment the mother forgot all
she had endured--all her anguish, all her fears, every thing on earth
but the objects which blessed her eyes. She sat down between her
children--she took them on her knees--she clasped them in an agony of
fondness to her bosom--she covered them with kisses--she shed torrents
of tears on their little heads, as she hugged them to her. Suddenly
she remembered where she was, and why she was there: new terrors
seized her; she rose up hastily, and, with her babies in her arms, she
staggered out of the cabin--fainting, stumbling, and almost blind with
loss of blood and inanition. She tried to reach the woods, but too
feeble to sustain her burthen, which yet she would not relinquish, her
limbs trembled, and sank beneath her. At this moment an Indian, who
was watching the public oven, perceived her. He gave the alarm by
ringing a bell, and the people rushed forth, gathering round Guahiba
with fright and astonishment. They gazed upon her as if upon an
apparition, till her sobs, and imploring looks, and trembling and
wounded limbs, convinced them that she yet lived, though apparently
nigh to death. They looked upon her in silence, and then at each
other; their savage bosoms were touched with commiseration for her sad
plight, and with admiration, and even awe, at this unexampled heroism
of maternal love.

While they hesitated, and none seemed willing to seize her, or to take
her children from her, Father Gomez, who had just landed on his return
from Javita, approached in haste, and commanded them to be separated.
Guahiba clasped her children closer to her breast, and the Indians
shrunk back.

"What!" thundered the monk: "will ye suffer the woman to steal two
precious souls from heaven? two members from our community? See ye
not, that while she is suffered to approach them, there is no
salvation for either mother or children? part them, and instantly!"

The Indians, accustomed to his ascendancy, and {227} terrified at his
voice, tore the children of Guahiba once more from her feeble arms:
she uttered nor word nor cry, but sunk in a swoon upon the earth.

While in this state, Father Gomez, with a cruel mercy, ordered her
wounds to be carefully dressed: her arms and legs were swathed with
cotton bandages; she was then placed in a canoe, and conveyed to a
mission, far, far off, on the river Esmeralda, beyond the Upper
Orinoco. She continued in a state of exhaustion and torpor during the
voyage; but after being taken out of the boat and carried inland,
restoratives brought her back to life, and to a sense of her
situation. When she perceived, as reason and consciousness returned,
that she was in a strange place, unknowing how she was brought
there--among a tribe who spoke a language different from any she had
ever heard before, and from whom, therefore, according to Indian
prejudices, she could hope nor aid nor pity;--when she recollected
that she was far from her beloved children;--when she saw no means of
discovering the bearing or the distance of their abode--no clue to
guide her back to it:--_then_, and only then, did the mother's heart
yield to utter despair; and thence forward refusing to speak or to
move, and obstinately rejecting all nourishment, thus she died.

The boatman, on the river Atabapo, suspends his oar with a sigh as he
passes the ROCK OF THE MOTHER. He points it out to the traveller, and
weeps as he relates the tale of her sufferings and her fate. Ages
hence, when these solitary regions have become the seats of
civilization, of power, and intelligence; when the pathless wilds
which poor Guahiba traversed in her anguish, are replaced by populous
cities, and smiling gardens, and pastures, and waving harvests,--still
that dark rock shall stand, frowning o'er the stream; tradition and
history shall preserve its name and fame; and when even the pyramids,
those vast, vain monuments to human pride, have passed away, it shall
endure, to carry down to the end of the world the memory of the Indian
Mother.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

NOTE TO BLACKSTONE'S COMMENTARIES,

VOL. I. PAGE 423.

_Being the Substance of Remarks on the Subject of Domestic Slavery,
delivered to the Law Class of William and Mary College, December 2d,
1834_.


This subject is too interesting to be passed in silence. The time too
is rife with proofs, that unless we mean tamely to surrender a most
important interest, we must hold ourselves always on the alert to
defend it with tongue and pen.

The short and compendious argument of the commentator, and his
confident and peremptory judgment, seem to place us in the condition
of convicted delinquents, and hardly to leave us the poor privilege of
saying one word why sentence should not be passed upon us. And yet I
hope to show, that this argument, so specious, is not less
superficial, and that the conclusion, so promptly reached, has been
attained by overlooking the most important considerations involved in
the subject.

It was natural, and it was right, that Mr. Blackstone should manifest
a zeal for the institutions of his own country, disposing him to
excuse what might be amiss, to vindicate what might be questionable,
and to place in the highest relief and in the most favorable light
whatever is praiseworthy. But while I acknowledge this, I cannot allow
to him, and them who think with him, a monopoly of this pious
reverence for the institutions of their forefathers. I would rather
follow their example, and, cherishing this sentiment so essential to
the preservation of every thing that is valuable, would ask, on behalf
of it, the like indulgence to what may be urged in defence of domestic
slavery.

I shall not stop to show (what is incontestibly true) that it has done
more to elevate a degraded race in the scale of humanity; to tame the
savage; to civilize the barbarous; to soften the ferocious; to
enlighten the ignorant; and to spread the blessings of christianity
among the heathen, than all the missionaries that philanthropy and
religion have ever sent forth. This would be no vindication, for he
who can make the wrath of man to praise him; who can overrule evil,
and make it an instrument of good, might have made it conducive to
these ends, however wicked in itself it might be. "Be it a spirit of
health, or goblin damned," on _his_ errand it has gone forth. "Be its
intents wicked or charitable," it is _his_ instrument, in _his_ hands,
doing _his_ work. When that is done, and not till then, it will cease,
as will all things else, when their appointed course is run, and their
appointed end fulfilled.

It is hardly necessary to expose the sophistry by which Mr. Blackstone
affects to prove, that slavery cannot have had a lawful origin. We do
not pretend to trace our title to its source. We have no call to sit
in judgment between the conquered African and his conqueror. We rest
our defence on principles which legitimate our title, whatever its
origin may have been. Yet it may not be amiss to say a few words to
show the fallacy of those plausible and imposing dogmas, with which we
too often suffer ourselves to be talked down.

"Slavery," says Mr. Blackstone, "cannot originate in compact, because
the transaction excludes the idea of an equivalent." For an answer to
this specious fallacy, I shall content myself by referring you to the
masterly essay of Professor Dew, who has so clearly exposed it as to
leave me nothing to add.

But the commentator farther tells us, that "slavery cannot lawfully
originate in _conquest_, as a commutation for the right to kill;
because this right rests on necessity; and this necessity plainly does
not exist, because the victor does not kill his adversary, but makes
him captive." Is this a fair inference? Let us examine it.

There is a triple alternative in the case: to kill, to enslave, or to
set at large. It may be practicable to do either of the two first; and
yet dangerous in the extreme to do the last. With a savage and
treacherous foe it is always so, unless his power of annoyance be
completely annihilated. And how can this be between two tribes of
nearly equal force? Among such is one victory an assured pledge of
future and _bloodless_ victory to the end of time? May it not, must it
not, often be, that the victorious party can have no security against
future and fatal mischief, but in the destruction, or something
equivalent to the destruction, of the vanquished? This is obtained by
deportation to distant lands, by which alone, or by incarceration, or
something equivalent, or by extermination, or a near approach to
extermination, the enmity of a savage neighbor ever {228} can be
rendered harmless. The necessity of the case, so long as it exists,
justifies the choice of these alternatives. Among these, no argument
is necessary to prove that foreign slavery is the mildest. But were
this not so, the laws even of civilized war do not peremptorily
dictate to the victor the choice he shall make among these remedies.
He may kill; he may incarcerate; or he may enlarge on parol, clogged
with such conditions as he may please to prescribe, according to the
nature and measure of a necessity, of which he is the only judge.[1]

[Footnote 1: It may be said that the laws of civilized war do not
permit that prisoners be slain or incarcerated; for that if this be
done, _the other party may retaliate_. This will prove, that he who is
cruel to his prisoners, _does a wrong to his own people who may happen
to be in his enemy's hands_; but that is all. The laws of civilized
warfare acknowledge the right to retaliate, and therefore _make a
case_, if there was no other, where slavery by conquest would be
lawful. Even though he who first enslaves his prisoners be wrong; yet
_ex concessis_ he who retaliates is right. Can Mr. Blackstone tell us
which of the savage African chiefs began the game?]

When Col. Campbell, at the head of a few militia, stooped from the
mountains of Virginia on Carolina, and bore off the corps of Col.
Fergusson in his pounces, had he been pursued and overtaken by
Tarleton, he must have killed his prisoners. He could not have held
them, and to have enlarged them would have been to sacrifice the lives
of thousands. He who doubts this, knows nothing of the horrors of the
tory war that raged in that quarter. If he had had no place of refuge,
he might have handed them over to any custody, civilized or savage, in
which they might have been removed from the theatre of war. This is
one example among ten thousand, to show that the captivity of an enemy
by no means implies the security of the captor, should he allow his
prisoner to go free. The snared tiger is in your power: you may kill
him--you may cage him. "_Therefore_," says Mr. Blackstone, "you are
under no necessity to do either, and the noble beast has a fair claim
to his liberty."

But I have given too many words to the exposure of this grave
sophistry. In self-defence it might have been pardoned; in crimination
it is intolerable.

But, as I remarked in the outset, we have nothing to do with the
origin of any particular _mode_ of slavery. In some shape or other it
exists, and has existed every where, since first the decree went
forth, which cursed the earth, and denounced to man, "that in the
sweat of his face he should eat the fruit thereof." Here is its
origin; and, as might be expected of any thing so originating, the
thing is evil in itself, and in all its modes. The problem is to
choose among them. To the practical man it is a thing of small
difficulty; _left to itself_, it assumes, in every country, the form
and texture best suited to the physical peculiarities of that country,
and the condition of society there. But we have grown so wise, that we
leave nothing to itself. The world is full of associations and
combinations of men, who make it the business of their lives to
regulate every thing but what concerns themselves. We every where find
a sort of moral treasuries of supererogatory virtue, made up by
voluntary contribution, for the benefit of all who do not affect to be
wiser and better than their fathers. Turn where we will, we have the
edifying spectacle of one half the world repenting for the sins of the
other half.

While the discussion of this subject was confined to ourselves; while
they who denounced the practice of domestic slavery were such as could
not condemn others, without standing self-condemned, we heard them
patiently, as we hear from the pulpit the meek expostulations of the
humble and contrite. Their interest afforded a pledge that they would
not rashly carry their doctrines into practice: their self-rebukes
excused them from the charge of arrogance; and the sincerity of their
enthusiasm commanded our respect and sympathy. But since we have seen
one community rashly overturning the domestic institutions of another;
and hear from our northern neighbors an avowal of the like benevolent
design toward us, it is time to look into the subject more narrowly.
Let us understand it well. If we are wrong, the discovery of our fault
may prepare us to bear, with becoming meekness, the impending
judgment. If we are right, an understanding conviction that we are so,
may be necessary to man our hearts and brace our nerves for the
impending struggle.

I have said that slavery exists every where--originating in the decree
which makes labor the price of subsistence. The correlative of this
proposition is that _subsistence_ is the _wages_ of labor. I shall
pass by the hackneyed topic of the process by which it inevitably
happens, in all societies, that some men rise to affluence, while
others remain as they began. So it ever has been, is, and will be,
whether we find out how it comes to pass or no. There will be rich and
poor. The rich man will not dig the earth: the poor man must. He
becomes the rich man's servant, and the wages of his abject toil are
food and raiment. This, his condition, is compulsory and inevitable;
and compulsory toil for food and raiment,--what is it but slavery?
True, the compulsion is not that of his fellow-worm. But is it the
less crushing, because it is enforced by one from whose power there is
no escape?

But are food and raiment the wages to which labor is every where
stinted? Yes. Circumstances may make occasional differences in the
price of labor, as in the settlement of a new country; but the same
law which governs the price of every thing else, governs also the
price of labor. This is, in every case, the cost of production; and
food and raiment are the cost of the production of labor.

A few remarks will show the modifications to which this rule is
subject, and will prove, that strictly speaking, it admits of no
exception, though its modifications may occasionally afford, to
individuals, an escape from the _class_ of _laborers_ into that of
_employers_.

In a society perfectly stationary, (if there be such a thing,) where
the wants of the whole community, and the nature and amount of labor
necessary to supply those wants, and the subjects of labor are the
same from generation to generation, there will be a steady demand for
a new laborer, to supply the place of each one that dies off. Hence
the average wages will be such as to enable each pair to produce and
bring forward another pair; or, in other words, they will enable a man
and his wife to rear two children. If, on an average, they are more
than this, then on an average, more than two children will be reared;
the number of laborers will be increased; the supply will exceed the
{229} demand; the competition will reduce wages below the standard of
the cost of production, until the surplus laborers are starved off;
and they will then return to that standard, and settle there.

In a society retrograde in its condition, the average of wages will be
less than enough to support a laboring pair and two children. There
will always be a stock of surplus labor to be starved off, and a
ragged lazaroni will mark this condition of society.

In a society advancing in all things, there must be an increasing
supply to keep up with the increasing demand. Competition among
employers will enhance the price of labor, and this will enable the
laboring class to reproduce itself in an increasing ratio. And this it
will do, for he who said "increase and multiply, and replenish the
earth," has commanded it.

It is thus perfectly true of _labor_, and the _laboring class
collectively_, that the cost of production is the measure of price;
and that food and raiment for the laborer of today, and for those
future laborers who are rising up to supply the future demand, are all
that enter into the cost of production. The seeming exceptions to the
rule do but confirm it, and show how its author has rivetted it on the
necks of men, _that they shall not escape from it_. It is the brazen
collar which marks the laborer "THE BORN THRALL OF NECESSITY." His
wages are never increased beyond the wants of his own individual
nature, but for a purpose, to which the law of that nature makes it
sure that he will apply them; the reproduction of _just so many_
others (neither more nor less) as the exigencies of society may
require, to follow in the same dull round of labor in which his life
has been spent.

There will indeed be individuals who may seem to form exceptions to
this rule, in every state of society. The laborer, whose superior
strength or skill commands more than the average of wages, will have
something to spare. So too, he who, from prudence or coldness, remains
unmarried; because his wages are established according to an average
of the necessities of the laboring class, from a part of which he
keeps himself exempt. Such a man, if industrious, frugal, provident
and thrifty, will improve in condition, and eventually _emerge from
the class of laborers into that of employers_. But the condition of
_the class_ remains unchanged. As _he_ rose from it, some one,
unperceived, came into it, to supply his place; and others to meet the
new demand occasioned by the addition of one more to the number of
employers. Thus it is, and so it must be, that the proportional number
of the laboring class never diminishes, while society advances; and,
the more rapid the advancement of the whole, the greater the
proportion of laborers to employers, and the greater the competition
for employment. There is, of course, a progressive reduction in the
price of labor, accompanying this progressive increase of the number
condemned, by impealable laws, to this low and hard condition.--There
they are, forever toiling and sweating in the dark and cheerless
abodes of poverty, aliens to the society in which they breathe, whose
comforts are ever in an inverse ratio to the sum of general
prosperity.

But "in this lowest depth there is yet a lower deep." While superior
strength and skill, and exemption from family burdens, enable some to
escape to the upper air, others, under the pressure of disease,
infirmity and numerous children, sink into that gulph from which there
is no return. Of these we take no note. The few whom fortune favors,
come with _eclat_ upon the stage of higher life, and are pointed out
as brilliant examples of the blessings of a system of free labor. The
countless victims of her malice

  "Drop from existence like the withered leaf
   That from the summer tree is swept away,
   Its loss unseen."

This compendious view of the condition of what is called "_free
labor_," in the various stages of society, is verified by the
observations and explained by the researches of the political
economists. I take it as I receive it from them, confirmed in my
conviction of its truth, by my own experience and reflections.

Let us place along side of this a view of the condition of slave
labor, as ascertained by observation, and by the laws that determine
that condition.

Of slave labor then, as of free labor, it may be said, that its wages
are food and raiment for the laborer of to-day, and for those future
laborers who are rising up to supply the future demand. Thus much they
have in common. I shall not pretend to point out all the differences
between the two, but shall remark on some of the most obvious and
important.

To the slave these wages are paid in kind, and can therefore be always
made precisely adequate, and no more. To the free man they are paid in
money, and may become deficient or superfluous, from a state of
scarcity or abundance. In the last case a slight advantage is afforded
to those who need it least; in the first a ruinous loss is sustained
by those least able to bear it.

To the slave, his due proportion of the common fund, paid to labor as
a whole, is measured out with unerring accuracy. Among free laborers,
some receive too much, and others, in a like degree, too little. For
be it remembered, that the average wages of free labor are given, not
merely as the price of the labor of the day, but also to indemnify the
daily expense of producing that amount of future labor, which the
future demand is to render necessary. He therefore who labors only,
but rears no children, receives more than his just share. He defrauds
the concern, by drawing from the common income a portion he has not
earned; while others, whom nature has burdened with more than the due
proportion of children, earn more than they receive, and suffer for
want of the necessaries of life. This is historically as well as
theoretically true.

The slave is said to labor, uncheered by hope. This may be so. To
those who know him best, he certainly seems a stranger to despair.
Metaphysicians, I think, tell us that _hope will not be without its
objects_. But it must be confessed there are things which the slave
cannot hope for, though the freeman may. On the other hand, he is free
from many anxieties to which the freeman is exposed. In this sense of
security he has something which may well be offset against the
freeman's hopes, and which some (and they not the least wise) may deem
a fair equivalent to men of sordid habits and untaught minds; and such
are the great body of laborers, bond or free.

Among slaves, the _individual_ is the slave of an _individual_ master.
Among free laborers, the _class_ is held in vassalage by the _class_
of employers. Collectively the one class may be said to be the slave
of the other. I shall not go into a minute examination of this matter.
{230} As our controversy is with Mr. Blackstone, I shall use no
authority against him but his own. Hear what he says of the law of
England, his boasted home of freedom. "All single men between _twelve_
years old and _sixty_, and married ones under thirty years of age, and
all single women between twelve and forty, not having any visible
livelihood, are _compelled, by two justices_, to go out to service in
husbandry or certain specific trades." This is as much as to say,
"they who can only live by labor shall be made to labor." What more do
we? They compel him to choose a master. We appropriate his labor to a
master to whom use and a common interest attach him, and who is
generally the master of his choice. The wages of both are the same.

In sickness, the slave looks for support to a master who is interested
to maintain and cherish him, and who, for the most part, knows and
loves him. What is the freeman's equivalent? Hear Mr.
Blackstone:--"There is no man so wretched or indigent, but he may
demand a supply sufficient for all the necessities of life, from the
more opulent part of the community, by means of the several statutes
enacted for the relief of the poor. _A humane provision;_ yet, though
dictated by the principles of society, discountenanced by the Roman
laws. For the edicts of the Emperor Constantine, commanding the public
to maintain the children of those who were unable to provide for them,
_in order to prevent the murder and exposure of infants_, were
rejected in Justinian's collection." Who ever heard of infanticide by
a slave?

It is here; on this very point, of the necessity of forcing those to
labor who are unable to live honestly without labor, that we base the
defence of our system. That such compulsion is often necessary, all
reason and experience prove. But to a people jealous of freedom, it is
a delicate question whether such a power over the citizen can be
safely trusted to the municipal authority. To make it effectual it
must be a power dangerous to liberty. It could never be carried into
effect, but by a degree of rigor which must bow the spirit of the
laborer and effectually disqualify him for the political functions of
a sovereign citizen. It might be too much to say, that this
consideration alone would warrant the _introduction_ of domestic
slavery. _Lycurgus thought so._ But we, _finding it among us_, think
we follow the example of that wisdom which _used_ to characterize our
English ancestors, in turning it to use, as a safeguard of our
political freedom. We have learned too, from a great master in
political science, himself an enemy to slavery in all its forms, that
in every country where domestic slavery exists, "those who are free,
are by far the most proud and jealous of their freedom. Freedom is to
them not only an enjoyment, but a kind of rank and privilege. Not
seeing that freedom, as in countries where it is a common blessing,
and as broad and general as the air, may be united with _much abject
toil, with great misery, with all the exterior of servitude_, liberty
looks, amongst them, like something that is _more noble and
liberal_.... Such were all the ancient Commonwealths; such were our
Gothic ancestors; such, in our days, were the Poles; _and such will be
all masters of slaves who are not slaves themselves_. In such a
people, the haughtiness of domination combines with the spirit of
freedom, fortifies it, and renders it invincible."

Such is the lesson read to us sixty years ago, by one who wished us
well, and who thoroughly understood the character of our people, and
the causes that had influenced in the formation of that character. It
is of a piece with the general maxims of that school of practical
wisdom, and sound political philosophy, in which our fathers learned
the grand principles imbodied in our institutions. In that school,
every thing was conceded to liberty; nothing to licentiousness: every
thing to religion; nothing to fanaticism: every allowance was made for
the natural and untaught feelings of the human heart; none for sickly
artificial sensibility. Its maxims were drawn from experience,
observation and reflection _on man as he is_; not from fanciful
speculations on _man as he might have been_, had it pleased God to
have made him differently. But since that day great light has risen on
the world, and the descendants of these statesmen now find, that the
imperfect vision of their fathers did but "see men, as trees walking."
The present generation see clearly, and renouncing all respect for
those whom God commands to honor living, and to reverence in death,
bless themselves, saying, "If we had been in the days of our fathers
we would not have been partakers" in their sins. Even so let it be.
Let them desecrate and demolish the tombs of their fathers, to build
up a monument to their own praise. But what spell is upon us, that we
should follow their example, and signalize our ingratitude to the men
to whose teachings we owe all that is valuable in our institutions, by
joining in a crusade against our own rights, and "lending an active
compliance to our own ruin?"

_We_ certainly have reason to believe that the existence of domestic
slavery among us has been of singular advantage in preserving the free
spirit of our people. Slave labor pre-occupies and fills the low and
degrading stations in society. Menial offices are altogether
discharged by it; and all the tasks of mere brute strength are left to
it. To the freeman belong those services which imply trust and
confidence, or require skill; which therefore command higher wages
than mere animal labor, and give a sense of respectability and a
feeling of self-respect. I know we are told that if we wish to see the
perfection of free government, we must look elsewhere. We look; and we
do indeed see the theory of democracy carried to its full extent, but
we behold no practical results which we at all envy. We do not find
that any good has come from elevating the whole class of laborers, in
all its servile and degraded branches, to the sovereign privilege of
voting. We believed _a priori_ (and observation proves that we were
right) that the first and only use the hireling would make of his
political franchise, would be to sell it to the demagogue. _But though
convinced of this, the experience of other states justifies a doubt,
whether_, IF ALL OUR LABORERS WERE FREEMEN, _it would be possible to
withhold from them the privilege of voting_. We know that it has been
elsewhere wrung from the reluctant grasp of the freeholders, who
deeply, _but silently_, lament the forced concession. Our statesmen
have been _privately_ admonished by them to profit by the experience
of their error, and hold fast by our institutions. _Publicly_ indeed,
we are taunted with what are called the aristocratic features of our
government; but we know, and the enemies of freedom know it too, that
when power has {231} marched unchecked and unchallenged over the
prostrate democracy of free labor and universal suffrage, it has
always found here the most formidable barriers to its progress.

       *       *       *       *       *

I take the liberty of appending, by way of note, a quotation from the
same statesman, whose words I have already used, which shows that this
idea of the connexion between DOMESTIC _slavery_ and MUNICIPAL
_liberty_, is not new. Our _former oppressors_ were aware of it sixty
years ago, and seriously meditated the destruction of the latter by
the abolition of the former. The following extract may show where our
_present oppressors_ got the first hint of that scheme of interested
philanthropy which proposes to strip us of our property for the good
of our souls.

Mr. Burke says, (in 1775) "With regard to the high aristocratic spirit
of Virginia and the southern colonies, it has been proposed, I know,
_to reduce it, by declaring a general enfranchisement of slaves_. This
project has had its advocates and panegyrists; yet I never could argue
myself into any opinion of it. Slaves are often much attached to their
masters. A general wild offer of liberty would not always be accepted.
History furnishes few instances of it. It is sometimes as hard to
persuade slaves to be free, as it is to compel freemen to be slaves;
and, in this auspicious scheme, we, should have both these pleasing
tasks on our hands at once. But when we talk of enfranchisement, do we
not perceive that the American master may enfranchise too, _and arm
servile hands in defence of freedom?_ A measure to which other people
have had recourse more than once, and not without success, in a
desperate situation of their affairs.

"Slaves as these unfortunate black people are, and dull as all men are
from slavery, must they not a little suspect an offer of freedom from
that very nation which has sold them to their present masters? From a
nation, one of whose causes of quarrel with those masters, is their
refusal to deal any more in that inhuman traffic? An offer of freedom
from England would come rather oddly, shipped to them in an African
vessel, which is refused an entry into the ports of Virginia or
Carolina, with a cargo of three hundred Angola negroes. It would be
curious to see the Guinea captain attempting at the same instant to
publish his proclamation of liberty, and to advertise his sale of
slaves."

This last absurdity, our northern _guardians_, _pastors_, or
_masters_, (I am not particular about the designation,) have wisely
avoided. As long as the slave trade was allowed, they were only
anxious to secure to themselves a monopoly of the advantage of
carrying it on. Having lost this, they seek an equivalent by putting a
new face on the matter.

Let me not be understood as bringing this charge against all who are
engaged in this crusade against our rights. Like all other crusades,
it is the work of a few knaves and many dupes. The latter are,
proverbially, the tools of the former. Without them, the knave cannot
carry on his trade. There are things to be done which he cannot do in
person, and which are best accomplished by the clumsy zeal of bungling
philanthropy. The fate of the West Indies is a case in point. The case
of the tame bear, set by a mischievous wag to keep the flies off of
the face of the sleeping hermit, is another.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

NAPOLEON'S GRAVE.

BY R. H. WILDE, _Of Georgia_.


  Faint and sad was the moon-beam's smile,
    Sullen the moan of the dying wave,
  Hoarse the wind in St. Helen's isle,
    As I stood by the side of NAPOLEON'S GRAVE.

  And is it _here_ that the Hero lies,
    Whose name has shaken the earth with dread?
  And is _this_ all that the earth supplies?
    A stone his pillow--the turf his bed!

  Is such the moral of human life?
    Are these the limits of glory's reign?
  Have oceans of blood and an age of strife,
    A thousand battles, been all in vain?

  Is nothing left of his victories now
    But legions broken--a sword in rust--
  A crown that cumbers a dotard's brow--
    A name and a requiem?--dust to dust!

  Of all the Chieftains whose thrones he reared,
    Were there none whom kindness or faith could bind?
  Of all the Monarchs whose crowns he spared,
    Had none one spark of his Roman mind?

  Did PRUSSIA cast no repentant glance?
    Did AUSTRIA shed no remorseful tear,
  When ENGLAND'S FAITH, and thine HONOR, FRANCE,
    And thy FRIENDSHIP, RUSSIA, were blasted _here_?

  No!--Holy leagues, like the heathen Heaven,
    Ungodlike shrunk from the giant's shock,
  And glorious TITAN--the unforgiven--
    Was doomed to his Vulture and chains and rock.

       *       *       *       *       *

  And who were the gods that decreed _thy_ doom!
    A German _Cæsar_--a Prussian _Sage_,
  The _Dandy Prince_ of a counting room,
    And a _Russian Greek_ of the middle age!

       *       *       *       *       *

  Men called thee _Despot_, and called thee true;
    But the laurel was earned that bound thy brow;
  And of all who wore it, alas! how few
    Were as free from treason and guilt as thou!

       *       *       *       *       *

  Shame to thee Gaul! and thy faithless horde!
    Where was the oath which thy soldiers swore?
  Fraud still lurks in the _Gown_--but the _Sword_
    Was never so false to its trust before!

  Where was thy vet'rans boast that day
    "The old guard dies," but it "never yields!"
  Oh! for one heart like the brave Desaix,
    One Phalanx like those of thine early fields!

  But no! no! no! it was FREEDOM'S charm
    Gave _them_ the courage of more than men;
  _You_ broke the magic that nerved each arm,
    Though you were invincible only then!

       *       *       *       *       *

1823.


{232}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A SONG OF THE SEASONS.

BY ZARRY ZYLE.

  Methought I heard a whispering on the strings
  Of hidden harps, in airy form that play,
  And lend their voice to fair imaginings,
  And wake young thoughts which in their cradles lay.
  I wished to set the prisoned minstrels free,
  Like liberated Ariels to sing,
  And lend a voice to all that eye could see,
  From the first dawn of the green light of spring,
  To the last lowering sweep of winter's stormy wing.
                                      _William Naylor's MSS._


I.

  A Maiden sang at morn beside a leaping rivulet--
  Blithe merriment was on her lip and in her eye of jet;
  Young Spring had shaken from his locks the amethystine beam--
  O, it was sweet to hear the hymn of forest girl and stream!

  A pale youth paddled wantonly far o'er a sunny lake,
  And smiled to see the infant leaf in newborn gladness quake;
  He had brooded the winter through, until his cheek grew pale
  With dreaming mighty deeds, and now it freshened in the gale.

  A white roe wandered where sweet herbs and tender grass were
        peeping--
  His snowy head was poised in pride, his chainless heart was leaping;
  The bugle-bee had called the herd from icy solitude,
  And he had come at bugle call--fleet centaur of the wood.

  A robin bowed her golden breast and spread her gauze-wing forth,
  And aye poured she in carol fond her long imprisoned mirth;
  No mournful tones, no lute-like wail, were with her music blent;
  'Twas--like the fife's shrill voice--a gush of unmixed merriment.

II.

  The maiden wild and rivulet were louder in their glee,
  The hidden weed waxed lush beneath its woven canopy,
  Old summer's conch o'er air-waves lured his fragrance-breathing
        throng,
  All joy had deepened on the earth, and warmth and light and song.
  The youth had seen the singing girl and bowed his soul to love;
  Ambition--aspirations--all the subtle springs that move
  Man's sleepless youth, were cast aside; old summer's beamy heat
  Had fired their souls, and low he knelt in fondness at her feet.

  The roe leapt on: the robin wove her nest of downy hair,
  And light with bliss high hovered as a blossom floats on air--
  Girl, brook, and youth had ripened in the gladness born of spring,
  Joy still inflamed the wild-deer's heart and plumed the wild-bird's
        wing.

III.

  The marigold and rose had left the valley and the hill,
  The pansy frail was sere in dust and dead the daffodil;
  The aster tall yet wore its leaves, the "golden rob" its flowers,
  But beauty and perfume had gone with summer's radiant hours.

  From morn to night through forest glades with naught his path to
        cheer,
  The roebuck wandered moodily, o'er leaves all crisped and sere;
  The bird still sang, but bridal song had changed to widow's wail,
  And mourning she but grieved the more that grief might not avail.

  But ah! the saddest change of all--the chilling blight had come
  On hearts within whose holy bowers young love had made his home;
  The verdure had departed thence, the vermeil tenderness
  And frosty winds had brought to dust the growth of early bliss.

  The maiden heard the murmuring stream but murmured no reply,
  A melancholy coldness dwelt within her shrouded eye,
  She scarcely heard _his_ burning prayer whose love no change might
        quell,
  And only lived enough to breathe an icy "fare-thee-well."

IV.

  The sombre autumn-sky no more sent down its mournful rain,
  A dim and sickly veil had long o'er hill and hollow lain,
  But death at last had trampled on the few remaining flowers,
  All save the restless mandrake died with autumn's last sad hours.

  The mandrake yet remained, and when the keen frost pierced his
        breast,
  Sent forth his voice in agony upon the soughing blast:
  It told of happiness too ripe, of dewy rapture fled,
  Of ecstacy, and green of heart, with vanished verdure dead.

  The quiet snow came lightly through the thick and misty air,
  And slantingly descended when the cold wind left his lair;
  The cold wind! aye, the wind had chilled since buoyed on sunny mirth
  Young Euroauster came to woo the virgin bloom of earth.

  I saw no more the antlered stag--his rocky solitude
  Was fitter palace for the king than lea or roofless wood;
  The robin's song had died away as all things else must die--
  Death's sleet had bound her ribbed wing and dimmed her gleeful eye.

  I saw the maiden, but alas! the snow thro' ether gliding,
  Was not more chill than she, erewhile so tender, so confiding;
  I saw the youth--to him naught here might honey-balm impart,
  He wandered from the haunts of men in brokenness of heart.

  Oh, is there not a sympathy of all-controling power
  The mother and her brood between--old earth, weak man, frail flower?
  From some hearts soon the fetters fall, as spring frees lake and
        river,
  But many with the withered leaf, wear ruin's chain forever.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM A SISTER.

MR. WHITE,--

The prominent characters in the following pages are fictitious; but
the circumstances narrated are founded on fact, and the descriptions
correct. The author was an actor in the scenes, and visited the places
described. She has not however, relied solely on her own observations
and the oral communications of others, but consulted the best guide
books and historical traditions.


LETTER FIRST.

Voyage--Havre de Grace--Light Houses--Frescati Baths, and Sea
Bathing--Tower of Francis the First.

HAVRE DE GRACE, ----.

_My Dear Jane:_--

The last wave of your handkerchief, when we parted from you at
Southampton, made me feel quite sad for some time; but the bustling
scene around me at length diverted my thoughts from their gloomy
course, and I employed myself in observing the rapid movements of the
sailors, as they obeyed the orders of their captain, who had the voice
of a stentor, and took no pains to soften it. Our fellow passengers
were an elderly gentleman and his two sons, whom he was going to place
at a boarding school near Havre. We reached this celebrated port in
the evening, and I am happy to tell you (_now that it is over_,) not
without an adventure. Our parents and Edgar were not very sea sick,
but alas! for Sigismund and myself; we were the _Jobs_ of the party. I
mean as regards _suffering_, not _patience_; for of the last we both
stood in need. I already detest the sea, and dread re-crossing it. But
all this time you are unacquainted with our adventure; it was this.
When within a few miles of Havre, a sudden squall arose, and for more
than an hour our situation was truly terrifying. Fortunately the wind
blew from the land, or we should have been wrecked on the "iron bound
coast" which was very near us. The sails of our small vessel flapped
with such violence, that the {233} captain says they must have been
torn to pieces if they had not been perfectly new. We have occupied
ourselves since our arrival here, in walking about the town and riding
in its neighborhood. Yesterday we visited the two light houses on Cape
la Héve, and ascended one of them to view from its roof the
surrounding country, which is beautiful, and bounded on three sides by
the ocean. We purchased of an old woman residing in the light house,
some specimens of shell work; and I chose for you a little dog,
ingeniously made of small white shells, whose tiny black eyes shine as
brightly as your own. This morning we surveyed the Frescati Baths, and
the reservoir for oysters in front of them. The baths are kept in
elegant order, and the spacious mansion containing them presents a
handsome exterior. I did not relish the oysters; they taste of
copperas, as do those we get at home--and this is natural enough, as
they come out of the same waters. On the shore, contiguous to the
bathing establishment, we witnessed the amusing spectacle of ladies
and gentlemen in Turkish costume, struggling in the briny element,
whose billows almost threw them down, although supported by the arms
of sturdy sailors, and clinging to ropes suspended from stakes on the
beach. Last night we went to the theatre, and were much entertained by
the performance of Lepeintre, an excellent comic actor from Paris.
Havre is enclosed by lofty walls, outside of which are deep moats, and
the borders of these are covered with a bright verdure. In the town
there is a pleasant walk shaded by lime trees, and the square in front
of the theatre is laid off in gravel walks, with seats on each side.
Here the gentry of the city, and hosts of children, with their nurses
to guard them, assemble every afternoon. It is also usual for a
military band to play there at sunset. The most interesting object in
Havre is an old structure called the "Tower of Francis the First," in
which that monarch was sumptuously feasted by the [primeval]
inhabitants of this place, three centuries ago. But money must have
been of extreme value, and provisions very cheap in that age, as it is
said the banquet cost only thirty pounds; or perhaps what then was
considered a _feast_, would in these days of luxury be thought an
_ordinary meal_. The following anecdote will give you an idea of the
strength of the edifice. A crazy soldier once shut himself up in it
while the garrison were dining, and although he was strongly besieged,
maintained possession for two hours ere he was overcome. As we are to
rise at five o'clock to-morrow morning, for the purpose of embarking
for Rouen in the steamboat, I most retire to rest. Accept our love,
and remember us affectionately to aunt Margaret and Albert. I hope you
had a safe journey home from Southampton, and found all well at the
Lodge. Yours,

LEONTINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTER SECOND.

The Seine--Quillebeuf--Candebeck--Curious Rite at the Village of St.
Arnold--La Mailleraie--Abbey of Jamièges--Charles the Seventh and
Agnes Sorrel--Chateau of Robert le Diable--Arrival at Rouen.

ROUEN, ----.

_My Dear Jane:_--

What a silly creature you are to be sure!--to have preferred the
shades of Morren Lodge, and the company of good aunt Margaret, (not to
say that of somebody else, for fear of a blush,) to accompanying us in
our present tour! I am more and more enchanted as we proceed, and
cannot help bewailing your decision, whenever we are partaking of any
pleasure or amusement. 'Tis true, you tell us that after your marriage
next spring, Albert intends visiting the continent; but dear me! how
many things may occur in the meanwhile to alter your plans. Nay, the
knot may never be tied--for its no "wonder of wonders" now-a-days for
lads and lasses to change their minds. And should you prove a
"constant couple," and the wedding take place, I doubt that Albert
will be able to tear himself from his books and musty parchments. You
know I've often told you, that he never would have fallen in love with
your ladyship, I'm convinced, had he not surprised you that eventful
morning in papa's study, reading the life of the American President
Thomas Jefferson, while the rest of us were playing at battledore on
the lawn; and this you may tell him if you choose. "Well, enough of
rattle, Leontine, (I hear you say,) and do let's have something
interesting." So you shall, sister Jane; and I hasten to give you an
account of our voyage from Havre to this ancient capital. It was
delightful! We were favored with clear skies and propitious breezes,
and remained on deck the whole day to enjoy the scenery, for the banks
of the Seine are highly cultivated, and at every turn present
beautiful points of view. We glided by many villages, and several
monasteries and castles. Among the former I will only mention
Quillebeuf and Candebeck. Quillebeuf is famous for its ninety-nine
pilots; and as the navigation there is extremely dangerous for
vessels, they have full employment. It is remarkable that their number
has always been ninety-nine from time immemorial. Candebeck is
situated immediately on the bank of the river, and Vernet, the
celebrated marine painter, pronounced the view from its quay one of
the most beautiful water prospects in France. An old lady on board the
steamboat, told mamma and myself, as we were passing Candebeck, that a
few miles from it there is a village called St. Arnold, which contains
a pool of stagnant water, that many credulous people believe
efficacious in healing cutaneous diseases, and that at a certain
period of the year, numbers who are afflicted with such disorders go
to bathe in the pool. First, however, a particular ceremony must be
performed, or the water will have no effect. Each applicant for
health, must _steal_ from the neighboring woods a stick, and cast it
down to assist in forming a pile. In the evening this is set on fire
by the curate of the village, who comes forth dressed in his
sacerdotal robes, and accompanied by priests chanting a hymn. When the
smoke begins to darken the air, a white pigeon is let loose from the
spire of the church, and the poor deluded sufferers firmly believe it
to be the holy ghost descending from heaven to cure them! Quillebeuf
and Candebeck are both associated with historical recollections. The
former was fortified by Henry the Fourth, who considered it an
important point, and wished to have it called Henry'sville, after
himself. This was not done however, and since his death the
fortifications have been destroyed. It was at Candebeck that William
the Conqueror crossed the Seine in 1047, on his way to Arques, to
quell a sedition among the people there, under the Count of Arques. It
was governed by the {234} famous Talbot during the reign of Henry the
Fifth of England, and the inhabitants distinguished themselves by
their bravery in a combat with the English. At one period it was noted
for its manufactures of hats and gloves; and at that time no one of
_bon ton_ would wear a hat that was not made at Candebeck. The
revocation of the edict of Nantz proved a death blow to the industry
of this town. Soon after leaving it, we passed the Chateau of La
Mailleraie, once the residence of Mademoiselle De la Vallière, during
her youth. The mansion is spacious, and its gardens and thickets
looked very inviting. In 1824 the Duchess of Berri visited this
retreat, and breakfasted in the garden; and to commemorate this
circumstance, a white marble column has been erected there. I wonder
they did not surmount it with a _coffee-pot_. Beyond La Mailleraie the
scenery is rather monotonous, but at length you approach the Abbey of
Jamièges, (founded by Saint Philibert,) and the landscape becomes
lovely. This noble ruin, with its numerous Gothic windows, was a
majestic spectacle. Being situated on a peninsula, round which our
course extended, we had a view of it for a considerable time; at last,
to my regret, it faded from our sight. Charles the Seventh built a
fine villa in the neighborhood of Jamièges, and here the beautiful,
but sinful and unhappy Agnes Sorrel, resided. At her death her heart
was deposited in the Abbey, and her body carried to Loches, where it
was interred with great ceremony in the choir of the collegiate
church, for Agnes had been extremely munificent to the canons of
Loches, giving them two thousand crowns and quantities of jewels,
tapestry and pictures; and these crafty ecclesiastics paid her remains
all due respect during the life of Charles the Seventh, her royal
lover; but after his demise, while Louis the Eleventh was visiting
their church, knowing that he detested Agnes, and designing to flatter
him, they pointed out her tomb and requested permission to have it
removed. "I consent," replied the monarch, (indignant at their
duplicity and ingratitude,) "but you must first restore the riches she
lavished upon you." The last object I will now describe to you is the
Chateau of "Robert le Diable," a wicked wretch, whose crimes sullied
the earth, and whose spirit is believed by the superstitious still to
haunt the places that witnessed them. The scanty remains of his
fortress are just visible on a rocky height on the southern bank of
the Seine. Beneath the steep you behold La Vacherie, a neat little
country seat that is worthy of notice, as being the residence of
Madame Bocage when she composed her "Colombiade." We landed at Rouen
about six o'clock, and are located in a comfortable hotel, where papa
says we will remain until we have seen all the curiosities of this
interesting old city. You will therefore hear from me again ere our
departure. Yours truly,

LEONTINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTER THIRD.

Description of Rouen--Cathedral--Church of St. Ouen--Picture Gallery
and Library in the Hotel de Ville--Square of Joan of
Arc--Theatre--Dress of the Norman Peasants.

ROUEN, ----.

_My Dear Jane:_--

According to your request and my propensity to scribbling, I intend to
be very circumstantial in my details. Pray don't grow tired of them,
or if you do, keep it a secret, and my vanity may prevent my
suspecting such a misfortune. Mamma gives me great credit for being so
industrious with my pen. Sigismund and Edgar keep a journal; but that
requires more exactness than I possess, so I prefer writing a letter
when the humor takes me. We have been out _sight seeing_, every
morning and afternoon, until to-day. A brisk rain now confines us to
the house, and affords me leisure for again conversing with you. I
will commence my agreeable task with a description of the town. Its
environs are beautiful, but the interior rather gloomy--the streets
are generally so narrow and the houses so old. It was formerly
surrounded by walls and moats; the walls have been pulled down, and
the moats filled up and converted into public walks. At Rouen, the
ancient Dukes of Normandy held their courts, and it contains many
vestiges of their magnificence. The palace of justice is a vast Gothic
structure of the reign of Louis the Twelfth. Beneath it are prisons,
to which they were conducting two culprits as we entered. One of its
various halls is of immense extent, and has a singular vaulted
ceiling, that reminds you of the hulk of a vessel reversed--a
comparison by the by, that is not original with me. The venerable
cathedral, with its lofty spire and painted windows, engaged us a long
while. The spire is three hundred and eighty feet high, and visible
seven or eight leagues. There are two towers; one of them denominated
the _butter_ tower, because the expense of erecting it was defrayed
with money that had been paid by the people for permission to eat
butter during lent! It contained an enormous bell, nearly equal in
size to that at Moscow, and the founder of it is said to have died in
an ecstacy at its completion. This wonderful bell was destroyed during
the revolution. Many illustrious persons are buried in the cathedral.
Among them, Henry the Fifth of France, Richard Cour de Lion, the Duke
of Bedford, and the Cardinals of Amboise. The monument of the two
Cardinals is superb, and covered with arabesque work. They are
represented kneeling on its summit. Above them is a gilded equestrian
statue of St. George, their patron; below them (ranged in niches on
the front of the tomb,) are small marble figures, emblematical of the
virtues they possessed. Opposite this mausoleum is another, equally
remarkable. It is dedicated to the Grand Senéschal Brezé, the husband
of Diana of Poitiers, and governor of Rouen in the sixteenth century.
Of the numerous statues that adorn this tomb, that which represents
the Senéschal as an extended corpse is the most striking, and it is
inimitably executed. The pinched nose, tight drawn skin, hollow
cheeks, and sunken eyes, give it the exact appearance of a dead body.
Over the grand altar of the church hangs a fine painting, by Philip de
Champagne; the subject of it is the adoration of the Magi, and the
light is ingeniously and beautifully reflected from the infant Jesus,
(the _light_ of the world,) upon the surrounding objects. But enough
of the cathedral, Allons á Saint Ouen, famous for its fine interior
perspective, which is curiously and perfectly delineated by reflection
on the surface of the holy water, in the baptismal font, near the
chief portal of the church. St. Ouen was originally a Benedictine
abbey. Its architect Berneval, is buried in one of the chapels, and
there is an _improbable_ tradition concerning {235} him, viz: that he
was hung for assasinating his apprentice, who by excelling him in
carving some trifling ornament for the ceiling, had excited his
jealousy. The painted windows of St. Ouen are beautiful, and shed a
mellow lustre over its triple aisle, which we regretted to exchange
for the glare of the sun without; but time pressed, and we hastened to
view the picture gallery and public library in the Hotel de
Ville--neither of them extensive, though worthy of examination. We
next proceeded to the square of Joan of Arc, where a statue of her is
erected on the spot upon which she was burnt as a sorceress in 1430.
Last night we went to the play. The theatre is a handsome edifice, and
the ceiling exhibits the apothesis of Piérre Corneille. You behold him
crowned by tragedy, while painting and sculpture vie in copying his
features, and fame sounds his praise to the world. Apollo sheds over
him his brightness, and time with his scythe drives away envy and
other evil genii inimical to his glory. The ladies here dress well and
tastefully, but the costume of the peasants is very queer. It is the
same throughout Normandy. They wear high crowned muslin caps, tight
boddices, full plaited short petticoats garnished with rows of black
velvet, blue stockings clocked with red, and black sharptoed shoes,
cut low on the instep, and ornamented with rosettes. They always have
a gold cross, suspended from a black ribbon encircling the neck, and a
pair of gold earrings. But here am I continuing to scribble, and the
weather has cleared off and the carriage is ordered for a drive, and I
verily believe coming to the door. There! papa calls me to descend. In
haste, farewell.

LEONTINE.




We refer the reader to the editorial head for some remarks upon the
following article.

  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE DOOM.


MR. WHITE,--I am about to do a very foolish thing, no less than to
write a tale of a mournful love _affaire_. What has afflicted me with
the propensity, in truth I cannot determine; but though I am conscious
of the folly, I console myself by the unanswerable question, Why shall
not I write as well as other fools?

What I am about to write is the authentic history of a most melting
love _affaire_, which took place in this goodly city within the last
five years, and with the persons concerned in it, many of the fair and
fashionable here are, or rather were, acquainted. It was related to me
by the young gentleman himself; of him I will give a short account.
Ten years ago George B----, and myself were schoolfellows, but
associated little together except in school hours. He was a
light-hearted and joyous fellow enough, but at times as moody as the
---- himself, and he always delighted, to an immoderate degree, in the
little misfortunes and calamities that befall schoolboys. If a poor
fellow in climbing over a paling encountered any little point or nail,
whereby his nether garment was lacerated, he it was that first made
the discovery, and raised the war whoop. Consequently he was half
feared, and, when absent wholly hated by all of us, though in his
company we all strove to be on good terms with him. After he left
school I saw no more of him for some years, and when he again came to
Richmond, we met on the civil and polite footing of passing
acquaintance, until an accident brought us together and originated a
friendship between us.

One evening in June, 1832, when the thermometer stood at 94°, I had
managed to convey myself about a mile up the river bank for the
purpose of bathing, and going into the water I splashed about with
great vigor, thinking about Leander's remarkable feat in crossing the
Hellespont, until I felt a great desire to try whether I might not
aspire to equal him, or at least E---- P----, who swam from Mayo's
Bridge to Warwick wharf some years ago. Accordingly after screwing up
my courage grievously, I approached slowly a furious and turbulent
stream, which tumbled over a ledge of rocks, producing some appalling
waves and eddying whirls, commonly known as "sucks." I stood on a rock
near and contemplated it for some moments, until perceiving that my
ambition had very sensibly diminished and was rapidly taking French
leave, I was about to retire without attempting the crossing, when I
unfortunately discovered a head on the opposite side, very quietly
watching my proceedings,--whilst its owner was luxuriously rocking
himself about in the calm element. Ashamed to retreat, while one who
had accomplished what I shrank from, was perhaps chuckling at my
fears, I sprang forward, and ere I was well aware what was the matter,
found myself lifted up, dashed down, whirled around, my limbs pulled
and jerked hither and yon by the infernal waters, whilst the waters
above were foaming over my head and plashing into my face. Finally, I
was wearily and faintly struggling, almost bursting with suppressed
respiration; and with a horrible distinctness, memory was holding up
to my mind's eye every sin wherewith she could charge me,--when my arm
was seized and myself dragged along by a powerful hand. When I
recovered consciousness, I was seated on a rock near shore, and the
person to whom I owed my life was standing by--it was my old
schoolfellow, George B----. I muttered something about gratitude, when
he cut me short by telling me he would have saved the life of a
drowning dog with as much alacrity as he had saved me, and that he
would, he thought, deserve my gratitude more for advising me not again
to be fool enough to venture into deep water until I could swim. This,
I thought, was rather taking a liberty; but he had just saved my life,
and I said nothing more while we were dressing ourselves. Then slowly
walking towards the city, we chatted about schooldays and
schoolfellows. From that day we gradually became better acquainted,
until in a few weeks we were intimate associates. It was but natural
that I should be attached to a person who had rescued me from a watery
grave, yet I could not but see that with many very admirable qualities
of heart and mind, there were some glaring defects and vices about
him. He was generous and liberal to excess, and to the necessities of
the indigent his hand was never closed; he was a true friend, but a
bitter, unrelenting enemy; he cherished revenge as food fit for gods,
and therefore the more delightful to men; no Indian was ever more
unforgiving. In person he was tall and spare; his face was not
remarkable for comeliness, though the features were good; but his eyes
gave the charm and power to his dark pale face; they could fascinate
and charm as well as threaten and command. {236} With a fine and
highly cultivated taste, and a strong well-informed mind; simple in
his habits and addicted to no species of intemperance or dissipation;
and with a fortune which placed him out of the reach of want, yet not
enough to dissuade him from exertion, George B---- seemed destined to
play with honor and success the part of a man among his fellows.

Our friendship had endured for nearly a twelvemonth, and the gay
winter of 1832-3 had passed. B---- had been absent from town about a
month, when one evening, near the end of May, I met him on the capitol
square; he had arrived a few days before. An uncommon gloom was seated
on his brow; but I was in no melancholic mood myself, and after a few
minutes he seemed to regain his habitual carelessness of look and
manner. We strolled off, jesting and telling anecdotes, until we
arrived at the hill which overlooks the armory. It was a Sabbath
evening; and, according to the _commendable_ custom of the young
gentlefolk of Richmond, frequent parties of six or eight ladies, with
their attendant beaux, passed by the foot of the hill and proceeded up
the bank of the canal. As the ringing laugh of some dashing belle
reached us where we sat on two granite blocks on the top of the hill,
B---- would amuse me by relating some ludicrous anecdote or odd
circumstance connected with the fair laugher. What a quantity of
scandal did he impart to me, which, had it been proclaimed from the
house tops, would have procured him the honor of martyrdom--as surely
as that the satire which is so delightful to female ears when pointed
against their friends, seems too horrible when turned against
themselves.

They passed from our sight, and in a few moments B---- became silent,
and sat with his cheek leaning on his hands. I looked down at the
beautiful river and the city spread out before me, built on the side
of a sweeping hill, like a vast amphitheatre, so beautifully and
faithfully delineated in Cooke's picture, and very soberly speculated
on the probabilities of our ever having such a city as New York or
Philadelphia. I tired at length of such inconclusive speculation, and
turning to my companion with intent to enliven him a little, said,
"B---- you have never told me of any _affaire du coeur_ in which you
were a party; tell me who is or was the goddess of your profane
idolatry."

He started as if I had stabbed him, and gazed at me with a fixed
stare. I have said that his eyes were remarkably piercing; and I
looked away from his glance, fearing lest, inadvertently, I had
awakened a painful recollection.

"Tell me," said he, "are you superstitious! Do you think that beings
superior to the laws of humanity have ever appeared to mortals or
conversed with them?" "Not in these latter days at all events,"
replied I, "or else I should never have played the many mad pranks
that I have done, on dark still nights, in grave yards and church
porches, where the gentry you speak of would be met with, I imagine,
if any where." "Ah," said he, as if swallowing down a groan, "you jest
lightly; but I will tell you that which will somewhat shake your
incredulity." In spite of me, his manner made some impression on me,
though I half suspected it to be a mere _ruse_--but my attention
became strongly riveted, as he went on with his story.

"Five years ago," said he, "I was entering my seventeenth year, and
began to think myself a man, especially as I had been for one session
to college. It was during the first vacation that I went down to ----
county to see my guardian, and to wage war on every living winged
creature, from a sparrow to a turkey buzzard; and during the
continuance of fair weather, I never looked into any thing bearing the
likeness of a book, unless it was to tear out the blank leaves for
wadding. But one cold, raw, windy, drizzly day, after satisfying
myself that there was no more likelihood that the rain would cease,
than if it had been the commencement of the deluge, I desperately
picked up a book, and going to my sleeping apartment, threw myself on
my bed and fell to reading. I forget what it was, but I know it was
some extravagant Italian or Sicilian romance, in which ghosts, angels
and devils mixed themselves up with the human actors, with very little
ceremony. It interested me though wonderfully, and I continued hard at
it until late at night, when having finished it, I got into bed and
lay half thinking, half dreaming, about what I had been reading. A
while after, I heard my name called in a voice which seemed to be near
me. I shivered with dread--but made no answer. Again my name was
pronounced; and the voice continued--'Look! behold her who will blight
and wither up thy happiness and life, and drive thee to an early
tomb.' Unconsciously I sat up and looked around; the room was as dark
as midnight, and the wind sighed mournfully as it swept through the
trees in the yard. Suddenly a light glanced before my eyes; I looked
and saw a room handsomely furnished, with a small round table in the
centre, and near it a sofa. A young lady was standing, apparently just
risen from the sofa, with one hand resting on the table, and the other
extended pointing at me. Her eyes were fastened on my face, with a
look of proud, bitter scorn. I was as one fascinated: she slowly
turned her face from me and waved her hand--then all vanished. I sunk
back on my pillow with a feeling of utter despair: it passed off, and
I longed for revenge. I said aloud, 'devil or angel, grant that I may
inflict misery equal to what I shall suffer, and see her sink before
me into the grave, and then I will not repine at my destiny.' With a
perfect distinctness I heard the words, 'Thy wish is granted.' A
feeling of gratified revenge stole over me, and I sunk into a deep
sleep.

"I awoke in the morning, and having peeped from my window and found
the weather as bad as ever, I again pressed my pillow with design to
woo a morning nap. All at once I recollected the extraordinary vision
or dream of the past night--every circumstance clearly presenting
itself to my mind--every look and gesture of the figure, and every
word uttered, seemed engraved on my memory--I tried to convince myself
that it was a dream; I argued with myself and resolved that it was a
dream--but something within me said, 'it is no dream.' For several
days I thought of nothing else; but at sixteen we are not fond of a
long continued musing about any thing, good or bad; and in the
excitement of hunting, fishing, and going to meetings on Sundays, the
impression wore off by degrees.

"I returned to college, studied hard, frolicked harder, and was
indefatigable in every piece of mischief which could be devised by the
collective wisdom and ingenuity of eighty boys; and having several
times narrowly {237} escaped suspension and once been threatened with
dismission absolute, I finished the course, and came to Richmond to
amuse myself in every way I could find out; and for want of other
matter to engage me, to dip a little into the sublime study of the
law. The winter of 1831-2 was commencing. The redoubtable cholera had
not yet arrived in America; but all were dreading it. Folks here
seemed determined to take time by the forelock and live merrily while
they could. I made acquaintances; and received invitations to parties,
of which I attended many, where I cannot aver that even my small stock
of ideas was much augmented, though on the score of creature comforts
they were very pleasant; and by dutifully and honestly paying the
expected visit after, acquired the repute of an honest, polite and
agreeable young man. Some unthinking youths are so shortsighted as to
care very little about paying a visit after a party, though they are
very particular in paying it _before_ one is to take place. That was
not my plan: I was always addicted to the calculation of chances, and
argued that as one party had been given at a particular house,
possibly, nay probably, (bating accidents) another might be in the
course of time. Upon this principle I acted, and do not think that I
ever lost by it. The winter passed and summer came on.--I went to the
White Sulphur Springs, and by eating huge dinners and suppers, and
drinking the dreadful waters; galloping about the mountains in Miss
----'s train, and occasionally walking five or six miles to fish, I
got into prodigious health--my limbs grew firm and hard as iron, and I
felt strong enough to brain a wild bull, or hug a bear to death. But I
grew tired of this life, and early in the fall came back to Richmond
to see what in the deuce the people were doing with the cholera. The
newspapers said the city was as silent and gloomy as a charnel house.

"Every thing, however, must end; and the cholera's day passed;--by the
middle of November every dead person was forgotten, and every one
living seemed to forget what it was to die. The fashionables came back
in throngs about the time the Legislature commenced its _very
necessary_ and _exceedingly laborious_ annual session; and no one who
had not seen, as I had, piles of coffins six feet deep, waiting for
the graves which were to receive them, could have believed that death
and desolation had so lately hovered over the city.

"Several parties had been given, and the regular routine had
commenced. On the evening preceding Christmas day, I went to a large
party at Mr. ----'s. I was idly engaged--now in managing a jelly, now
in munching a devilled biscuit, when among the new faces shewing
themselves about the room, I discovered one which drew my attention
forcibly. It was not a very beautiful face certainly--but there was
about it--a nameless something which convinced me that she was an
uncommon character. On her pure white high forehead, was stamped the
seal of bright intelligence, and her mouth, which was rather large,
indicated a world of humor. I thought I had seen the face
somewhere--but where and when I could not tell. I inquired her name;
Miss ----, staying with her aunt Mrs. ----, I was told. Now I
certainly had never seen Miss ----, though I had heard of her; for her
father lived within a few miles of my guardian's farm--but her face
haunted me as that of one I had known in days gone by. I was standing
with my arms folded, looking the picture of gravity, when the
beautiful young mistress of the merriment making came to me, and
desiring me not to get asleep, with an applauding laugh at her own
wit, said, 'come, I will introduce you to a lady who has eyes as
expressive as your own, and whose vivacity will rouse you, if any
thing can.' I languidly inquired who the lady was to whom she was so
very complimentary--she pointed out Miss ----, and I consented at
once. The introduction was duly gone through with, the pleasure of the
lady's hand for a dance asked and granted, the four cotillons which
constitute the regular allowance performed, and we seated ourselves on
a charming sofa that it really was a delight to repose on. She danced
no more that night, nor did I--but we talked about every thing and
about nothing. I listened to her musical voice and looked at her dark
lustrous eyes, until I determined with myself that I admired her very
hugely, and when I attended her to her carriage at one o'clock, and
heard her say that she would be glad to see me again, I felt as
grateful as though she had done me a kindness.

"For a fortnight, I was assiduous in cultivating her good graces,
until I flattered myself that I was looked on as by no means an
ordinary acquaintance. About this time morning rides were all the
rage. Among all the young ladies in the city, residents or visiters,
Miss ---- was the only one who could at all manage a steed--but what
of that? Young men talked constantly of ----; how deucedly well she
sat a horse; trotting, galloping, at full speed, 'twas all one to her;
indeed in all, save perhaps one particular, she was a perfect Diana
Vernon--and no wonder that fashion and the desire of notoriety should
induce many young ladies, who knew as little about riding as they did
about the Bible, to try to rival her. Miss ---- was no exception. I
was riding one morning with a party of ladies and gentlemen, when the
horse of one of the gentlemen took fright at something, and off he
started. We rode rapidly after him to see what would be the result.
The horse was dashing down the road like the wind--suddenly he stopped
short, and his unlucky rider darted from his saddle like a bull-frog
in full leap, and plunged head foremost into a pile of brushwood,
where his legs alone remained visible, gesticulating vigorously. Up we
rode in great horror, thinking the poor fellow's neck was broken to a
certainty; but no such thing--his time was not yet come. We hauled him
forth, and found, that with the exception of a few digs and scratches
about his face, he was a whole, though a miserably crest-fallen man.
That evening I related the adventure of our morning ride to Miss ----,
and instead of operating as a damper to her desire of riding, she
became more resolutely bent on it--nothing would do but I must ride
with her next day. Accordingly, next morning we started; she riding a
quiet looking pacing nag, and I on that large fiery grey horse that
broke my barouche to pieces, the day you rode with me to Fairfield and
nearly broke our necks into the bargain.

"I felt uncommonly dull and sleepy that morning, and was so absent
that at length I fairly wore out my companion's patience, which, by
the way, was not equal to Grissel's, and in order to rouse me from my
dreaming fit, endeavored to give me a smart cut with {238} her switch,
which missed me--but took effect on my horse's flank. He sprang
forward, and kicking violently, pitched me from the saddle, and down I
came luckily on a soft sandy place. I jumped up and saw Miss ----'s
nag rearing and plunging furiously, and her rider clinging to the
saddle with one hand and the mane with the other. In an instant I was
at the animal's head, and seizing her nose with a powerful grasp held
her quiet, while I lifted Miss ---- from her saddle. Her face was
pale, her lip quivered with terror, and she trembled so violently that
I was obliged to put my arm round her waist to support her. I
congratulated her on her escape from the danger, and proposed that we
should continue our ride, as my horse had stopped near us and was
attentively looking on, promising her at the same time to be very
attentive during the ride, and not compel her to lash my horse in
order to draw my notice. 'No,' she said, 'she could not, she would
never attempt to ride again.' I became uneasy and earnestly besought
her to permit me to lift her to her saddle, adding, that should our
mishap be known, we should be rallied to death about it. At length she
consented to ride slowly home. Neither said any thing to any one about
our ride--but I could not forget that my arm had encircled ----'s
slender waist. I became absorbingly devoted to her; and one day when I
found her alone, with her cheek resting pensively on her little hand,
I was foolish enough to tell her that I believed I loved her, and said
a deal of nonsense besides, to which she listened with quiet
resignation, and when I had finished, she tendered her hand to kiss.

"About ten days after this event, my guardian came to town, bringing
with him his daughter, a beautiful little creature, with whom I had
been brought up as a brother. The day after their arrival, there was a
party, to which I was to attend Miss ----. My guardian was an elderly,
staid gentleman, fond of his ease, and made it a point of conscience
to go to his rest at ten o'clock regularly, and I thought it was
incumbent on me to go with his pretty daughter. I therefore wrote a
short note to Miss ----, telling her how matters stood, and thought
nothing more about it until we arrived at the party, where I looked in
vain for her. 'She will be here after a while,' thought I--and to pass
off the time agreeably, I danced with my fair companion. The night
wore away, and still the girl I wished most to see did not arrive, nor
could I conjecture the cause of her absence. Next day I went with my
guardian and my sweet cousin, as I called her, to see some paintings
at the Museum, and other sights; and the day after, she insisted that
I should accompany her in a shopping expedition. Now there is nothing
in the shape of labor or suffering that I would not sooner undergo,
than accompany a lady, and more especially a very fair young lady,
shopping; they look at a thousand things, ask one's opinion or advice
about every thing, and as a matter of course, follow it in
nothing--besides all that, I was very anxious to see Miss ---- that
morning; but was obliged to submit.

"Next morning I paid her an early visit--she was sitting at the table
writing as I entered. As she looked up at me I thought I noticed
somewhat of displeasure in her eyes, and it occurred to me at once
that perhaps she was not pleased at my failure to attend her to the
party. If so, her pettishness was obviously unreasonable in the
extreme, and I forthwith determined to anger her a little, if I
discovered my surmise to be well founded.

"I talked to her for some time very courteously. Her brow began to
clear up, and I feared lest she should become entirely good humored
and leave me no opportunity to vex her; so I spoke of the party,
mentioned some who were there, and how delightful the whole affair
was: eatables, drinkables, music, ladies and all, charming; and
amongst other things I dilated with great emphasis on my cousin,
praised her beauty, her gracefulness, her wit; spoke of the admiration
she excited, and concluded by declaring that she was by far the most
interesting girl I had seen there--and I ran my fingers through my
curling hair, and thrusting my right leg out before me, gazed
complacently at the toe of my pump.

"Miss ---- looked at the fire and twisted the unfortunate pen she held
in her hand, into many unnatural shapes--but said nothing.

"'Well,' resumed I, 'I could not imagine why you were not there; I
looked for you once or twice during the evening, and was astonished
when I heard that you had not come.'

"'Oh, I received your note telling me that you would accompany another
lady, and not wishing to go abegging for an escort, resolved to stay
at home.'

"'What a pity!' said I, 'if you had been there I should have had
nothing to wish for; as it was, the evening passed delightfully--I
scarce left my little cousin's side. Yesterday she carried me shopping
with her all the morning, and the day before I went with her to see
the Ariadne. She is very much like the picture, and has the same
beautiful fair complexion, the same blue eyes and yellow hair, which I
admire so much, you know.'

"I looked up at Miss ----; she was gazing fixedly at me. I noticed a
tear in her eye, as she turned away and rested her cheek on her dear
little hand. I began to think matters were becoming too serious.

"'Sweet ----,' I began, in an altered and earnest tone.--She raised
her head suddenly and I trembled at her glance.

"'_Sweet_ ----,' she repeated, with scornful emphasis--'George, I owe
you my life, and for that I shall always feel gratitude. I have loved
you for yourself--for I thought you generous, sensible and sincere.
Your present conduct shews how much I have been deceived in you, and
the love I have been proud to feel is lost in contempt.' She rose from
her seat as she spoke.--Heaven and Earth! The figure seen in my almost
forgotten vision stood before me. I was motionless with horror--a
dagger of ice seemed slowly to pierce my breast--I covered my eyes
with my hand and groaned:--Too fearfully were the words of doom
fulfilled.

"I rose slowly from my chair, bowed low to ---- and leaving the house,
hurried to my room and threw myself on my bed. There I writhed in
convulsive agony, and in the frenzy of unutterable despair cursed the
hour in which I was born. The criminal who, in the confident hope of
pardon, and indulging in dreams of long life and happiness, is
suddenly dragged forth to the gallows, feels not a tythe of the utter
desolation I then felt. By degrees my frenzy subsided, and a dull
stupor was coming over me,--when the word '_Revenge_' {239} was
muttered in my ear. I remembered the promise. '_Revenge_ is mine, and
I will wreak it to the uttermost.' I became perfectly calm--it was the
calm of despair. I had nothings to hope for but revenge, and then,
come what might, I would be ready to meet it! 'Yes,' said I aloud, 'I
will twine myself round her heartstrings--she shall love me devotedly,
fatally, and I will requite her with a contempt colder than the snows
on Cotapaxi, and a hate more intense than its fires.'

"In a few days my guardian left town with his daughter. I went about
as usual and frequently met Miss ----, to whom I always spoke with an
air of grave politeness--but never alluded to her displeasure. I soon
saw that her anger was passed like a summer cloud, and that she was
not at all indisposed to a renewal of our former intimacy. One evening
at a party somewhere, I was engaged in a lively conversation with her,
and was quietly offering her many little polite attentions, from which
a casual observer would have inferred that we were excellent
friends--but there was nothing of confiding, affectionate interest in
my tone or looks: all was the calm, cold, habitual politeness of a
thorough bred man of the world. After a silence of some minute or two,
she said kindly, 'George, I am sorry for what I said in my hasty anger
and would be delighted if you would forgive and forget it'--and she
offered me her hand. I would have spurned it from me--but the time was
not yet come. So I took her hand in mine, and with a grateful
pressure, thanked her for her condescending goodness. 'Now,' said she,
with one of her most endearing smiles, 'we are good friends again.'

"For an instant my dire resolution seemed melting away--but I steeled
myself relentlessly, and swore by my own head to pursue my revenge.
From that day forth I was unremitting in my endeavor to gain her whole
heart--every word and look was directed to that end. For hours have I
sat with her, pouring out for her attentive ear whatever my more
masculine studies had made me conversant with, but which to her had
been as a sealed book.

"At length I saw that I had succeeded; her whole being seemed bound up
in my love, and I felt that my victim was in my power. 'Now for
revenge,' I muttered, as I walked slowly to the door and rang the
bell. The room was empty as I entered; I sat down and pondered over
the best and surest mode of attaining my wish. Presently I heard a
light step hurrying down the staircase, and slackening in speed as it
approached the door. I threw a slight expression of gloom over my
features; the door opened, and Miss ---- entered and greeted me with a
mingling of cordiality and bashfulness which at one time would have
brought me on my knees before her: now it was of no avail. She soon
noticed the sadness of my looks, and inquired the cause. 'I was
thinking,' I replied, 'of a past and most painful event. It was here,
in this room, that I heard, from lips that were dearest to me of all
on earth, words which stunned me more than a thunderbolt would have
done, and she who spoke them sate where you now sit.'

"'Hush, sweet; hush,' said she, playfully putting her hand on my
mouth, 'and do not again allude to an occurrence which I regret so
much. Indeed,' she continued, while her eyes filled with tears,
'indeed, I would do any thing to convince you how much it has grieved
me.'

"I smiled fondly, and rising from my chair, seated myself by her side,
and took her little hand in mine.

"'F----,' said I, 'you have told me that you loved me, and I believed
you; I need not say how dearly I have loved you. Listen, dear girl, to
what my love compels me to tell. Until this day I have been accustomed
to think of myself as one beyond the reach of poverty, although not
rich: this very day I have learned that I am well nigh pennyless. Our
engagement is yet unknown to any save ourselves, and it remains with
you to say whether it shall continue. I release you entirely from your
promise, and never by word or deed will I reproach you, should you
listen to the voice of prudence, and decline linking your fate to that
of one who has nothing save the gushing tenderness and love of a
passionate heart to offer you. If your generous mind reject the
thought of discarding me for my poverty, think on all you will have to
undergo; the loss of all that custom has rendered almost necessary;
"the proud man's contumely--the slings and arrows of outrageous
fortune;" perchance the bitings of absolute penury;--and tell me, can
you leave family and friends, and your childhood's home, and endure
all for the sake of my love?'

"My arm had encircled her waist, and I gazed steadfastly on her face.
The proud blood rose in her pale cheek as she answered, 'George, I do
love you more than I know how to express, and ever for yourself alone.
I can now show you how completely I am yours, for my love can end but
with my life.'

"Wildly, fearfully, did the fiery blood bound through my tingling
veins. I drew her to me; her head lay on my shoulder, and I covered
with kisses her forehead, her eyes, her cheek, her lips. Tears of
passionate love burst from my eyes, and I pressed her to my heart in
an agony of uncontrollable delight. Slowly my calmness returned, and
again 'revenge! revenge!' sounded in my ear.

"I withdrew my arm from her, but still retained her hand, and said in
a quiet tone, 'Listen again, and swear by your hopes of heaven that
you will divulge to no mortal ear what I shall say.' She did so, and I
continued: 'Two months ago you told me that you scorned and despised
me: I swore to requite it--and now I tell you, and I swear by the
crown of the eternal king I tell you truly, that I abhor you; I scorn
and hate you more than I do the wretch who has murdered her infant
child.' I flung from me as I spoke the hand I held, and rising from my
seat, stood with my arms folded, looking her full in the face.

"For a moment she gazed wildly at me, as if she did not comprehend
what I had said; but as the dreadful truth forced itself on her mind
her face became white as chalk, her eyelids quivered convulsively, and
with almost a scream she fell back in a swoon. I raised her, and
getting some water from a flower jar, I sprinkled it over her face,
and supported her in my arms. In a few minutes she opened her eyes,
and fixed them on me with a gaze of imperfect consciousness; my arm
still supported her. 'Oh George, George,' she murmured, clasping my
neck with her arms, and sobbing bitterly, 'how could you jest so
cruelly with me? I know you were not in earnest; you could not speak
so in earnest to your own F----; but your dreadful look frightened me
almost to death;' and she hid her face in my {240} bosom, and sobbed
as if her heart would break. For a few moments her sobs continued, and
then she gradually recovered herself. I quietly unclasped her hands
from my neck, and again rising from the sofa, said in a bitter tone,
'compose yourself Miss ----, and be assured that I am in earnest. Look
on my face, and see a man marked for the grave--and you are my
destroyer. You have blighted all my happiness in this world; and
before the leaves which are new budding shall fall, I will be sleeping
in my cold grave. But _now_ vengeance is mine, and I have repaid you;
your death blow has been stricken, and soon, very soon, will you
wither in your early tomb, where I shall speedily follow. Remember
your dreadful oath.'

"She did not move nor weep, but her eyes were fixed on me with a
fearful stare as the charmed bird regards the rattlesnake, and
followed me as I moved from the room. Next day I heard that Miss ----
had been discovered in the room where I left her in a state of
insensibility, and had with difficulty been aroused from it, but was
alarmingly ill. Conjecture was at fault as to the cause of her
illness; among the thousand and one suppositions none came near the
truth, and nothing could be learned from her. She was obstinately
silent, as the attending physician, a pragmatical, dogmatical fellow,
chose to report. A week passed and she was thought somewhat better;
and her father, who had hurried to town on hearing of her illness,
insisted on carrying her to the country with him. Another week passed
and I heard nothing of her. I became anxious; I wished to see her
again; to mark the progress of death, and exult in the completion of
my revenge. I went down to my guardian's house. They were all speaking
of poor F---- when I arrived; she was not expected to live forty-eight
hours.

"Next day my guardian, his daughter and myself rode over to Mr. ----'s
to see F---- once more. Her mother was weeping and refusing to be
comforted: she was her only child. I did not see her father; like
Hagar, he had taken a last look at his child, and had gone into the
woods to mourn unseen--he could not see his child die.

"My cousin and her father went into the dying girl's room, while I
remained conversing with some of the neighbors who were there. After
some time had elapsed they came out; she came to me weeping bitterly,
and said that Miss ---- desired to see me alone. I almost trembled,
but hastened to the room; no one was there save the dying girl. There
she lay, her dark hair loose over her pillow, her fine face attenuated
and white as alabaster; one hand was exposed to view--it was shrunk
almost to nothing--but the lustre of her eyes was yet undiminished. I
moved to the bedside and gazed in silence on the yet living remains of
the most angelic spirit that I have met with in my intercourse with my
fellow mortals. 'George,' said she in a weak voice, 'in a few minutes
I shall breathe my last, yet I love you as fondly as ever,
notwithstanding your cruel treatment of me. Oh speak to me, George!
tell me that you love me, and I will forgive you and die contented.'
My desire for revenge melted away; I felt almost choked with emotion,
and throwing myself on my knees I kissed her emaciated hand and wept
tears of bitter regret: inextinguishable love burned in my heart, and
I moaned in her ear, 'F----, my sweet, sweet F----, I do love you, and
have ever loved you more than all the world holds beside, but it was
fated that thus it should be!' A smile of delight spread over her
face, her dying hand pressed mine--and in a whisper almost inaudible
she said, 'Farewell, we will meet hereafter.' Her breathing fluttered
and ceased--she was dead. I imprinted a last kiss on her face, still
lovely even in death, and left the room.

"I saw her body committed to the earth and her grave sprinkled with
early violets; and when all was over, we left the bereaved family to
their sorrows.--Since that day I have impatiently awaited the approach
of death, but my sufferings have not terminated as soon as I wished.
At times a dreadful feeling of remorse has seized me, and in agonies
that cannot be described have I writhed during many sleepless
nights--but I was a mere instrument in the hands of unalterable fate.

"A few days since I came to Richmond to arrange some business.
To-morrow I shall leave this city for New York, where I shall stay for
some weeks. After this day I shall never see you again."

He ceased. I wished to say something, but his recital had made so
strong an impression on me, and he seemed so fully fixed in the belief
of his approaching death, that I was silent. The shades of evening
began to deepen around us, and the full moon rose struggling through a
bank of clouds. "Come," said B----, "go with me to my room; I have
something to give you as a memento of me." We went to his room and he
took from a desk a dirk of beautiful workmanship, the handle richly
ornamented with gold, and giving it to me said, "take this and keep
it. I have been strongly tempted to use it against myself, but have
refrained, for it shall not be said that I feared to live. Farewell. I
have something to do, and you will excuse me." I wrung his hand and we
parted. I never saw him again; but in the latter part of July I heard
that he had returned from New York in a low state of health, having,
as was said, wasted rapidly in a consumption. Early in August he died,
making it his last request to be buried by the grave of Miss ----. It
was complied with, and before he completed the twenty-second year of
his age, he slept by the side of her he had loved. Peace to their
ashes!

BENEDICT.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE CHANGES OF NATURE.

  Cum polo Phoebus roseis quadrigis.--_Boet: Lib. ii. Met. iii._


  How oft when Sol, in rosy car,
    Pursues his radiant race,
  The malice of the evil star
    Sheds paleness o'er his face!

  How oft when Spring sets out her flowers,
    And opening blossoms play,
  An angry cloud, with chilling showers,
    Sweeps all their charms away!

  How oft when Ocean smiles serene,
    Composing all his waves,
  A sudden storm confounds the scene,
    And sailors find their graves!

  Oh! then, since this is Nature's style,
    Still changing from her birth,
  Why trust her false, deceitful smile?
    Why look for rest on earth?


{241}


ORIGINAL LITERARY NOTICES.


THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. By the author of Pelham, &c. 2 vols. New
York: Harper & Brothers. 1834.

The "Messenger" ought to have contained an earlier notice of this
fashionable and brilliant work. If our readers have not seen it, we
would advise them by all means to send forthwith to the bookseller and
purchase a copy. We are free to confess that it has raised Mr. Bulwer
fifty per cent. at least in our estimation,--yet we do not think it by
any means a faultless performance. Mr. Bulwer's pictures, in all his
works that we have read, are too gaudy,--too highly wrought,--and
therefore too much above nature,--and want the delightful repose and
serene features which distinguish the great Scottish magician. He is,
nevertheless, an author of vivid and powerful fancy, of extensive
learning, and of high capacity to seize upon his readers and enchain
them by fine imagery and impassioned eloquence. The work before us is
one of undoubted merit. The subject is of great historical interest,
and the author has contrived to reanimate the "city of the dead" with
a group of actors who, with some exceptions, admirably sustain their
respective parts, and contribute their due share to the continued
interest and final catastrophe of the story. We shall not attempt any
analysis of the book, for that would be to deprive such of our readers
as have not seen it, of much of that exquisite pleasure which attends
the progressive developement of the plot, and the gradual
disentanglement of all the intricacies in a work of fiction. The
tragical story of Pompeii is familiar to classical readers, and
especially the graphic account of its doom by the younger Pliny, who
was an eye witness to the calamity. Its discovery and partial
restoration in latter times,--the laborious excavations which have
brought back its temples, its theatres, its triumphal arches and
spacious edifices, to the light of day;--its antique curiosities and
fine paintings, rescued as it were from a dark interment of seventeen
centuries, and now exhibited in their original form and freshness, are
all circumstances of powerful interest,--but have been so frequently
referred to by tourists, antiquarians and others, that they do not
require any particular notice at our hands. We regard Mr. Bulwer as
highly fortunate in the choice of his subject; and, as he enjoyed
great advantages by his presence on the spot, he has contrived to
embellish his story by a variety of interesting details derived from
actual inspection. The minute account, for example, of the dwelling of
Glaucus, in the third chapter,--of the complicated arrangement and
splendid ornaments of the various apartments, is not the creation of
fancy but a lively representation of a living model. By the way, since
this same chapter contains a very curious account of a Pompeian
supper, besides some other interesting matters, we are tempted to
insert the whole in our columns, especially as many of our readers may
have no opportunity of seeing the volumes from which it is extracted.
The _umbra_, who is introduced as one of the guests, is a species of
animal not peculiar we believe, to the Roman age. Society has in all
ages abounded in parasites and toadies, who, for the sake of a
plentiful repast and _fashionable_ company, have very willingly echoed
the sentiments of a rich patron. Glaucus, one of the principal
personages in the tale, had assembled a small party to partake of his
luxurious bounty,--and the chapter opens with a fine description of
the host himself. We introduce it to our readers.

       *       *       *       *       *

Heaven had given to Glaucus every blessing but one: it had given him
beauty, health, fortune, genius, illustrious descent, a heart of fire,
a mind of poetry; but it had denied him the heritage of freedom. He
was born in Athens, the subject of Rome. Succeeding early to an ample
inheritance, he had indulged that inclination for travel so natural to
the young, and had drunk deep of the intoxicating draught of pleasure,
amid the gorgeous luxuries of the imperial court.

He was an Alcibiades without ambition. He was what a man of
imagination, youth, fortune and talents readily becomes when you
deprive him of the inspiration of glory. His house at Rome was the
theme of the debauchees, but also of the lovers of art; and the
sculptors of Greece delighted to task their skill in adorning the
porticoes and _exedra_ of an Athenian. His retreat in Pompeii--alas!
the colors are faded now, the walls stripped of their paintings!--its
main beauty, its elaborate finish of grace and ornament, is gone; yet
when first given once more to the day, what eulogies, what wonder did
its minute and glowing decorations create--its paintings--its mosaics!
Passionately enamoured of poetry and the drama, which recalled to
Glaucus the wit and the heroism of his race, that fairy mansion was
adorned with representations of Æschylus and Homer. And antiquaries,
who resolve taste to a trade, have turned the patron to the professor,
and still (though the error is now acknowledged) they style in custom,
as they first named in mistake, the disburied house of the Athenian
Glaucus, "THE HOUSE OF THE DRAMATIC POET."

Previous to our description of this house, it may be well to convey to
the reader a general notion of the houses of Pompeii, which he will
find to resemble strongly the plans of Vitruvius; but with all those
differences, in detail, of caprice and taste which, being natural to
mankind, have always puzzled antiquaries. We shall endeavor to make
this description as clear and unpedantic as possible.

You enter then, usually, by a small entrance passage (called
_vestibulum_) into a hall, sometimes with (but more frequently
without) the ornament of columns; around three sides of this hall are
doors communicating with several bed chambers, (among which is the
porter's,) the best of these being usually appropriated to country
visiters. At the extremity of the hall, on either side to the right
and left, if the house is large, there are two small recesses, rather
than chambers, generally devoted to the ladies of the mansion; and in
the centre of the tesselated pavement of the hall is invariably a
square shallow reservoir for rain water (classically termed
_impluvium_,) which was admitted by a hole in the roof above; the said
aperture being covered at will by an awning. Near this impluvium,
which had a peculiar sanctity in the eyes of the ancients, were
sometimes (but at Pompeii more rarely than at Rome) placed images of
the household gods; the hospitable hearth, often mentioned by the
Roman poets, and consecrated to the Lares, was, at Pompeii, almost
invariably formed by a moveable _brasier_; while in some corner, often
the most ostentatious place, was deposited a huge wooden chest,
ornamented and strengthened by bands of bronze or iron, and secured by
strong hooks upon a stone pedestal so firmly as to defy the attempts
of any robber to detach it from its position. This chest was supposed
to be the money-box or coffer of the master of the house; though, as
no money has been found in any of the chests discovered at Pompeii, it
is probable that it was sometimes rather designed for ornament than
use.

In this hall (or _atrium_, to speak classically) the clients and
visiters of inferior rank were usually received. In the houses of the
more "respectable," an _atriensis_, or {242} slave peculiarly devoted
to the service of the hall, was invariably retained, and his rank
among his fellow slaves was high and important. The reservoir in the
centre must have been rather a dangerous ornament, but the centre of
the hall was like the grass-plat of a college, and interdicted to the
passers to and fro, who found ample space in the margin. Right
opposite the entrance, at the other end of the hall, was an apartment
(_tablinum_,) in which the pavement was usually adorned with rich
mosaics, and the walls covered with elaborate paintings. Here were
usually kept the records of the family, or those of any public office
that had been filled by the owner: on one side of this saloon, if we
may so call it, was often a dining room, or _triclinium_; on the other
side, perhaps, what we should now term a cabinet of gems, containing
whatever curiosities were deemed most rare and costly; and invariably
a small passage for the slaves to cross to the farther parts of the
house without passing the apartments thus mentioned. These rooms all
opened on a square or oblong colonnade, technically termed peristyle.
If the house was small, its boundary ceased with this colonnade, and
in that case its centre, however diminutive, was ordinarily
appropriated to the purpose of a garden, and adorned with vases of
flowers placed upon pedestals, while under the colonnade, to the right
and left, were doors, admitting to bed rooms,[1] to a second
_triclinium_, or eating room, (for the ancients generally appropriated
two rooms at least to that purpose, one for summer and one for winter,
or perhaps one for ordinary, the other for festive occasions;) and if
the owner affected letters, a cabinet, dignified by the name of
library,--for a very small room was sufficient to contain the few
rolls of papyrus which the ancients deemed a notable collection of
books.

[Footnote 1: The Romans had bed rooms appropriated not only to the
sleep of night, but also to the day siesta (_cubicula diurna_.)]

At the end of the peristyle was generally the kitchen. Supposing the
house was large, it did not end with the peristyle, and the centre
thereof was not in that case a garden, but might be perhaps adorned
with a fountain, or basin for fish; and at its end, exactly opposite
to the tablinum, was generally another eating room, on either side of
which were bed rooms, and perhaps a picture saloon, or _pinatheca_.[2]
These apartments communicated again with a square or oblong space,
usually adorned on three sides with a colonnade like the peristyle,
and very much resembling the peristyle, only longer. This was the
proper _viridarium_ or garden, being usually adorned with a fountain,
or statues, and a profusion of gay flowers: at its extreme end was the
gardener's house; on either side beneath the colonnade were sometimes,
if the size of the family required it, additional rooms.

[Footnote 2: In the stately palaces of Rome, the pinatheca usually
communicated with the atrium.]

At Pompeii, a second or third story was rarely of importance, being
built only above a small part of the house, and containing rooms for
the slaves; differing in this respect from the more magnificent
edifices of Rome, which generally contained the principal eating room
(or _coenaculum_) on the second floor. The apartments themselves were
ordinarily of small size: for in those delightful climes they received
any extraordinary number of visiters in the peristyle (or portico,)
the hall, or the garden; and even their banquet rooms, however
elaborately adorned and carefully selected in point of aspect, were of
diminutive proportions; for the intellectual ancients, being fond of
society, not of crowds, rarely feasted more than nine at a time, so
that large dinner rooms were not so necessary with them as with us.[3]
But the suite of rooms seen at once from the entrance must have had a
very imposing effect; you beheld at once the hall richly paved and
painted--the tablinum--the graceful peristyle, and (if the house
extended farther) the opposite banquet room and the garden, which
closed the view with some gushing fount or marble statue.

[Footnote 3: When they entertained very large parties, the feast was
usually served in the hall.]

The reader will now have a tolerable notion of the Pompeian houses,
which resembled in some respects the Grecian, but mostly the Roman,
fashion of domestic architecture. In almost every house there is some
difference in detail from the rest, but the principal outline is the
same in all. In all you find the hall, the tablinum, and the peristyle
communicating with each other; in all you find the walls richly
painted, and in all the evidence of a people fond of the refining
elegancies of life. The purity of the taste of the Pompeians in
decoration is however questionable: they were fond of the gaudiest
colors, of fantastic designs; they often painted the lower half of
their columns a bright red, leaving the rest uncolored; and where the
garden was small, its wall was frequently tinted to deceive the eye as
to its extent, imitating trees, birds, temples, &c. in perspective--a
meretricious delusion which the graceful pedantry of Pliny himself
adopted, with a complacent pride in its ingenuity.

But the house of Glaucus was at once one of the smallest, and yet of
the most adorned and finished, of all the private mansions of Pompeii;
it would be a model at this day for the house of "a single man in
Mayfair"--the envy and despair of the coelibian purchasers of buhl and
marquetrie.

You enter by a long and narrow vestibule, on the floor of which is the
image of a dog in mosaic, with the well known "cave canem," or "beware
the dog." On either side is a chamber of some size; for the interior
house not being large enough to contain the two great divisions of
private and public apartments, these two rooms were set apart for the
reception of visiters who neither by rank nor familiarity were
entitled to admission in the penetralia of the mansion.

Advancing up the vestibule, you enter an atrinum, that when first
discovered was rich in paintings, which _in point of expression_ would
scarcely disgrace a Raphael. You may see them now transplanted to the
Neapolitan Museum; they are still the admiration of connoisseurs; they
depict the parting of Achilles and Briseis. Who does not acknowledge
the force, the vigor, the beauty! employed in delineating the forms
and faces of Achilles and the immortal slave!

On one side the atrinum, a small staircase admitted to the apartments
for the slaves on the second floor; there too were two or three small
bed rooms, the walls of which portrayed the rape of Europa, the battle
of the Amazons, &c.

You now enter the tablinum, across which at either end hung rich
draperies of Tyrian purple, half withdrawn.[4] On the walls were
depicted a poet reading his verses to his friends; and in the pavement
was inserted a small and most exquisite mosaic, typical of the
instructions given by the director of the stage to his comedians.

[Footnote 4: The tablinum was also secured at pleasure by sliding
doors.]

You passed through this saloon and entered the peristyle; and here (as
I have said before was usually the case with the smaller houses of
Pompeii) the mansion ended. From each of the seven columns that
adorned this court hung festoons of garlands; the centre, supplying
the place of a garden, bloomed with the rarest flowers, placed in
vases of white marble, that were supported on pedestals. At the left
end of this small garden was a diminutive fane, resembling one of
those small chapels placed at the side of roads in Catholic countries,
and dedicated to the Penates; before it stood a bronze tripod; to the
left of the colonnade were two small cubiculi or bed rooms; to the
right was the triclinium, in which the guests were now assembled.

This room is usually termed by the antiquaries of Naples, "the chamber
of Leda;" and in the beautiful work of Sir William Gell, the reader
will find an engraving from that most delicate and graceful painting
of Leda presenting her new-born to her husband, from {243} which the
room derives its name. This beautiful apartment opened upon the
fragrant garden. Round the table of citrean[5] wood, highly polished
and delicately wrought with silver arabesques, were placed the three
couches, which were yet more common at Pompeii than the semi-circular
seat that had grown lately into fashion at Rome; and on these couches
of bronze, studded with richer metals, were laid thick quiltings
covered with elaborate broidery, and yielding luxuriously to the
pressure.

[Footnote 5: The most valued wood; not the modern citron tree. Some,
among whom is my learned friend Mr. W. S. Landor, conjecture it, with
much plausibility, to have been mahogany.]

"Well, I must own," said the ædile Pansa, "that your house, though
scarcely larger than a case for one's fibulæ, is a gem of its kind.
How beautifully painted is that parting of Achilles and Briseis!--what
a style!--what heads!--what a--hem!"

"Praise from Pansa is indeed valuable on such subjects," said Clodius,
gravely. "Why, the paintings on _his_ walls--ah! there is, indeed, the
hand of a Zeuxis!"

"You flatter me, my Clodius; indeed you do," quoth the ædile, who was
celebrated through Pompeii for having the worst paintings in the
world; for he was patriotic, and patronised none but Pompeians,--"you
flatter me: but there is something pretty--Ædepol, yes--in the colors,
to say nothing of the design;--and then for the kitchen, my
friends--ah! that was all my fancy."

"What is the design?" said Glaucus. "I have not yet seen your kitchen,
though I have often witnessed the excellence of its cheer."

"A cook, my Athenian--a cook sacrificing the trophies of his skill on
the altar of Vesta, with a beautiful muræna (taken from the life) on a
spit at a distance: there is some invention there!"

At that instant the slaves appeared, bearing a tray covered with the
first preparative initia of the feast. Amid delicious figs, fresh
herbs strewed with snow, anchovies, and eggs, were ranged small cups
of diluted wine sparingly mixed with honey. As these were placed on
the table, young slaves bore round to each of the five guests (for
there were no more) the silver basin of perfumed water and napkins
edged with a purple fringe. But the ædile ostentatiously drew forth
his own napkin, which was not, indeed, of so fine a linen, but in
which the fringe was twice as broad, and wiped his hands with the
parade of a man who felt he was calling for admiration.

"A splendid _mappa_ that of yours," said Clodius; "why, the fringe is
as broad as a girdle."

"A trifle, my Clodius, a trifle! They tell me this stripe is the
latest fashion at Rome; but Glaucus attends to these things more than
I."

"Be propitious, O Bacchus!" said Glaucus, inclining reverentially to a
beautiful image of the god placed in the centre of the table, at the
corners of which stood the Lares and the saltholders. The guests
followed the prayer, and then, sprinkling the wine on the table, they
performed the wonted libation.

This over, the convivalists reclined themselves on the couches, and
the business of the hour commenced.

"May this cup be my last!" said the young Sallust, as the table,
cleared of its first stimulants, was now loaded with the substantial
part of the entertainment, and the ministering slave poured forth to
him a brimming cyathus--"May this cup be my last, but it is the best
wine I have drunk at Pompeii!"

"Bring hither the amphora," said Glaucus; "and read its date and its
character."

The slave hastened to inform the party that the scroll fastened to the
cork betokened its birth from Chios, and its age a ripe fifty years.

"How deliciously the snow has cooled it!" said Pansa; "it is just
enough."

"It is like the experience of a man who has cooled his pleasures
sufficiently to give them a double zest," exclaimed Sallust.

"It is like a woman's 'No,'" added Glaucus; "it cools but to inflame
the more."

"When is our next wild-beast fight?" said Clodius to Pansa.

"It stands fixed for the ninth ide of August," answered Pansa, "on the
day after the Vulcanalia; we have a most lovely young lion for the
occasion."

"Whom shall we get for him to eat?" asked Clodius, "Alas! there is a
great scarcity of criminals. You must positively find some innocent or
other to condemn to the lion, Pansa!"

"Indeed I have thought very seriously about it of late," replied the
ædile, gravely. "It was a most infamous law that which forbade us to
send our own slaves to the wild beasts. Not to let us do what we like
with our own, that's what I call an infringement on property itself."

"Not so in the good old days of the republic," sighed Sallust.

"And then this pretended mercy to the slaves is such a disappointment
to the poor people. How they do love to see a good tough battle
between a man and a lion! and all this innocent pleasure they may lose
(if the gods don't send us a good criminal soon) from this cursed
law."

"What can be worse policy," said Clodius, sententiously, "than to
interfere with the manly amusements of the people?"

"Well, thank Jupiter and the Fates! we have no Nero at present," said
Sallust.

"He was, indeed, a tyrant; he shut up our amphitheatre for ten years."

"I wonder it did not create a rebellion," said Sallust.

"It very nearly did," returned Pansa, with his mouth full of wild
boar.

Here the conversation was interrupted for a moment by a flourish of
flutes, and two slaves entered with a single dish.

"Ah! what delicacy hast thou in store for us now, my Glaucus?" cried
the young Sallust, with sparkling eyes.

Sallust was only twenty-four, but he had no pleasure in life like
eating--perhaps he had exhausted all the others; yet had he some
talent, and an excellent heart--as far as it went.

"I know its face, by Pollux!" cried Pansa; "it is an Ambracian kid.
Ho!" snapping his fingers, a usual signal to the slaves, "we must
prepare a new libation in honor to the new-comer."

"I had hoped," said Glaucus, in a melancholy tone, "to have procured
you some oysters from Britain; but the winds that were so cruel to
Cæsar have forbid us the oysters."

"Are they in truth so delicious?" asked Lepidus, loosening to a yet
more luxurious ease his ungirdled tunic.

"Why, in truth, I suspect it is the distance that gives the flavor;
they want the richness of the Brundusium oyster. But at Rome no supper
is complete without them."

"The poor Britons! There is some good in them after all," said
Sallust; "they produce an oyster!"

"I wish they would produce us a gladiator," said the ædile, whose
provident mind was still musing over the wants of the amphitheatre.

"By Pallas!" cried Glaucus, as his favorite slave crowned his steaming
locks with a new chaplet, "I love these wild spectacles well enough
when beast fights beast; but when a man, one with bones and blood like
ours, is coldly put on the arena, and torn limb from limb, the
interest is too horrid: I sicken--I gasp for breath--I long to rush
and defend him. The yells of the populace seem to me more dire than
the voices of the Furies chasing Orestes. I rejoice that there is so
little chance of that bloody exhibition for our next show!"

{244} The ædile shrugged his shoulders; the young Sallust, who was
thought the best natured man in Pompeii, stared in surprise. The
graceful Lepidus, who rarely spoke for fear of disturbing his
features, cried, "Per Hercle!" The Parasite Clodius muttered,
"Ædepol;" and the sixth banqueter, who was the umbra of Clodius, and
whose duty it was to echo his richer friend when he could not praise
him--the parasite of a parasite,--muttered also, "Ædepol."

"Well, you Italians are used to these spectacles; we Greeks are more
merciful. Ah, shade of Pindar!--the rapture of a true Grecian
game--the emulation of man against man--the generous strife--the
half-mournful triumph--so proud to contend with a noble foe, so sad to
see him overcome! But ye understand me not."

"The kid is excellent," said Sallust.

The slave whose duty it was to carve, and who valued himself on his
science, had just performed that office on the kid to the sound of
music, his knife keeping time, beginning with a low tenor, and
accomplishing the arduous feat amid a magnificent diapason.

"Your cook is of course from Sicily?" said Pansa.

"Yes, of Syracuse."

"I will play you for him," said Clodius; "we will have a game between
the courses."

"Better that sort of game, certainly, than a beast-fight; but I cannot
stake my Sicilian--you have nothing so precious to stake me in
return."

"My Phillida--my beautiful dancing girl!"

"I never buy women," said the Greek, carelessly rearranging his
chaplet.

The musicians, who were stationed in the portico without, had
commenced their office with the kid; they now directed the melody into
a more soft, a more gay, yet it may be a more intellectual, strain;
and they chanted that song of Horace beginning "Persicos odi," &c. so
impossible to translate, and which they imagined applicable to a feast
that, effeminate as it seems to us, was simple enough for the gorgeous
revelry of the time. We are witnessing the domestic and not the
princely feast--the entertainment of a gentleman, not of an emperor or
a senator.

"Ah, good old Horace," said Sallust, compassionately; "he sang well of
feasts and girls, but not like our modern poets."

"The immortal Fulvius, for instance," said Clodius.

"Ah, Fulvius the immortal!" said the umbra.

"And Spuræna, and Caius Mutius, who wrote three epics in a year--could
Horace do that, or Virgil either?" said Lepidus. "Those old poets all
fell into the mistake of copying sculpture instead of painting.
Simplicity and repose--that was their notion: but we moderns have
fire, and passions, and energy--we never sleep, we imitate the colors
of painting, its life and its action. Immortal Fulvius!"

"By-the-way," said Sallust, "have you seen the new ode by Spuræna, in
honor of our Egyptian Isis?--it is magnificent--the true religious
fervor."

"Isis seems a favorite divinity at Pompeii," said Glaucus.

"Yes!" said Pansa, "she is exceedingly in repute just at this moment;
her statue has been uttering the most remarkable oracles. I am not
superstitious, but I must confess that she has more than once assisted
me materially in my magistracy with her advice. Her priests are so
pious too! none of your gay, none of your proud ministers of Jupiter
and Fortune; they walk barefoot, eat no meat, and pass the greater
part of the night in solitary devotion!"

"An example to our other priesthoods, indeed!--Jupiter's temple wants
reforming sadly," said Lepidus, who was a great reformer for all but
himself.

"They say that Arbaces the Egyptian has imparted some most solemn
mysteries to the priests of Isis," observed Sallust; "he boasts his
descent from the race of Ramases, and declares that in his family the
secrets of remotest antiquity are treasured."

"He certainly possesses the gift of the evil eye," said Clodius; "if I
ever come upon that Medusa front without the previous charm, I am sure
to lose a favorite horse, or throw the _canes_[6] nine times running."

[Footnote 6: _Canes_, or _caniculæ_, the lowest throw at dice.]

"The last would be indeed a miracle!" said Sallust, gravely.

"How mean you, Sallust?" returned the gamester, with a flushed brow.

"I mean what you would _leave_ me if I played often with you; and that
is--nothing."

Clodius answered only by a smile of disdain.

"If Arbaces were not so rich," said Pansa, with a stately air, "I
should stretch my authority a little, and inquire into the truth of
the report which calls him an astrologer and a sorcerer. Agrippa, when
ædile of Rome, banished all such terrible citizens. But a rich man--it
is the duty of an ædile to protect the rich!"

"What think you of this new sect, which I am told has even a few
proselytes in Pompeii, these followers of the Hebrew God--Christus?"

"Oh, mere speculative visionaries," said Clodius; "they have not a
single gentleman among them; their proselytes are poor, insignificant,
ignorant people!"

"Who ought, however, to be crucified for their blasphemy," said Pansa,
with vehemence; "they deny Venus and Jove! Nazarene is but another
name for atheist. Let me catch them, that's all!"

The second course was gone--the feasters fell back on their
couches--there was a pause while they listened to the soft voices of
the South, and the music of the Arcadian reed. Glaucus was the most
rapt and the least inclined to break the silence, but Clodius began
already to think that they wasted time.

"_Bene vobis_ (your health,) my Glaucus," said he, quaffing a cup to
each letter of the Greek's name, with the ease of the practised
drinker. "Will you not be avenged on your ill-fortune of yesterday?
See, the dice court us."

"As you will!" said Glaucus.

"The dice in August, and I an ædile," said Pansa, magisterially; "it
is against all law."

"Not in your presence, grave Pansa," returned Clodius, rattling the
dice in a long box; "your presence restrains all license; it is not
the thing, but the excess of the thing, that hurts."

"What wisdom!" murmured the umbra.

"Well, I will look another way," said the ædile.

"Not yet, good Pansa; let us wait till we have supped," said Glaucus.

Clodius reluctantly yielded, concealing his vexation with a yawn.

"He gapes to devour the gold," whispered Lepidus to Sallust, in a
quotation from the Aulularia of Plautus.

"Ah! how well I know these polypi, who hold all they touch," answered
Sallust, in the same tone, and out of the same play.

The second course, consisting of a variety of fruits, pistachio nuts,
sweetmeats, tarts, and confectionary tortured into a thousand
fantastic and airy shapes, was now placed upon the table, and the
ministri, or attendants, also set there the wine (which had hitherto
been handed round to the guests) in large jugs of glass, each bearing
upon it the schedule of its age and quality.

"Taste this Lesbian, my Pansa," said Sallust; "it is excellent."

"It is not very old," said Glaucus, "but it has been made precocious,
like ourselves, by being put to the fire; the wine to the flames of
Vulcan, we to those of his wife, to whose honor I pour this cup."

"It is delicate," said Pansa, "but there is perhaps the least particle
too much of rosin in its flavor."

"What a beautiful cup!" cried Clodius, taking up one of transparent
crystal, the handles of which were wrought with gems, and twisted in
the shape of serpents, the favorite fashion at Pompeii.

"This ring," said Glaucus, taking a costly jewel from the first joint
of his finger and hanging it on the {245} handle, "gives it a richer
show, and renders it less unworthy of thy acceptance, my Clodius, whom
may the gods give health and fortune long and oft to crown it to
brim!"

"You are too generous, Glaucus," said the gamester, handing the cup to
his slave, "but your love gives it a double value."

"This cup to the Graces!" said Pansa, and he thrice emptied his calix.
The guests followed his example.

"We have appointed no director to the feast," cried Sallust.

"Let us throw for him, then," said Clodius, rattling the dice-box.

"Nay," cried Glaucus; "no cold and trite director for us; no dictator
of the banquet; no _rex convivii_. Have not the Romans sworn never to
obey a king? shall we be less free than your ancestors? Ho! musicians,
let us have the song I composed the other night; it has a verse on
this subject, 'The Bacchic Hymn of the Hours.'"

The musicians struck their instruments to a wild Ionic air, while the
youngest voices in the band chanted forth in Greek words, as numbers,
the following strain:

THE EVENING HYMN OF THE HOURS.

I.

  Through the summer day, through the weary day,
          We have glided long;
  Ere we speed to the night through her portals gray,
          Hail us with song!
          With song, with song,
        With a bright and joyous song,
      Such as the Cretan maid,
        While the twilight made her bolder,
      Woke, high through the ivy shade,
        When the wine-god first consoled her.
      From the hush'd low-breathing skies,
      Half-shut, look'd their starry eyes,
            And all around,
            With a loving sound,
        The Ægean waves were creeping;
      On her lap lay the lynx's head;
      Wild thyme was her bridal bed;
      And aye through each tiny space,
      In the green vine's green embrace,
      The fauns were slyly peeping;--
        The fauns, the prying fauns--
        The arch, the laughing fauns--
      The fauns were slyly peeping!

II.

      Flagging and faint are we
        With our ceaseless flight,
      And dull shall our journey be
        Through the realm of night.
    Bathe us, O bathe our weary wings,
    In the purple wave, as it freshly springs
        To your cups from the fount of light--
  From the fount of light--from the fount of light:
  For there, when the sun has gone down in night,
        There in the bowl we find him.
  The grape is the well of that summer sun,
  Or rather the stream that he gazed upon,
  Till he left in truth, like the Thespian youth,[7]
        His soul, as he gazed, behind him.

III.

    A cup to Jove, and a cup to Love,
      And a cup to the son of Maia,
    And honor with three, the band zone-free,
      The band of the bright Agiaia.
    But since every bud in the wreath of pleasure
      Ye owe to the sister Hours,
    No stinted cups, in a formal measure,
      The Bromian law make ours.
    He honors us most who gives us most,
    And boasts with a Bacchanal's honest boast
      He never will _count_ the treasure.
  Fastly we fleet, then seize our wings,
  And plunge us deep in the sparkling springs;
  And aye, as we rise with a dripping plume,
  We'll scatter the spray round the garland's bloom.
        We glow--we glow.
  Behold, as the girls of the Eastern wave
  Bore once with a shout to their crystal cave
    The prize of the Mysian Hylas,
        Even so--even so,
  We have caught the young god in our warm embrace,
  We hurry him on in our laughing race;
  We hurry him on, with a whoop and song,
  The cloudy rivers of Night along--
    Ho, ho!--we have caught thee, Pallas!

[Footnote 7: Narcissus.]

The guests applauded loudly: when the poet is your host, his verses
are sure to charm.

"Thoroughly Greek," said Lepidus: "the wildness, force, and energy of
that tongue it is impossible to imitate in the Roman poetry."

"It is indeed a great contrast," said Clodius, ironically at heart,
though not in appearance, "to the old-fashioned and tame simplicity of
that ode of Horace which we heard before. The air is beautifully
Ionic: the word puts me in mind of a toast--Companions, I give you the
beautiful Ione."

"Ione--the name is Greek," said Glaucus, in a soft voice, "I drink the
health with delight. But who is Ione?"

"Ah! you have but just come to Pompeii, or you would deserve ostracism
for your ignorance," said Lepidus, conceitedly; "not to know Ione is
not to know the chief charm of our city."

"She is of most rare beauty," said Pansa; "and what a voice!"

"She can feed only on nightingales' tongues," said Clodius.

"Nightingales' tongues!--beautiful thought," sighed the umbra.

"Enlighten me, I beseech you," said Glaucus.

"Know then," began Lepidus--

"Let me speak," cried Clodius; "you drawl out your words as if you
spoke tortoises."

"And you speak stones," muttered the coxcomb to himself, as he fell
back disdainfully on his couch.

"Know then, my Glaucus," said Clodius, "that Ione is a stranger, who
has but lately come to Pompeii. She sings like Sappho, and her songs
are her own composing; and as for the tibia, and the cithara, and the
lyre, I know not in which she most outdoes the Muses. Her beauty is
most dazzling. Her house is perfect; such taste--such gems--such
bronzes! She is rich, and generous as she is rich."

"Her lovers, of course," said Glaucus, "take care that she does not
starve; and money lightly won is always lavishly spent."

"Her lovers--ah, there is the enigma! Ione has but one vice--she is
chaste. She has all Pompeii at her feet, and she has no lovers: she
will not even marry."

"No lovers!" echoed Glaucus.

"No; she has the soul of Vesta, with the girdle of Venus."

"What refined expressions!" said the umbra.

"A miracle!" cried Glaucus. "Can we not see her?"

"I will take you there this evening," said Clodius; "meanwhile," added
he, once more rattling the dice--

"I am yours!" said the complaisant Glaucus. "Pansa turn your face!"

Lepidus and Sallust played at odd and even, and the umbra looked on,
while Glaucus and Clodius became gradually absorbed in the chances of
the dice.

"Per Jove!" cried Glaucus, "this is the second time I have thrown the
caniculæ" (the lowest throw.)

"Now Venus befriend me!" said Clodius, rattling the box for several
moments, "O Alma Venus--it is Venus herself!" as he threw the highest
cast named from that goddess,--whom he who wins money indeed usually
propitiates!

"Venus is ungrateful to me," said Glaucus, gayly; "I have always
sacrificed on her altar."

"He who plays with Clodius," whispered Lepidus, "will soon, like
Plautus's Curculio, put his pallium for the stakes."

"Poor Glaucus--he is as blind as Fortune herself," replied Sallust, in
the same tone.

"I will play no more," said Glaucus. "I have lost thirty sestertia."

"I am sorry," began Clodius.

"Amiable man!" groaned the umbra.

"Not at all!" exclaimed Glaucus; "the pleasure of your gain
compensates the pain of my loss."

The conversation now became general and animated; the wine circulated
more freely; and Ione once more {246} became the subject of eulogy to
the guests of Glaucus.

"Instead of outwatching the star, let us visit one at whose beauty the
stars grow pale," said Lepidus.

Clodius, who saw no chance of renewing the dice, seconded the
proposal; and Glaucus, though he civilly pressed his guests to
continue the banquet, could not but let them see that his curiosity
had been excited by the praises of Ione; they therefore resolved to
adjourn (all at least but Pansa and the umbra) to the house of the
fair Greek. They drank, therefore, to the health of Glaucus and of
Titus--they performed their last libation--they resumed their
slippers--they descended the stairs--passed the illumined atrium--and
walking unbitten over the fierce dog painted on the threshold, found
themselves beneath the light of the moon just risen, in the lively and
still crowded streets of Pompeii. They passed the jewellers' quarter,
sparkling with lights, caught and reflected by the gems displayed in
the shops, and arrived at last at the door of Ione. The vestibule
blazed with rows of lamps; curtains of embroidered purple hung on
either aperture of the tablinum, whose walls and mosaic pavement
glowed with the richest colors of the artist; and under the portico
which surrounded the odorous viridarium they found Ione already
surrounded by adoring and applauding guests.

"Did you say she was Athenian?" whispered Glaucus, ere he passed into
the peristyle.

"No, she is from Neapolis."

"Neapolis!" echoed Glaucus; and at that moment, the group dividing on
either side of Ione gave to his view that bright, that nymph-like
beauty which for months had shone down upon the waters of his memory.

       *       *       *       *       *

Glaucus is a noble character throughout; educated of course a heathen,
but endowed with some of those higher faculties of reason, which
enabled him in the end to surrender the charms of a poetic mythology
for a purer and brighter faith. Ione, "the beautiful Ione," is an
almost perfect model of Grecian loveliness and accomplishment; and her
brother Apæcides, furnishes an affecting illustration of great powers
and virtues rendered prostrate by an overwrought sensibility and
enthusiastic temperament. Arbaces, the dark, wily, revengeful
Egyptian, is the demon of the tale. In profound earthly wisdom and
diabolical depravity, "none but himself can be his parallel." The
"Asiatic Journal," whose editors or reviewers we take to be much wiser
than we are, asserts that the character of Nydia is not an original
creation of Mr. Bulwer's; but that the dwarf _Mignon_ in the _Wilhelm
Meister_ of Goethe, is the exact prototype not only of the blind
flower girl, but of the fantastical Fenella in Scott's Peverill of the
Peak. The "Journal" also maintains that the witch of Vesuvius, is of
the true Meg Merrillie's family. In regard to the first supposed
resemblances,--never having seen Goethe's work, we profess our entire
incompetency to judge; but we do most fervently protest against any
comparison between our old favorite Meg and that most execrable hag
whom Bulwer has placed in the caverns of Vesuvius,--the perusal of
whose accursed incantations deprived us of several hours of our
accustomed and needful rest.

Whilst Mr. Bulwer has rendered to the Egyptian and a few others the
just reward of their transgressions, we think that poor Nydia has been
hardly dealt by. What a fine opportunity it was to illustrate the
power of christian faith in soothing even the sorrows of unrequited
love. We do not say this reproachfully however, because we think that
Mr. Bulwer has endeavored at least, to do justice to the christian
character and principles, in his work. Olynthus is a fine specimen of
that heroic courage which, especially in the early ages of the church,
was content with ignominy, chains and poverty in this life, and
courted even martyrdom itself, in the bright anticipation of eternal
bliss.

Having thus candidly stated our impressions of Mr. Bulwer's work,
justice requires that we should spread before our readers the well
sustained vindication of one of our own countrymen, who complains that
his literary rights have been grossly violated by this eminent
transatlantic author. Mr. Fairfield, the editor of the _North American
Magazine_, a man of unquestionable genius, and a poet of no ordinary
strength, has fearlessly thrown the gauntlet, and charged the proud
Briton to his teeth with literary piracy; an offence in the republic
of letters, which ought at least to be rebuked by stern denunciation,
as no corporal or pecuniary punishment can be inflicted. This piracy
it seems, has been committed by Mr. Bulwer upon the lawful goods and
chattels, the genuine offspring of Mr. Fairfield's own intellectual
labors. We confess that we are struck with the plausible and curious
coincidence, to speak technically, between Mr. Fairfield's _allegata_
and his undeniable _probata_. If the English novelist has decked
himself in borrowed plumage, he ought to be forthwith stripped of it,
and the stolen feather should adorn the brow of its real owner. The
sin of plagiarism however, though never so distinctly proved, ought
not in strictness to detract from the genuine and acknowledged merits
of an author. Mr. Bulwer may have done great injustice to our
countryman, and yet have some redeeming beauties to atone for his
transgression. In compliance with Mr. Fairfield's request, we insert
with pleasure the whole of his interesting article.

  From the North American Magazine.

THE LAST NIGHT OF POMPEII;[8] _versus_ THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.[9]

[Footnote 8: The Last Night of Pompeii: A Poem, and Lays and Legends.
By Sumner Lincoln Fairfield. New York: 1829.]

[Footnote 9: The Last Days of Pompeii: By the Author of Pelham, Eugene
Aram, England, and the English, &c. 2 vols. 12mo. New York: 1834.
Harper and Brothers.]

While we have never failed to acknowledge and applaud the brilliant
imagination and the eloquent and fascinating style of Mr. E. L.
Bulwer, we have never feared to assert that he was a sophist in ethics
and a libertine in love, and that _effect_ was apparently the only law
which influenced his mind or guided his pen. Better disguised, but not
less pernicious in principle and evil in action than the Tom Jones and
Count Fathom and Zeluco of Fielding, Smollett and Moore, his
characters not only exist in, but actually create an atmosphere of
impurity which infects the very hearts of his admirers. He invests the
seducer with irresistible attractions, and paints the highwayman and
the murderer as examples for imitation. But even in the execution of
his execrable purposes, he is not original either in his plots or his
sentiments. The old Portuguese Jew Spinoza and his disciples Hobbes,
Toland, Shaftesbury and Bolingbroke have abundantly supplied him with
infidel arguments; and the profligate courtiers of Charles the Second
have contributed their licentious stratagems and impure dialogues to
augment the claims and heighten the charms of his coxcombs, libertines
and {247} menslayers. Mr. Bulwer has read much and skillfully
appropriated, without acknowledgment, all that has suited his designs.
He has artfully clothed the lofty thoughts of others in his own
brilliant garb, and enjoyed the renown of a powerful writer and
profound thinker, when he was little more than an adroit and
manoeuvering plagiary. This we long since perceived, and therefore
denied his claims to a high order of genius, though we readily
accorded to him the possession of much curious knowledge and a
felicitous use of language. We never imagined that the labors of an
unrewarded and little regarded American could be deemed by the proud,
_soi-disant_ highborn, and affluent Mr. Bulwer as worthy of his
unquestioning appropriation. We fancied that so deep a scholar would
continue to dig for treasures in ancient and recondite literature, and
pass triumphantly over the obscure productions of a poor cisatlantic.
But we erred. As a member of the British Parliament, Mr. Bulwer is
accustomed to the creation of laws; and he seems to have made one
expressly for his own profit and pleasure--namely, the law of literary
lawlessness. We knew that he was well content to demand high prices
for his immoral novels from his American publishers; but, until this
time, we were not aware that he considered any thing but gold worth
receiving or plundering from Yankeeland. With his usual tact, he has
managed to secure, in no slight degree, from our labors, that which
those labors failed utterly to receive from our unlettered countrymen;
and it is our present purpose to demand back our own thoughts, which
are our property and the heritage of our children.

It is now three years since 'The Last Night of Pompeii' was written
and published; and, among other English men of letters, a copy of that
poem with a letter, which was never answered, was sent to Mr. Bulwer,
who was, at that time, the editor of the London New Monthly Magazine.
Affliction fell heavily on our heart during the spring of 1832, and,
becoming indifferent to poetic fame and every thing not involved in
our bereavement, we bestowed no thought upon the poem or its
reception. Time has passed on; we have been intensely occupied with
other concerns, and have not been anxious about it since. The apathy,
if not contempt, with which American poets have ever been treated, has
driven Percival into solitude, Bryant and Prentice into politics,
Whittier into abolition schemes, Pierpoint into phrenological
experiments, and all others far away from the barren realm of
Parnassus. But lo! the poem, which was printed by hardwon subscription
and left unwelcomed but by a few cheerful voices, when transmuted into
a novel by Bulwer, becomes a brilliant gem, and illumines the
patriotic hearts and clear understandings of the whole Western World!
Who is a Yankee poet that he should be honoured? but to whom is the
English Bulwer unknown? We live, however--thanks be to Providence! to
claim our own and expose all smugglers, though the redrover Saxon
seems to think that the Atlantic is a very broad ocean, and that the
democrats of the West are very little capable of appreciating any
compositions but his own.

Had Mr. Bulwer confined himself to the almost literal adoption of our
title, or had certain passages in his novel betrayed even great
resemblances to others in our poem, we should have said that the
coincidences were somewhat remarkable, and then dismissed the matter
from our thoughts. Many examples in literary history might be
presented to prove that men may think and describe alike without
plagiarism, but, when the incidents and descriptions are as nearly
identical as prose and poetry can well be, we cannot deduce the
charitable conclusion that the very strong likeness is accidental. Our
readers shall judge whether, in this case, it is so.

The characters in the poem are few--in the novel many--but, in both,
the whole interest depends on the adventures of two lovers. In the
poem these lovers are Pansa and Mariamne, a Roman decurion and a
captive Jewish maiden, both Christians; in the novel they are Glaucus
and Ione, Greeks and pagans. With us, Diomede was the prætor and Pansa
the victim; with Bulwer, the former is a rich merchant, and the
latter, ædile of Pompeii. Here, then, there is no similarity, nor is
there but one deserving a remark, until Arbaces--an Eugene Aram
antiquated--one of Bulwer's learned, wise and soliloquizing
villains--seduces Ione to his mansion of iniquity. The first
coincidence, to which we refer, is the scene of the sacrifice,[10] and
the oracular response. The description in the novel reads thus:

"The aruspices inspected the entrails."--"It was then that a dead
silence fell over the whispering crowd, and the priests gathering
around the cella, another priest, naked save by a cincture round the
middle, rushed forward, and dancing with wild gestures, implored an
answer from the goddess."--"A low murmuring noise was heard within the
body of the statue; thrice the head moved, and the lips parted, and
then a hollow voice uttered these mystic words:

  "There are waves like chargers that meet and glow,
   There are graves ready wrought in the rocks below,
   On the brow of the Future the dangers lower,
   But blessed are your barks in the fearful hour."

[Footnote 10: Vol. i. p. 42.]

That in the poem is as follows--the oracle preceding the description
of its effect upon the superstitious multitude.

  "The aruspices proclaimed the prodigies.
   'The entrails palpitate--the liver's lobes
   Are withered, and the heart hath shrivelled up!'
   Groans rose from living surges round; yet loud
   The High Priest uttered--'Lay them on the fire!'
   'Twas done; and wine and oil poured amply o'er,
   And still the sacrificer wildly cried--
   'Woe unto all! the wandering fires hiss up
   Through the black vapors--lapping o'er the flesh
   They burn not, but abandon! ashes fill
   The temple, whirled upon the wind that waves'" etc.

_The Oracle_.

  "'Ye shall pass o'er the Tyrrhene sea in ships
   Laden with virgins, gems and gods, and spoils
   Of a dismembered empire, and a cloud
   Of light shall radiate your ocean path!'
   Breathes not the soul of mystery in this?"

  "And the prostrated multitudes, like woods
   Hung with the leaves of autumn, stirred; then fell
   A silence when the heart was heard--a pause--
   When ardent hope became an agony;
   And parted lips and panting pulses--eyes
   Wild with their watchings, brows with beaded dews
   Of expectation chilled and fevered--all
   The shaken and half lifted frame--declared
   The moment of the oracle had come!
   A sceptre to the hand of Isis leapt
   And waved; and then the deep voice of the priest
   Uttered the maiden's answer, and the fall
   Of many quickened steps like whispers pass'd
   Along the columned aisles and vestibule."

Both oracles partake the same mystic character and {248} allude
obscurely to the same fearful and overwhelming event.

The character of Arbaces, the Egyptian Magus, is peculiarly after
Bulwer's own heart--for he is an entire, thorough, irredeemable demon,
who weeps over venomous reptiles and kills innocent men: but a very
large portion of his mystic discourse, which appears on pages 81-2-3-4
of volume first, is borrowed, as customary, without even an apologetic
allusion, from Moore's Epicurean. We leave that poet to reclaim his
property, and proceed to assert the identity of our own. In the novel,
Arbaces beguiles Ione into his house, with the resolution to possess
her by fraud or violence. In the poem, the priest of Isis inveigles
the virgin of Pompeii into his lascivious temple with the same intent.
Both the priest and Arbaces, having conquered every obstacle, are
rapidly advancing to the accomplishment of their evil designs, when
they are interrupted, and their victims rescued by the very same awful
occurrence;

"At that awful moment," says Bulwer, "the floor shook under them with
a rapid and convulsive throe--a mightier spirit than that of the
Egyptian was abroad! a giant and crushing power, before which sunk
into sudden impotence his passion and his arts. It woke--it
stirred--that dread Demon of the Earthquake," etc.[11]

  "I woo no longer, thou art in my grasp,
   And by the Immortals I disown, thou shalt"--

Says our unsainted priest of Isis, when the victim cries exultingly--

  "'It comes! the temple reels and crashes--Jove!
   I thank thee! Vesta! let me sleep with thee!'
   And on the bosom of the earthquake rocked
   The statues and the pillars, and her brain
   Whirled with the earth's convulsions, as the maid
   Fell by a trembling image and upraised
   A prayer of gratitude; while through the vaults,
   In fear and ghastly horror, fled the priest,
   Breathing quick curses mid his warning cries
   For succor; and the obscene birds their wings
   Flapped o'er his pallid face, and reptiles twined
   In folds of knotted venom round his feet.
   Yet on he rushed--the blackened walls around
   Crashing--the spectral lights hurled hissing down
   The cold green waters; and thick darkness came
   To bury ruin!"

[Footnote 11: Vol. i. p. 159.]

The denouement of the scene is the same in the novel and the poem--a
statue, hurled from its pedestal, strikes the unhallowed violator to
the earth. There is no scene in Baron more actually transcribed from
the Andrian of Terence than this from 'The Last Night of Pompeii!' But
the scene in the amphitheatre, where the Christian Olinthus and the
lover Glaucus are doomed to perish by the fangs of the famished lion,
is still more strikingly similar than any in the novel, except the
description of the destruction. Arbaces, actuated by unholy love of
Ione, is the author of the disgrace and ruin of both these personages;
and the prætor Diomede, in the poem, resolves to sacrifice Pansa to
the African lion, because he loves and determines to possess Mariamne.
The earlier scenes in the amphitheatre are the same; four gladiators
are represented in sanguinary strife, and two as having perished, ere
the command is given to bring the Christian and lover on the arena,
and to loose the Numidian lion. In neither instance, however, will the
noble beast attack his destined victim; but shrinks and cowers in
utter terror, though goaded on to his dreadful feast. We now solicit a
careful comparison of the scenes which succeed, with those which,
nearly two years before Mr. Bulwer's book was conceived, we had
wrought out with no slight study, and presented to our unregarding
countrymen.

The closing scene in the Pompeiian amphitheatre, as represented in
'The Last _Days_ of Pompeii:'

"'Behold how the gods protect the guiltless! The fires of the avenging
Orcus burst forth against the false witness of my accusers!'"

"The eyes of the crowd followed the gesture of the Egyptian, and
beheld with ineffable dismay a vast vapor shooting from the summit of
Vesuvius in the form of a gigantic pine tree; the trunk,
blackness;--the branches, fire;--that shifted and wavered in its hues
with every moment, now fiercely luminous, now of a dull and dying red,
that again blazed terrifically forth with intolerable glare!

"There was a dead, heart-sunken silence--through which there suddenly
broke the roar of the lion, which, from within the building, was
echoed back by the sharper and fiercer yells of its follow beasts.
Dread seers were they of the burthen of the atmosphere, and wild
prophets of the wrath to come!

"Then there rose on high the universal shrieks of women; the men
stared at each other, but were dumb. At that moment they felt the
earth shake beneath their feet; the walls of the theatre trembled; and
beyond, in the distance, they heard the crash of falling roofs; an
instant more, and the mountain cloud seemed to roll towards them, dark
and rapid, like a torrent; at the same time, it cast forth from its
bosom a shower of ashes, mixed with vast fragments of burning stone!
Over the crushing vines,--over the desolate streets,--over the
amphitheatre itself,--far and wide,--with many a mighty splash in the
agitated sea,--fell that awful shower!

"No longer thought the crowd of justice or of Arbaces; safety for
themselves was their sole thought. Each turned to fly--each dashing,
pressing, crushing against the other. Trampling recklessly over the
fallen,--amid groans, and oaths, and prayers, and sudden shrieks, the
enormous crowd vomited itself forth through the numerous passages.
Whither should they fly?"

Now let us present the description, given in 'The Last _Night_ of
Pompeii,' of the horrors that succeeded the scene of the games:

  "Awed, yet untrembling, Pansa calm replied,
   'Ye hear no thunder--but Destruction's howl!
   Ye see no lightning--but the lava glare
   Of desolation sweeping o'er your pride!
   Death is beneath, around, above, within
   All who exult to inflict it on my heart,
   And ye must meet it, fly when, where ye will,
   For in the madness of your cruelties
   Ye have delayed till every hope is dead.
   Let the doom come! our faiths will soon be tried.
   Gigantic spectres from their shadowy thrones,
   With ghastly smiles to welcome ye, arise.
   The Pharaohs and Ptolemies uplift
   Their glimmering sceptres o'er ye--bidding all
   Bare their dark bosoms to the Omniscient God:
   And every strange and horrid mythos waits
   To fold ye in the terrors of its dreams.'"

  "Like an earthshadowing cypress, o'er the skies
   Lifting its labyrinth of leaves, the boughs
   Of molten brass, the giant trunk of flame,
   The breath of the volcano's Titan heart
   Hung in the heavens; and every maddened pulse
   Of the vast mountain's earthquake bosom hurled
   Its vengeance on the earth that gasped beneath."

  "From every cell shrieks burst; hyenas cried
   Like lost child stricken in its loneliness:
   The giant elephant with matchless strength
   Struggled against the portal of his tomb,
   And groaned and panted; and the leopard's yell
   And tiger's growl with all surrounding cries
   Of human horror mingled; and in air,
   Spotting the lurid heavens and waiting prey,
   The evil birds of carnage hung and watched." {249}

  "Vesuvius answered: from its pinnacles
   Clouds of farflashing cinders, lava showers,
   And seas drank up by the abyss of fire
   To be hurled forth in boiling cataracts,
   Like midnight mountains, wrapt in lightnings, fell."

  "All awful sounds of heaven and earth met now;
   Darkness behind the sungod's chariot rolled,
   Shrouding destruction, save when volcan fires
   Lifted the folds to gaze on agony;
   And when a moment's terrible repose
   Fell on the deep convulsions, all could hear
   The toppling cliffs explode and crash below,
   While multitudinous waters from the sea
   In whirlpools through the channell'd mountain rocks
   Rushed, and with hisses like the damned's speech,
   Fell in the mighty furnace of the mount."

  "Oh, then, the love of life! the struggling rush,
   The crushing conflict of escape! few, brief,
   And dire the words delirious fear spake now--
   One thought, one action swayed the tossing crowd.
   All through the vomitories madly sprung,
   And mass on mass of trembling beings pressed,
   Gasping and goading, with the savageness
   That is the child of danger, like the waves
   Charybdis from his jagged rocks throws down,
   Mingled by fury--warring in their foam.
   Some swooned and were trod down by legion feet;
   Some cried for mercy to the unanswering gods;
   Some shrieked for parted friends forever lost;
   And some in passion's chaos, with the yells
   Of desperation did blaspheme the heavens;
   And some were still in utterness of woe.
   Yet all toiled on in trembling waves of life
   Along the subterranean corridors.
   Moments were centuries of doubt and dread!
   Each breathing obstacle a hated thing:
   Each trampled wretch, a footstool to o'erlook
   The foremost multitudes; and terror, now,
   Begat in all a maniac ruthlessness,
   For in the madness of their agonies
   Strong men cast down the feeble who delayed
   Their flight, and maidens on the stones were crushed," etc.

Let the reader compare each of these extracts with the other, and form
his own opinion of Mr. Bulwer's great powers and originality. These
very remarkable coincidences are followed by others not less
extraordinary and worthy of commemoration:

"But suddenly a duller shade fell over the air. Instinctively he
turned to the mountain, and behold! one of the two gigantic crests,
into which the summit had been divided, rocked and wavered to and fro;
and then, with a sound the mightiness of which no language can
describe, it fell from the burning base, and rushed, an avalanche of
fire, down the sides of the mountain! At the same instant gushed forth
a volume of blackest smoke, rolling on, over air, sea, and earth."

"Bright and gigantic through the darkness, which closed around it like
the walls of hell, the mountain shone--a pile of fire! Its summit
seemed riven in two; or rather above its surface there seemed to rise
two monster-shapes, each confronting each, as demons contending for a
world. These were of one deep blood-red hue of fire, which lighted up
the whole atmosphere far and wide; but _below_, the nether part of the
mountain was still dark and shrouded,--save in three places, adown
which flowed, serpentine and irregular, rivers of the molten lava.
Darkly red through the profound gloom of their banks, they flowed
slowly on, as towards the devoted city. Over the broadest there seemed
to spring a cragged and stupendous arch, from which, as from the jaws
of hell, gushed the sources of the sudden Phlegethon."

Among the Death Cries of Pompeii, as we imagined them, is the
following lyric:

   "It bursts! it bursts! and thousand thunders blent,
    From the deep heart of agonizing earth,
  Knell, shatter, crash along the firmament,
    And new hells peopled startle into birth.
  Vesuvius sunders! pyramids of fire
    From fathomless abysses blast the sky;
  E'en desolating Ruin doth expire,
    And mortal Death in woe immortal die.
      Torrents like lurid gore,
      Hurled from the gulf of horror, pour,
  Like legion fiends embattled to the spoil,
      And o'er the temple domes,
      And joy's ten thousand homes,
  Beneath the whirlwind hail and storm of ashes boil."

Again says Mr. Bulwer, who boasts that he has succeeded where all
others have failed:

"In the pauses of the showers, you heard the rumbling of the earth
beneath, and the groaning waves of the tortured sea; or, lower still,
and audible but to the watch of intensest fear, the grinding and
hissing murmur of the escaping gases through the chasms of the distant
mountain. Sometimes the cloud appeared to break from its solid mass,
and, by the lightning, to assume quaint and vast mimicries of human or
of monster-shapes, striding across the gloom, hustling one upon the
other, and vanishing swiftly into the turbulent abyss of shade; so
that, to the eyes and fancies of the affrighted wanderers, the
unsubstantial vapors were as the bodily forms of gigantic foes,--the
agents of terror and of death."

Is there nothing similar to the preceding quotation in this?

  "Vesuvius poured its deluge forth, the sea
   Shuddered and sent unearthly voices up,
   The isles of beauty, by the fire and surge
   Shaken and withered, on the troubled waves
   Looked down like spirits blasted; and the land
   Of Italy's once paradise became
   The home of ruin--vineyard, grove and bower,
   Tree, shrub, fruit, blossom--love, life, light and hope,
   All vanishing beneath the fossil flood
   And storm of ashes from the cloven brow
   Of the dread mountain buried in horror down.
   The echoes of ten thousand agonies
   Arose from mount and shore, and some looked back
   Cursing, and more bewailing as they fled."

   ------------"what a horrid gleam is flung
   Along that face of madness, as it turns
   From sea to mountain, and the wild eyes burn
   With revelations of the unborn time!
   We may not linger--shelter earth denies--
   The very heavens like a gehenna lour--
   And ocean is our refuge--on--on--on!"

We have seen how remarkably the lions agreed on the impropriety of
making an amphitheatric meal of the lovers; now it appears that the
tiger, who should have eat the Christian, was of the same mind.

"At that moment a wild yell burst through the air; and thinking only
of escape, whither it knew not, the terrible tiger of the African
desert leaped among the throng, and hurried through its parted
streams. And so came the earthquake, and so darkness once more fell
over the earth!"

Is it not strange that we should have conceived something much like
this, and explained the motive, too, of such unreasonable conduct in
any wild beast starving?

  "Nature's quick instinct, in most savage beasts,
   Prophesies danger ere man's thought awakes,
   And shrinks in fear from common savageness,
   Made gentle by its terror; thus, o'erawed
   E'en in his famine's fury by a Power
   Brute beings more than human oft adore,
   The Lion lay, his quivering paws outspread,
   His white teeth gnashing, till the crushing throngs
   Had passed the corridors; then, glaring up
   His eyes imbued with samiel light, he saw
   The crags and forests of the Appenines
   Gleaming far off, and with the exulting sense
   Of home and lone dominion, at a bound,
   He leapt the lofty palisades and sprung
   Along the spiral passages, with howls {250}
   Of horror, through the flying multitudes
   Flying to seek his lonely mountain lair."

We shall not protract this investigation, though many similar passages
might be produced to confirm our assertion that Mr. Bulwer has
appropriated our thoughts, and throughout wrought our descriptions
into his story, and won great profit and fame from the robbery. Those
who read his book, will readily find many descriptions closely
resembling one of the last given in the poem, which we here reprint,
and many references to ancient authors for facts which he derived from
us.

  "Meantime, charred corses in one sepulchre
   Of withering ashes lay, and voices rose,
   Fewer and fainter, and, each moment, groans
   Were hushed, and dead babes on dead bosoms lay,
   And lips were blasted into breathlessness
   Ere the death kiss was given, and spirits passed
   The ebbless, dark, mysterious waves, where dreams
   Hover and pulses throb and many a brain
   Swims wild with terrible desires to know
   The destinies of worlds that lie beyond.
   The thick air panted as in nature's death,
   And every breath was anguish; every face
   Was terror's image, where the soul looked forth,
   As looked, sometimes, far on the edge of heaven,
   A momentary star the tempest palled.
   From ghastlier lips now rose a wilder voice,
   As from a ruin'd sanctuary's gloom,
   Like savage winds from the Chorasmian waste
   Rushing, with sobs and suffocating screams," etc.

But, though we have been more highly honored by this last _chef
d'oeuvre_ of the honorable Eugene Aram than any author within our
knowledge, yet others are entitled to their property. Speaking of the
skeleton of Arbaces, Bulwer says--

"The scull was of so remarkable a conformation, so boldly marked in
its intellectual, as well as its worse physical developments, that it
has excited the constant speculation of every itinerant believer in
the theories of Spurzheim who has gazed upon that ruined _palace of
the mind_. Still, after a lapse of eighteen centuries, the traveller
may survey that _airy hall_, within whose cunning galleries and
elaborate chambers, once thought, reasoned, dreamed, and sinned, the
soul of Arbaces the Egyptian!"

But Byron said, long ago, in Childe Harold, when gazing on a skull:

  "Yes, this was once ambition's _airy hall_,
   The dome of thought, _the palace of the soul_," etc.

And, once more, the fashionable Pelham moralizes: "and as the Earth
from the Sun, so immortality drinks happiness from virtue, _which is
the smile upon the face of God_."[12] This he italicises as one of his
most wondrous original reflections--yet it may be found in the Diary
of a Physician.[13]

[Footnote 12: Vol. ii. p. 196.]

[Footnote 13: In the story called 'A Young Man about Town,' we think.]

Mr. Bulwer is particularly conceited and arrogant with respect to his
subject. He asserts that all others have failed in attempting to
describe the destruction of Pompeii, and that, therefore, he will
stand alone, the intellectual monarch of the Ruins. The candid and
modest and original gentleman probably forgot 'Valerius' and Croly and
Milman and Dr. Gray and ourself; but the productions of such persons
can be of little consequence to such a Paul Clifford in letters and
Mirabeau in morals.

Mr. Bulwer, likewise, is ostentatious of his learning, and he quotes
from ancient authors with an air of infinite self-complacency, though
his citations had been conveniently collected, a _century_ since, in
the Archæologia Græca of Archbishop Potter! These volumes now lie
before us, and there may all his erudition be found within a very
accessible compass. His theological knowledge or deistical design, we
know not which, is not more profound or canonical; for he makes his
Christian Olinthus say, that "eighty years ago," that is from the
birth of Christ, "there was no assurance to man of God or of a certain
or definite future beyond the grave"!!

We have now done with Mr. Bulwer, his immoralities, and his
plagiarisms. We have sought to be very brief in our exposition, and,
for the first time that we ever expressed such a desire, we request
the literary periodicals, with which we exchange, to reprint this
article.

       *       *       *       *       *

VISITS AND SKETCHES, at Home and Abroad. By Mrs. Jamieson, author of
the "Characteristics of Women," &c. in 2 vols. New York: Harper &
Brothers. 1834.

We intended to notice these interesting volumes sooner, and recommend
them to our readers as highly entertaining and instructive. Mrs.
Jamieson's style, though not faultless, is very attractive; and
certainly as a female writer, she is hardly surpassed in vigor and
richness. The _first_ volume is principally devoted to sketches of
art, literature and character, comprising _Memoranda_ at Munich,
Nuremburg and Dresden. It also contains a vivid account of the
celebrated Bess of _Hardwicke_, the _old_ Countess of Shrewsbury,--a
visit to _Althorpe_, the ancient seat of the Spencers--and eloquent
sketches of the private and dramatic life of _Mrs. Siddons_, and of
_Fanny Kemble_. The _second_ volume opens with three interesting
stories,--the _False One_, a pathetic oriental tale, a thousand times
superior to Vathek,--_Halloran the Pedlar_, and the _Indian Mother_.
It also contains a very amusing _drama for little actors_,--and
concludes with the _Diary of an Enuyeé_, a performance of much and
deserved celebrity. We shall make occasional selections from this
work, for the benefit of such of our readers as have no opportunity of
seeing the volumes themselves. For the present, we have transferred to
our pages the "Indian Mother," a most affecting story founded on a
striking incident related by Humboldt. The scene being laid in South
America, the reader will be struck with the strong impressions made on
Mrs. Jamieson's mind of that magnificent country, through the medium
of description alone.

       *       *       *       *       *

POEMS, by William Cullen Bryant. Boston: Russell, Odiorne & Metcalfe.
1834.

This new and beautiful edition of Mr. Bryant's poems has undergone the
author's correction, and contains some pieces which have never before
appeared in print. As the elegant china cup from which we sip the
fragrant imperial, imparts to it a finer flavor, so the pure white
paper and excellent typography of the volume before us, will give a
richer lustre to the gems of Mr. Bryant's genius. Not that the value
of the diamond is really enhanced by the casket which contains it, but
so it is that the majority of mortals are governed by _appearances_;
and even a dull tale will appear respectable in the pages of a hot
pressed and gilt bound London annual. In justice to Mr. Bryant
however, and to ourselves, we will state that our first {251}
impressions of his great intellectual power--of his deep and sacred
communings with the world of poetry--were derived from a very
indifferent edition of his writings, printed with bad type, on a worse
paper. Mr. Bryant is well known to the American public as a poet of
uncommon strength and genius; and even on the other side of the
Atlantic, a son of the distinguished Roscoe, who published a volume of
American poetry, pronounced him the first among his equals. Like
Halleck, however, and some others of scarcely inferior celebrity,--his
muse has languished probably for want of that due encouragement, which
to our shame as a nation be it spoken, has never been awarded to that
department of native literature. Mr. Bryant, we believe, finding that
Parnassus was not so productive a soil as the field of politics, has
connected himself with a distinguished partizan newspaper in the city
of New York. His bitter regrets at the frowns of an unpoetical public,
and yet his unavailing efforts to divorce himself from the ever living
and surrounding objects of inspiration are beautifully alluded to in
the following lines:

  I broke the spell that held me long,
  The dear, dear witchery of song.
  I said the poet's idle lore
  Shall waste my prime of years no more,
  For poetry though heavenly born,
  Consorts with poverty and scorn.

  I broke the spell--nor deemed its power
  Could fetter me another hour.
  Ah, thoughtless! how could I forget
  Its causes were around me yet?
  For wheresoe'er I look'd, the while,
  Was nature's everlasting smile.

  Still came and lingered on my sight
  Of flowers and streams the bloom and light,
  And glory of the stars and sun;--
  And these and poetry are _one_.
  They, ere the world had held me long,
  Recalled me to the love of song.

       *       *       *       *       *

LITTELL'S MUSEUM of Foreign Literature, Science and Arts. No. 151.
Jan. 1835. A. Waldie. Philadelphia.

This valuable periodical has maintained a high reputation and
extensive circulation for more than twelve years. The January number
(1835) may be considered a new era in its history. The size of its
sheet is enlarged, its type and paper are improved, and its contents
display more richness and variety than usual. The plan of the "Museum"
is certainly most excellent. It is to select and republish from all
the British periodicals of high reputation, every thing which is
either of _present_ or _permanent_ value, omitting the vast mass of
matter which is local to Great Britain or not interesting to an
American reader. It is in fact, a labor-saving machine, by which all
the choicest flowers will be culled from British publications and
transplanted in our own soil, leaving the weeds and trash on the other
side of the Atlantic. We heartily wish Mr. Littell and his co-laborers
increased success, and we shall occasionally draw upon his interesting
paper for the use of the "Messenger." The diffusion of fine writing
from abroad, will improve the taste and invigorate the efforts of our
own countrymen.




NEW PAPER.


_The Southern Churchman_, edited by the Rev. William F. Lee, and
published weekly in this city, has reached its fifth number. Almost
every christian denomination among us, had the benefit of a paper
devoted to its own peculiar interests, except the Episcopalians, until
Mr. Lee commenced the publication of the Churchman. There can be no
doubt of its success, under the management of an editor of Mr. Lee's
distinguished talents and piety.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

DANDYISM.


MR. WHITE:--The Optimists assert that this little world of ours, is
continually and most marvellously improving in every thing. But,
begging their pardon, I humbly conceive that this is claiming rather
too much for its onward march towards perfectibility. Many notable
instances might be adduced to prove that it is so; but I will go no
further for such proof, than to contrast the Dandyism of the present
age with that of the olden time. This term (by the way) although of
modern coinage, is but a new name for an old thing. So old indeed,
that, like the common law, it may be traced back to a period beyond
which "the memory of man runneth not to the contrary." From the
multitude of its votaries and the indefatigable diligence with which
it has always been practised, it may justly be ranked among the arts;
although we must admit it to be one of no very difficult attainment by
any whose taste leads them to prefer general contempt to universal
esteem.

The great aim of this art being to mar effectually whatever beauty
either of person or countenance nature has bestowed on us, the task
would seem to be one of very easy accomplishment for most men. A
simple disfigurement therefore, would be no indication of genius,
since the visages upon which the laudable experiment is most
frequently tried, require very little aggravation to effect the
object. But an entire metamorphosis in the appearance of the whole
animal, or at least such a change as to render both its genus and
species doubtful, being the grand desideratum; it is _here_ that the
modern Dandies have betrayed a most woful and egregious poverty of
invention, compared to those of former times. Of this I shall
presently offer indisputable testimony.

The Dandies of our day however, may justly claim the palm of
superiority, at least in _one_ particular; I mean, quo ad, _the head_,
both inside and out: for, what with internal emptiness and external
whiskers and mustaches, many have contrived to render not only the
features of the face "perfectly unintelligible," (if I may borrow a
phrase from the Pugilists,) but to disprove the long admitted dictum
of philosophy, that there is no such thing in all nature as a vacuum.
An instance of this most successful _face-marring_ has lately fallen
under my own observation, which I will endeavor to describe, although
in utter despair of doing justice to the original.

Many months ago, being in a much crowded public room, I was not a
little startled by the sudden appearance of a most fantastic, grim
looking biped moving among the crowd, which I first took for one of
those strange animals then showing about the country, that {252}
perhaps had escaped from his keepers. A more deliberate view, however,
from a corner into which I had taken care to ensconce myself to keep
out of harm's way, soon satisfied me that it was nothing more
formidable than one of those harmless burlesques of manhood called
Dandies, that so much resemble the Simia genus, as hardly to be
distinguished from them. It had two large ropes (as they appeared to
be) of tawny colored hair, hanging out from between the collar and the
cheek bones, and reaching down some seven or eight inches over the
breast. These I at first supposed might be the skins of a water dog's
fore legs, forming the ends of some new fashioned comforter to keep
the neck and cheeks warm in cold weather, to which these bipeds are
particularly sensitive. But upon diligent inquiry among several, who
seemed to be as much struck as myself with so uncommon and apparently
formidable a looking animal moving upon two legs, instead of four, as
might more reasonably have been expected, we were informed that these
tawny appendages, in regard to which I had made such an egregious
mistake, actually consisted of the united hairs of the throat and
cheeks, so elongated by indefatigable culture, as to produce the
grotesque appearance that had so strongly excited the wonderment of us
all. The whole was surmounted by a pair of mustaches of the same
tanned-leather color; which so completely obscured the countenance,
that not a particle of it was discernible but the two lack-lustre
eyes; and _the nose_, like a sort of watch-tower overtopping the
wilderness of shaggy hair by which it was surrounded.

It is the recollection of this never to be forgotten figure of an
entire stranger, seen for the first and probably the last time in my
life, which induced me to claim for the Dandyism of the present day, a
decided superiority over that of the by-gone times; at least so far as
the disfigurement of the countenance can go towards the establishment
of so enviable a claim. That it is indisputable, I think certain; for
neither in the pictures nor histories of past ages which have reached
us, can any thing be found at all comparable to what I have just
endeavored to describe, but in language so inadequate, that I am
almost ashamed to send you this communication.

The bodily disfigurements of our modern Dandies having a great degree
of sameness in them, and being matters of general notoriety, 'tis
needless to particularise them. But to give you an opportunity of
judging whether I have unjustly charged them with poverty of
invention, when compared with their prototypes of the olden time, I
beg leave to present you with the description of an English Dandy of
the fourteenth century. It is taken from Dr. Henry's History of
England, and he quotes Camden, Chaucer, and Street, as his
authorities.

"He wore long-pointed shoes, called _crackowes_ the upper parts of
which were cut in imitation of a church-window. The points of these
were fastened to his knees by gold or silver chains. He had hose of
one color on one leg, and of another color on the other; short
breeches which did not reach to the middle of his thighs, and
disclosed the shape completely; a coat, one half white, and the other
half black or blue; a long beard; a silk hood buttoned under his chin,
embroidered with grotesque figures of animals, dancing men, &c. and
sometimes ornamented with gold, silver, and precious stones. This
dress, which was the very top of the mode in the reign of Edward the
Third, appeared so ridiculous to the Scots, (who probably could not
afford to be such egregious fops,) that they made the following
satirical verses upon it:

  "Long beards hirtiless,
   Peynted whoods witless,
   Gay coats gracelies,
   Maketh England thriftlies."

I would add to the above what the grave Doctor says of the fashionable
ladies of those times; but being a great friend to the "womankind," as
that queer, caustic old Batchelor Monkbarns used to call them, I
forbear to run the risk of their displeasure, by disparaging their sex
so much as I should be compelled to do, were I to repeat the Doctor's
words. And now, my good sir, confidently trusting that you yourself,
as well as your readers, will admit the irrefutable character of the
proofs which I have adduced to establish my assertions, I bid you
farewell, and remain

Your friend and constant reader,

OLIVER OLDSCHOOL.

P. S. For the satisfaction of yourself and readers, who might
otherwise suspect me of malevolence towards some individual, (of which
I know myself to be incapable,) I beg leave to assure you that,
although the portrait which I have endeavored to sketch is not a fancy
piece, my sole design in presenting it is _general_, not particular.
It is to aid, as far as I possibly can, in banishing from our land a
fashion, not only preposterous, absurd and filthy in the highest
degree, but actually disgraceful to rational creatures. Let it go back
to the savage Cossacks, from whom 'tis said to be borrowed, and no
longer beastify (if I may coin such a word,) the appearance of the
rising generation.




  From the Augusta (Ga.) Sentinel, Jan. 15.

VARIETY.


_To the Editor of the States Rights Sentinel:_

SIR:--Some friends, whose opinions are entitled to deference, deem it
incumbent on me to avow, or disavow the authorship of a dozen
couplets, lately become a matter of grave and high controversy. Though
supposed for twenty years past to be mine, they have recently been
ascribed, by sundry acute critics, first to O'KELLY, and then to
ALCÆUS. Disdaining, heretofore, to notice such charges of plagiarism,
from a perfect confidence in the ultimate power of TRUTH, and a
contempt for this petty species of annoyance, my silence is now
broken, only in compliance with the wishes of those whom I esteem.
Valuing these rhymes very differently from others, it becomes me, on
so unimportant a subject, merely to avow myself the author. The lines
in question, then, good or bad, are mine alone; neither Alcæus nor
O'Kelly has the smallest right to them. Originally intended as a part
of a longer poem, which, like the life of him for whose sake I
projected it, was broken off, unfinished; they were published without
my knowledge or consent, and, however the contrary may have been
assumed, contain no personal allusions. Whatever _my_ life may be
like, whether roses or thorns, the public is in no danger of being
troubled with my confidence.

I am, sir, very respectfully, your obedient, humble servant,

RICHARD HENRY WILDE.

_Washington, 31st Dec. 1834_.

       *       *       *       *       *
{253}

  [Communicated for the Southern Literary Messenger.]

The first advertisement of "WALTON'S ANGLER," appeared in "Captain
Wharton's Almanacks" as Old Lily in his Life and Times calls them.

It runs thus: "There is published a Booke of eighteen pence price
called the Compleat Angler, or the contemplative man's recreation;
being a discourse of Fish and Fishing, not unworthie the perusall.

"Sold by Richard Marriott in St. Dunstan's Church Yard Fleet Street.
1653.

"Motto. 'And Simon Peter saith unto them, I go a fishing: they say
unto him we also go with thee.'--_John_ xxi. & 3."

       *       *       *       *       *

SHAKE-SPEARE.

The following, from an old paper, will no doubt interest some of our
readers.

"We have lying before us a volume of Shakspeare, in a tolerable state
of preservation, composed of several of his plays, published at
London, in pamphlets, at different periods during his lifetime,
probably from 1609 to 1612; and it is more than probable that the
author superintended their publication in person. We think this
edition will settle many points as to the true reading, in cases at
present in dispute, and also give the correct spelling of the name of
the immortal poet, which is Shake-speare, and divided in the same
manner as above. The first is a part of the tragedy of Henry VI.
entitled 'The Contention of the Two famous Houses of Yorke and
Lancaster.'"

The next is,

"The TRAGEDIE of King RICHARD the Third. CONTAINING His treacherous
Plots against his Brother _Clarence_: the pittifull murther of his
innocent Nephewes: his tyrannicall Vsurpation: with the whole Course
of his detested Life, and most deserved Death. As it has beene lately
acted by the Kings Majesties Servants. Newly augmented, by William
SHAKE-SPEARE. LONDON, Printed by _Thomas Creede_, and are to be sold
by _Mathew Lawe_ dwelling in _Pauls_ Church-yard, at the Signe of the
_Foxe_, 1612."

The third is quaintly entitled,

"THE MOST LAMENTABLE TRAGEDIE OF TITUS ANDRONICUS. As it hath svndry
Times beene plaide by the KINGS MASTIES Seruants.--LONDON, Printed for
_Eedward White_, and are to be sold at his Shoppe, nere the little
North Dore of _Pauls_, at the Signe of the _Gun_. 1611."

The last is,

"THE FAMOUS HISTORIE OF TROYLUS _and_ CRESSEID, Excellently expressing
The Beginning of their LOUES, WITH THE Conceited Wooing of PANDARUS
Prince of _Licia_, WRITTEN BY WILLIAM SHAKE-SPEARE. LONDON, Imprinted
by _G. Eld_, for _R. Benian_ and _H. Walley_, and are to be sold at
the _Spred Eagle_, in _Paules Church yeard_, ouer against the great
North Doore. 1609."

The address to the reader of this play, has too much originality and
merit to omit.

"A neur writer, to an euer reader.

"Newes.

"ETERNALL reader, you haue heere a new play, neuer stal'd with the
stage, neuer clapperclawd with the palmes of the vulger, and yet
passing full of the palme comicall; for it is a birth of your braine,
that neuer vnder-tooke any thing commicall, vainely; and were but the
vaine names of commedies, changde for the titles of commedities or of
playes for pleas; you should see all those grand censors, that now
stile them such vanities, flock to them for the main grace of their
grauities: especially this authors commedies, that are so fram'd to
the life, that they serve for the most common commentaries, of all the
actions of our lives, showing such a dexteritie, and power of witte,
that the most displeased with playes, are pleased with his commedies.
And all such dull and heauy-witted worldlings, as were never capable
of the witte of a commedie, comming by report of them to his
representations, have found that witte there, that they never found in
themselves, and haue parted better wittied than they came; feeling an
edge of witte set vpon them, more than euer they dreamed they had
braine to grinde it on. So much and such savored salt of wittee is in
his commedies, that they seeme (for their height of pleasure) to be
borne in that sea that brought forth Venus. Amongst all there is none
more witte then this: and had I time I would comment upon it, though I
know it needs not, (for so much as will make you think your testerne
well bestowed) but for so much worth, as euen poore I know to be stuft
in it. It deserves such a labour, as well as the best commedy in
Terence or Plautus. And beleeue this, that when hee is gone, and his
commedies out of sale, you will scramble for them, and set vp a new
English inquisition. Take this for a warning, and at the perill of
your pleasures losse, and judgments, refuse not, nor like this the
lesse, for not being suelied, with the smoaky breath of the multitude;
but thanke fortune for the scape it hath made amongst you. Since by
the grand possessors wills I beleeue you should haue prayed for them
rather then been prayd. And so I leaue all such to bee prayd for (for
the state of their wits healths) that will not praise it. Vale."

       *       *       *       *       *

  From the Albion.

One of the enormities of Protestantism, which shocks the Papists, is
the marrying of our Clergy. What is to be said of the Roman Catholic
Bishop England, who, going on a foreign mission, takes out with him
_four nuns_?--

  The English Bishop takes one wife,
    The Papist says, "O fie!"
  The Roman Catholic takes out four,
    And no man asks him, why?

Having shown this sprightly contribution to our Roman Catholic
sub-editor, he begs leave to offer an explanation of the seeming
inconsistency:--

  To vindicate the Papist's life,
    See how the thing is done;
  The Protestant alone takes _wife_,
    The Catholic takes _nun_.

       *       *       *       *       *

A late number of Frazer's Magazine contains an elaborate review of
"Roberts' Life and Correspondence of Hannah Moore," in which are
interspersed much of the keen sarcasm and provoking levity for which
that periodical is distinguished. The reviewer concludes as follows:
"For Mrs. Moore we have a high regard, as a staunch tory and good
churchwoman, though of the so-called evangelical clique. She was
however practical in her piety; and this is the sure test of
sincerity. Be her name therefore honored! She {254} was an
extraordinary individual, and would have been such had she not been an
authoress. We esteem her personal character far above her literary. In
the one she was truly great, in the other respectable and prosperous.
To sum up all, she was a practically wise and prudent woman;
nevertheless her prudence was an overmatch for her wisdom. To
perfection she wanted two grave requisites--greater intuitive
knowledge, and a _happy husband_. The first she derived at second hand
and from shallow streams; the last she avoided altogether. She thus
escaped one great trial; but they who retreat from battle have no
claim to the victor's wealth."




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A SONG.

  _Air_--"The Lass of Peatie's Mill."


    How sweet it is to rove
  Through vallies rich and wide,
    Or with a friend we love
  O'er the still waves to glide!
    'Tis sweet to see the day
  Withdraw her golden car,
    And watch the glimmering ray
  Of Eve's first silver star!

    'Tis sweet to hail the dawn,
  In blushes ever new--
    And mark the young, fleet fawn,
  Brush off the crystal dew!
    But sweeter far than Eve
  Or early Morning's prime,
    Are smiles that ne'er deceive,
  And love unchanged by time!

    Tho' fickle fortune frown,
  And wealth withhold her store,
    What is a jewelled crown?
  A bauble soon no more.
    But love, pure love, is gold
  Which nothing can consume;
    And smiles that ne'er grow cold,
  Are flowers of fadeless bloom!

E. A. S.




EDITORIAL REMARKS.


We send forth our herald a fifth time, with renewed confidence in the
kind disposition of our patrons to give it a glad welcome,--to visit
its imperfections with sparing censure, and to regard with favor
whatever merits it may possess, in sympathy for its Southern origin,
and the probable advantages involved in its final success. We are much
cheered by the somewhat unexpected, and perhaps unmerited plaudits of
a large portion of the periodical press, and especially that part of
it which has heretofore enjoyed a kind of literary monopoly--but which
generously merges every thing like a feeling of rivalry in the more
honorable and patriotic sentiment of devotion to the great cause of
American literature. From our northern and eastern friends indeed we
have received more complimentary notices than from any of our southern
brethren without the limits of our own state. We say this not in a
reproachful spirit to our kindred, but in a somewhat sad conviction of
mind, that we who live on the sunny side of Mason's and Dixon's line,
are not yet sufficiently inspired with a sense of the importance of
maintaining our just rights, or rather our proper representation in
the republic of letters.

With the almost unbroken voice of public approbation to cheer us
along, we have nevertheless heard of a few whose tastes are so
exquisitely refined that they cannot relish our simple fare. We are
sorry, very sorry indeed, that they will not be pleased; and in proof
of the sincerity of our grief, we hereby invite these accomplished
gentlemen to _improve_ our pages by contributions from their own pens.
We hold the opinion that they who undertake to denounce so boldly,
ought to be prepared to back their judgments by their own
performances.

We continue the original and excellent "_Sketches of the History and
Present Condition of Tripoli, &c._" They increase in interest to an
American reader, as they approach the period which records the hostile
collisions of the United States with those formidable powers. The
valor of Decatur, and self-immolation of Somers, Wadsworth and Israel,
at the commencement of the present century, are still fresh in the
memory of thousands.

The authors of the original articles "_On the Study of the Latin and
Greek Classics_," and "_Memory--an Allegory_," evince no
inconsiderable share of intellectual power. To the former especially
we may be excused for remarking that, more simplicity in style would
not detract from the vigor and originality of his thoughts. There are
some persons who either from choice or the peculiar character of their
minds, love to dress their sentiments in quaint and obscure diction,
but _simplicity_ is at last the transparent medium which reflects more
strongly and clearly the force and brilliancy of the understanding.

The able author of the "_Note to Blackstone's Commentaries_," is
entitled to be heard, even on a subject of such peculiar delicacy--a
subject upon which it is natural that the best heads and purest hearts
should essentially differ. Whilst we entirely concur with him that
slavery as a political or social institution is a matter exclusively
of our own concern--as much so as the laws which govern the
distribution of property,--we must be permitted to dissent from the
opinion that it is either a moral or political benefit. We regard it
on the contrary as a great evil, which society will sooner or later
find it not only its interest to remove or mitigate, but will seek its
gradual abolition or amelioration, under the influence of those high
obligations imposed by an enlightened christian morality. These are
our honest sentiments, which we do not espouse however in derogation
of the equally honest convictions of other minds.

The "_Letters from a Sister_," the three first of which appear in the
present number, and which shall be regularly continued, will be read
with interest, notwithstanding the numerous diaries and epistles which
treat upon the same subjects.

We entertained some doubt about the admission of "_The Doom_" into our
columns, not because of any inferiority in the style and composition,
but because of the revolting character of the story. The writer, with
apparent sincerity, states it to be founded upon actual occurrences;
but we confess that it seems to us a wild and incredible fiction. True
or false however, we derive from it this sound and wholesome
moral,--that sooner or later wickedness will find its just {255}
reward,--and that of all the passions which ravage the heart and
destroy the peace of society, there is none more detestable than
revenge. The hero of the tale, who is described by his friend the
writer, as "a light hearted and joyous fellow," was in truth a
remorseless fiend; compared with whom Iago and Zanga were
personifications of virtue; nor does the idle phantasy of a
supernatural vision, or the pretended influence of fatalism, palliate
the deep enormity of his crime. If the writer, who assumes the
signature of "Benedict," really had such a friend, he should have
drawn the mantle of oblivion over his dark frailties, and never have
recorded them with seeming approbation. He should have avoided too,
certain profane and unchaste allusions in his manuscript, which we
have been obliged to suppress; for we scarcely deem it necessary to
repeat that the "Messenger" shall not be the vehicle of sentiments at
war with the interests of virtue and sound morals--the only true and
solid foundation of human happiness.

We invite attention to the third letter from New England, by a
Virginian,--whose talents, learning, and acute observation of men and
things, and whose easy style of composition, qualify him in a high
degree for the task of a tourist.

The paper from our friend "_Oliver Oldschool_" will we hope be read by
the Dandies, if such creatures ever do read any thing calculated to
produce improvement either in mind or morals.

The _selected_ prose articles in this number will, we doubt not, be
read with pleasure and interest. The article on "_American
Literature_," and the impediments which retard its progress, is
entitled to a patient and deliberate reading. Its sentiments and
language, if they should be so unfortunate as not to command, at least
deserve attention. The author has happily combined solidity of
argument with grace and beauty in composition.

As we intend from this time forward to be less indulgent than
heretofore to our poetical contributors, so we hope that the specimens
now presented, if not all of equal merit, have at least enough to save
them from censure. It is not expected indeed that CRITICISM will be
either silent or forbearing; for we have never been so fortunate as to
light upon any production, in prose or verse, in which its searching
and microscopic eye might not detect some slight blemishes.

It will be perceived that we are again favored with a piece from the
pen of Mr. Wilde; and we seize this opportunity of expressing the
great pleasure we feel in transferring to our pages (under the head of
"Variety") the letter of that gentleman, in which he assumes
explicitly the sole authorship of those beautiful lines, which have
been alike claimed for an ancient Greek bard and a modern Irish poet.
The enemies of Mr. Wilde's literary reputation will now recant their
unmerited charge of plagiarism, and one of the most exquisite poems
which the genius of our country has produced will remain the
undisputed property of its owner.

The author of "_A Song of the Seasons_," who assumes the quaint
cognomen of "Zarry Zyle," (we wish he had chosen some other,) is
unquestionably a youth of talent, and acute perception of all those
minute, lovely and delicate objects, both in the natural and moral
world, which can only be discerned by minds of superior mould. We beg
leave however to suggest for consideration, whether he does not take
too much pains to appear obscure--whether he does not too studiously
delight in dressing up his thoughts in that mysterious and eccentric
form of expression, which has detracted so much from the usefulness
and popularity of men of genius. But for this fault, Coleridge, we
doubt not would have ranked among the greatest bards of the present
age. As it is, his reputation is only seen through the dim shadows of
twilight--it does not blaze with the splendor of open day. Simplicity,
unaffected simplicity, is the great rule in composition, as it is in
the manners and conduct of life; and he who departs from it, does so
at the hazard of not securing the just reward of his merits.




VIRGINIA HISTORICAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL SOCIETY.


The Anniversary Meeting of this Society was held on the 3d and 4th
Feb. 1835, in the Hall of the House of Delegates. The first evening
was exclusively devoted to the transaction of business. On the second
evening a learned, elaborate and elegant address was delivered by
Professor Tucker of the University, to a numerous auditory, and was
listened to with great attention. Mr. Maxwell of Norfolk presented to
the Society the identical pistol with which Captain John Smith killed
the Turk Grualgo, at the siege of Regal; and in his peculiarly happy
manner, dilated upon the singular good fortune and heroic qualities of
that extraordinary man. We shall speak of this valuable relic of
antiquity, and of the traditional history upon which the fact of its
identity rests, more particularly, in the February number. It is with
great pleasure that we announce to our patrons that the Proprietor of
the "Messenger" is authorised, by a resolution of the Society, to
insert from time to time in his paper, under the direction of the
standing committee, such portions of the manuscripts, &c. belonging to
the Society, as the committee may select for publication. In our next
number we hope to avail ourselves of this privilege--and it shall be
our endeavor to urge the claims of the Society to the general
attention and earnest regard of the public.

This form of our _January_ number not having gone to press until
_February_, has enabled us to pen the above.




EXTRACTS FROM THE LETTERS OF CORRESPONDENTS.


I send you these lines[1] without the writer's name. It is one of many
instances in proof of what I have long believed, that selections might
be made from the unpublished writings of Virginians, composing a
volume of which any country might be proud. The writer of the above
throws off such scraps at idle times, without effort, and without
pretension. With so much of the inspiration of poetry, he has nothing
of its madness, and will never consent to be known to the world as an
author.

[Footnote 1: "Beauty without Loveliness." See article above.]

So it is in other branches of literature. A man who has sense enough
to write a good book, very often has too much sense to publish it. In
countries where the division of labor has made literature a separate
trade, necessity often overrules the judgment of the writer, forcing
him to publish against his will--_se invito_ as well as _invita
Minerva_. No such necessity exists here, and hence, among us, few
publish, but those who should be perpetually injoined the use of pen
and ink. Thank {256} God, the literary reputation of Virginia has
never suffered much by such scribblers. We have a few such, but their
writings were too bad to do much harm; they never crossed the State
line.

Might you not take a hint from this consideration? The merit of your
publication will give a wide circulation to all that it contains. Are
you not then bound to be chary in your selections, and not lend your
wings to bear to distant lands the weak twitterings or the tuneless
chatter of the Pie and Sparrow kinds? The nightingale does not pour
her note until their noise is stilled. Print only for poets, and poets
will write for you. This is the true solution of the difficulty you
have so strongly stated in your last number.

It is not in Virginia alone, that the writings which are permitted to
see the light afford an inadequate idea of the literary resources of
the country. It is not fair to judge of the poetical talents of our
northern neighbors by the labored dulness of a Barlow; or by the
writings of a certain literary cabal, which is trying to push its
members into notice by mutual puffing and quotation. Halleck is not
one of the firm; and Halleck is a true poet. But his writings first
came out anonymously; and it is the blaze of his genius which has
betrayed him to the public eye. The darkness in which it shrouds
itself, distinguishes it from all that shines only by reflected light.
Men hunt for diamonds in the night.

Even in England, where the trade of literature embraces writers of a
very high order, I am not sure that the very best minds are devoted to
it. Some of the finest poetry in the language was found among the
manuscripts of Judge Blackstone. Nobody knew that Charles Fox wrote
poetry until after his death. But he did, and such as no writer need
have blushed to own.

Among the caprices of the "_genus irritabile vatum_," is that of
hiding their talents. Some, from sheer spleen, will not write. John
Randolph used to say that he would go to his grave "guiltless of
rhyme." Yet _he talked poetry_ from morning till night.

As I am out a purveyor for your journal, and not a contributor, I am
bound to see that they, from whose writings I pilfer, come by no
wrong. I must therefore enter a complaint on behalf of the friend
whose letter I sent you, describing a scene on the Mississippi. His
"clumps" of trees your compositor has cut down to "stumps." Can you
wonder that your neighbor (_contemporary_ I believe is the word in
fashion,) thought his letter but "_so so_?" He was no more bound to
suppose that this was a misprint, than to reflect that a traveller,
writing from the wilds of Missouri to a friend, might innocently make
an unimportant mistake in quoting from a book that perhaps never
crossed the Mississippi. But though he has to bear the brunt of the
censure, it should in justice fall on you or me. The thing was well
enough as a letter. The fault was in publishing it. But I shall
attempt no defence. I thought it but "so so-ish" when I sent it to
you, and therefore I said so. It was a plain unvarnished description,
which had enabled me to see very distinctly what was well worth
seeing, and I wished others to see it too. Had the composition been of
a different character--had the painter thrust _himself_ between the
spectator and his picture, or so glossed it over that every object was
lost in undistinguished glare, I should have given it to the public
eye by other means. I should certainly not have defaced with it your
modest pages. It surely would not be hard to fix on some periodical in
which any sort of tinsel would be welcome, and find itself in
congenial company. Such is the proper receptacle for all the trumpery
wares of frothy declamation, incongruous metaphor, false eloquence and
flippant wit, which make up what is commonly called fine writing.
There, in the gay confusion of glass bead and gewgaw, any bauble,
however worthless, finds its place, escaping censure by escaping
notice.

To take more shame to myself, I acknowledge that the misquotation
struck me as I copied the letter. But the turn of the passage did not
admit of its correction; and I did not think it worth while to append
a note to tell what every body knows, and no one needs to know.

But I shall do better in future. While you continue to publish what I
send you, I shall continue to cater for you. In doing this, I shall
henceforth cross the t's and dot the i's in my copies, although this
should have been omitted in the original. "I am wae to think" indeed,
as Burns says, what small critics would do for want of such mistakes.
A link in nature's chain (the last and lowest indeed) would be lost.
The _auceps syllabarum_ "the word catcher that lives on syllables"
would be starved out. The race would be extinct for want of food. The
king of these insects bears among naturalists the formidable name of
the _dragon fly_. The boys call him the _musquito hawk_. He shall have
no more food from me. Your friend,

X. Y.

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM EASTERN VIRGINIA.

... I yesterday sent you some lines composed "Lang Syne," and written
from memory.... Do not print these things, I beseech you, unless you
like them. At the hazard of rapping my own knuckles, I shall quarrel
with you if you publish much trash. You may lose a subscriber by
rejecting it; but you will gain ten by every number you issue in which
every article is good. Horace tells us that neither gods nor men can
endure middling poetry. And what shall be said of that which is not
even middling? Let us take an example. Byron's name is sacred to the
muses. No man whose lips are not touched with the fire of inspiration
should be allowed to use it. Yet we have him shown up, and words put
into his mouth in many a piece, the writers of which cannot even count
their _feet_.

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM NORTH CAROLINA.

"I was much delighted with the third number of the Messenger. It was
really a fountain of pleasure to me, and I shall never forget the
feelings which I experienced on reading the story entitled '_My
Classmates_.' I must believe that there cannot be any thing than the
most flattering hopes and prospects of your success in your truly
laudable--your truly patriotic undertaking. The people of Virginia, if
none others, will support its cause. They cannot--no, they will
not--they have too much love for the honor of Virginia, to let the
'_Messenger_' of science and literature suffer for the want of their
most liberal patronage. But you are not laboring for Virginia alone:
it is for the south--the _whole_ south; and might I not add, for the
whole country? For who doubts but that the Messenger is destined to
call into active exertion the genius of the south? And who would deny
but the south has genius which would do honor to the _whole_ country
in any walk? I shall never believe but that the land which produced a
Henry, a Washington, a Marshall, a Madison and Monroe, can also under
favorable auspices, produce a Cooper, Irving, Paulding, or _any man_.
'_Go ahead_,' as David Crockett says, '_since you are right_.' I send
you a subscriber."

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM A DISTINGUISHED NORTHERN LADY.

"We are highly pleased with the Messenger. Its execution in the
_mechanical department_, is peculiarly neat; I see no periodical, that
in this point, will compare with it. And its contents are so
diversified, that there must be something adapted to almost every
taste--that is--every taste that has its foundation in correct
principles."




TO CORRESPONDENTS, CONTRIBUTORS, &C.


We have on hand a variety of articles in prose and verse, which we
shall dispose of as soon as possible. Some of these favors are of
decided, and some of equivocal merit. Others are so illegibly written,
that it passes our skill to decipher them.


{257}


SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. I.]  RICHMOND, FEBRUARY, 1835.  [NO. 6.

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




VIRGINIA HISTORICAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL SOCIETY.


We promised to present in our present number a more detailed account
of the proceedings of the late anniversary meeting of this valuable
institution, which we trust is destined to retrieve the character of
our state from the charge of long indifference to the vast resources
it contains, both in materials for scientific research and in
memorials of its past civil and political history. We should sincerely
lament if so noble an effort to diffuse throughout the country a taste
for science and elegant literature, should fail for want of
encouragement, but we think we perceive a growing conviction of its
importance, and an increasing disposition to promote its objects.
These objects, as declared in the constitution of the society, are "to
discover, procure and preserve whatever may relate to the natural,
civil and literary history of this state; and to patronize and advance
all those sciences which have a direct tendency to promote the best
interests of our citizens." What intelligent Virginian is there who
does not feel inclined to co-operate in the attainment of so much
good? Who does not desire that the strife and bitterness of politics
should be allayed by the diffusion of a spirit which shall unite and
harmonize the most discordant elements, and establish a point where
all men of every sect and party may rally for the interests of their
country, and forget the unhappy differences which distract and divide
them. It is certainly an extraordinary fact that, with one honorable
exception, no similar institution seems ever to have been established
in Virginia, during the more than two centuries of its civilized
existence. The exception stated is recorded by Gerardin, in his
continuation of Burk's History. It was an association formed for
literary and scientific purposes, as far back as the administration of
Governor Fauquier, who was himself a lover and patron of learning; but
it was principally indebted for its origin to Dr. Small, an able
professor at William and Mary,--and afterwards among its members and
most active friends, were enrolled the honored names of Jefferson and
Wythe, John Page and the venerable Bishop Madison. The last gentleman
was its secretary and curator, when the stirring and eventful scenes
of the revolutionary war put a period to its existence.

The present society was organized in December, 1831, and there have
been three anniversary meetings since, at each of which very able
addresses were delivered. One only, (Professor Cushing's) has as yet
been spread before the public; but we understand that the orations of
Messrs. Maxwell and Tucker will also be published.

We stated in the last number of the Messenger that Mr. Maxwell
presented to the society at its late meeting an ancient pistol,
alleged on plausible authority to have been the property of Captain
John Smith, the father of Virginia. We have not been able to learn the
precise particulars of its history, but we understand there is no
doubt that it was sent by a former Governor of Canada to General
Washington as the property of Smith. It bears upon a silver ornament
on its handle or butt, the initials J. S.; and in the form and shape
of its barrel and some other peculiarities, it has undoubted marks of
antiquity. There was another valuable relic presented to the society,
through the standing committee, which deserves to be particularly
mentioned. It is the _identical silver badge or medal furnished the
King of the Potomac Indians_, under a law of the Colonial Assembly of
Virginia, which passed in March 1661. See Hening's Statutes at Large,
vol. 2, p. 142. This curious relic was found in the county of Caroline
a year or two since, and presented to the society by W. G. Minor, Esq.
of that county. On its face the words "Ye King of"--and on the
reverse--"Patomeck," are engraved in the ancient orthography--and on
both sides are rude devices, attesting the imperfect state of the arts
at the period referred to.

The society has already collected many valuable mineral specimens and
Indian antiquities--also various books and manuscripts,--a more
particular account of which we shall spread before our readers in some
of our future numbers. The trustees of the Richmond Academy have, we
learn, assigned one of the rooms in the spacious building they have
erected, for the uses of the society as a place of deposite and
arrangement of its various acquisitions; and it is with much pleasure
we perceive that the legislature, by a joint resolution, has directed
the library committee to present to the society copies of such books,
maps, &c. as belong to the library fund. These examples of liberality
in our public functionaries, are proofs of the growing interest which
is felt in the cause of science and literature.--James McDowell, Esq.
of Rockbridge, has been selected to deliver the next anniversary
address, and Professor Dew, of William and Mary, chosen alternate. The
following gentlemen were appointed officers for the present year, to
wit:

JOHN MARSHALL, _President_; PROFESSOR CUSHING, _first Vice President_;
JUDGE CLOPTON, _second Vice President_; JAMES E. HEATH, _Corresponding
Secretary and Librarian_; GUSTAVUS A. MYERS, _Recording Secretary_;
WM. P. SHEPPARD, _Treasurer_; and Judge Francis T. Brooke, Dr. Robert
Briggs, Conway Robinson, Robert C. Nicholas, Charles B. Shaw, John S.
Myers, Dr. Richard A. Carrington and Rowland Reynolds, _Members of the
Standing Committee_.




VIRGINIA GAZETTEER.

Our readers are probably most of them aware, that a work bearing the
above title, has been for some time in the Charlottesville press, and
will soon make its appearance before the public. We have been favored
by the very deserving and enterprising publisher, Mr. JOSEPH MARTIN,
with 240 pages of the volume, and have given them a cursory reading;
not sufficient, indeed, to pronounce decidedly upon the character of
the work, but enough to convince us of its great utility, and of the
{258} general ability and industry with which it has been compiled. We
shall take occasion when the work is published, to examine its
contents more particularly;--for the present, we remark, that the
editor in his preliminary and General Description of Virginia, has
borrowed very copiously, and without acknowledgement, that we have
seen, from an article bearing the title "Virginia," in the Americana
Encyclopædia. Whilst it is not expected, that in a work like the
Gazetteer, its whole contents should be original; it is but an act of
literary justice, we conceive, that the sources from which material
aid has been derived, should be acknowledged. Of course, we confine
ourselves to such matter as is not original. We have taken the liberty
to transfer to our pages, the account contained in the Gazetteer, of
"_the City of Richmond_"--subjoining in the form of notes, a few
observations rendered necessary by the change of circumstances, since
that account was written.


RICHMOND CITY, the metropolis of Virginia, is situated in the county
of Henrico, on the north side of James river, and immediately at the
great falls, or head of tide water. Lat. 37° 32' N., long. 25° 54' W
of W. Its location is uncommonly delightful, and has often excited the
admiration of strangers. Perhaps the most glowing, and yet most
faithful picture which has ever been drawn of its natural beauties, is
from the pen of the eminent and lamented author of the British Spy. "I
have never met," says that enchanting writer, "with such an assemblage
of striking and interesting objects. The town dispersed over hills of
various shapes; the river descending from west to east, and obstructed
by a multitude of small islands, clumps of trees, and myriads of
rocks; among which it tumbles, foams and roars; constituting what are
called the falls; the same river at the lower end of the town, bending
at right angles to the south, and winding reluctantly off for many
miles in that direction; its polished surface caught here and there by
the eye, but more generally covered from the view by the trees; among
which the white sails of the approaching and departing vessels exhibit
a curious and interesting appearance: then again on the opposite side,
the little town of Manchester built on a hill, which sloping gently to
the river, opens the whole town to the view, interspersed as it is
with vigorous and flourishing poplars; and surrounded to a great
distance by green plains and stately woods;--all these objects falling
at once under the eye, constitute by far the most finely varied and
most animated landscape that I have ever seen." The truth and beauty
of the foregoing sketch may be realised from numberless positions or
points of view, extending from the high hills to the west, which
overlook the James river canal, as far as the Church Hill, the eastern
barrier of the city. From the latter elevation, perhaps the landscape
combines greater variety and grandeur, than from any other point.
Shockoe hill, however, is the favorite residence of the citizens. This
is divided from the other by the valley of Shockoe creek, and is a
high and spacious plain occupied by the principal public buildings,
and by numerous private edifices, some of which are of elegant and
expensive construction. The _Capitol, or State House_, stands in the
centre of a beautiful park or square, near the brow of the hill, and
from its size and elevated position is the most conspicuous object in
the city. The exterior of the building is of admirable proportions,
and its fine columns of Ionic architecture seen from a distance, have
a very imposing effect. It was formed from a model of the _Maison
Carree_ at Nismes,--brought by Mr. Jefferson from France. Its interior
construction, however, is neither elegant nor convenient. In a large
open saloon or hall, in the centre of the building, is a marble statue
of Washington, executed with great skill by _Houdon_, a French artist.
There is also a bust of Lafayette, occupying one of the niches in the
wall. Besides the statue it is still in contemplation to erect a
superb monument to the memory of Washington on the capitol square. The
fund which was dedicated to this object was originally raised by
private subscription, and is now loaned out at interest by direction
of the legislature. Its present amount is about $18,000. When this
monument is erected, it will add to the attractions of one of the
finest promenades in the Union. The square, which contains about nine
acres, is enclosed by a handsome railing of cast iron, and is
ornamented by gravelled walks, and a variety of forest and other
trees. The _Governor's House_ is a plain, neat building, adjoining the
square, and on a part of the public domain. The _City Hall_, which is
also contiguous to the State House, is a costly and elegant building
of Doric architecture. It is devoted to the use of the City Courts and
Council, and other officers of the Corporation. The other public
buildings, are the _Penitentiary_ and _Manufactory of Arms_--both
extensive establishments, and well adapted to their respective
purposes. The _Bank of Virginia_ and _Farmer's Bank_, are connected
under one roof, and together constitute a handsome edifice on the
principal street.

Richmond is not deficient in benevolent institutions. Besides a very
spacious _Poor House_, which stands in the suburbs of the city,--there
is a _Female Orphan Asylum_, supported in part by funds of the
corporation, and partly by private liberality. Its funds have been
principally raised however for several years past, by an annual fair
held at the City Hall. This institution is incorporated by the
legislature, and is under the management of female directors. There is
also a _school for the education of poor children of both sexes_, upon
the Lancasterian system, founded in 1816, which with some fluctuations
in its progress, is still in a prosperous condition. It is now under
the superintendence of trustees appointed by the City Council, and is
sustained by an annual contribution from the Literary fund of the
state, together with an appropriation from the city treasury. A
suitable building was erected for the accommodation of the school,
soon after its first establishment, and hundreds have received from it
the benefits of elementary instruction, who would probably have been
otherwise the victims of ignorance and depravity.

The city has not been so fortunate in other institutions for the
cultivation of the mind. A few good schools it is true have
occasionally existed, where a competent knowledge of the classics and
some of the sciences might be obtained, but none of these sources of
instruction have been commensurate with the wants of the citizens. It
is a remarkable circumstance, that the metropolis of the state,
containing as it does considerable wealth and population,--many
distinguished and well informed men, and much boasted refinement,
should yet be destitute of a single academical institution. As far
back as 1803, a charter was obtained from the state by some of the
prominent citizens, for the establishment of an academy by lottery and
private subscription. A few thousand dollars were raised,--a site was
injudiciously selected a mile beyond the limits of the city--and the
basement story of the building erected, but no further progress was
made. Within the present year, however, the vacancies in the Board of
Trustees have been filled, and there is some prospect of reviving the
institution.[1]

[Footnote 1: We are happy to have it in our power to state, that by
the liberality of the City Council, an elegant and costly building has
been erected by the trustees, which is now near completion. It may be
mentioned, however, with regret, that an unsuccessful application has
been made to the Legislature for an annual endowment out of the
surplus of the Literary Fund--but it ought also in justice to be
added, that measures have been adopted for collecting information
preparatory to a just and equitable distribution of the Literary Fund
surplus, by the next General Assembly. Indeed, the munificent
patronage bestowed by the Legislature of 1834-5, upon works of
internal improvement--is of itself, sufficient to exempt that body
from the reproach of leaving to its successors, something to do for
the great cause of education.]

Besides this marked deficiency in the means of educating youth, there
are few or no associations of an intellectual character among persons
of maturer years. Whilst the northern cities can boast of their
literary and scientific societies, the capital of the ancient dominion
scarcely contains one which deserves the name. An honorable exception,
it is true, may be mentioned in the "Virginia Historical and
Philosophical Society," which was established in 1831, and has since
been incorporated;--but as its members are principally dispersed
through the state, and few of the citizens of Richmond manifest any
zeal in its welfare, it can scarcely be considered an association of
the city, either in its {259} origin or character. About 20 years
since a _Museum_ was erected principally by individual enterprize;
which was designed as a repository of the fine arts, and of natural
curiosities. This institution however, has for a long time languished
for want of patronage.

Societies however of a moral and religious cast, are numerous, active
and flourishing. Various associations exist for promoting temperance,
for colonizing the free people of color, for aiding missionaries, for
the distribution of the Bible and religious tracts, and for various
other objects of a similar character. The encouragement also which is
given to Sabbath schools is extensive and beneficial. The means of
religious instruction are very considerable, and probably in due
proportion to the wants of the city. The _Episcopalians_ have 3
churches or houses of worship;--the _Presbyterians_ 2, the _Baptists_
3, the _Methodists_ 3, the _Roman Catholics_ 1, and this last
congregation are now constructing a new and elegant building, which
will probably rival any in the city for the style of its architecture.
The _Baptist Seceders_ or followers of Alexander Campbell, have 1
place of worship,--the _Unitarians_ and _Quakers_ 1 each,--and the
_Jews_ a handsome Synagogue in a retired and handsome situation.

The _Monumental Church_, one of the three belonging to the
Episcopalians, and of which the venerable Bishop of Eastern Virginia
has long been the Rector,--has acquired a melancholy celebrity from
the circumstance that it occupies the site of the _Richmond Theatre_,
which was destroyed by fire in December 1811; on which tragical
occasion the Governor of the Commonwealth, and 70 or 80 respectable
persons of both sexes perished miserably in the flames. Long will that
mournful event be remembered by those who survived or witnessed its
horrors!--Either from the deep impressions which it produced or from
other causes,--the taste for theatrical exhibitions has not kept pace
with the increase of wealth and population. The commodious Theatre
which succeeded the old one,--which is placed in a far more eligible
situation, and is of much safer construction, is only occasionally
patronized, when the appearance of some attractive star, or celebrated
performer, is announced.

Richmond was first established by act of Assembly, as early as 1742,
and became the seat of Government of the state in 1779. Various
legislative acts have passed from time to time enlarging its corporate
powers and privileges. Nine persons are annually chosen from each of
the three wards into which the city is divided, who when assembled
elect out of their own body a recorder, and 11 aldermen, who exercise
judicial functions. The same persons also elect from their own body,
or from the citizens at large, a Mayor, who is both a judicial and
executive officer. The remaining 15 members constitute the legislative
council of the city, and as such, are authorised to raise and
appropriate money, and to enact all such ordinances as are necessary
for the due execution of the powers conferred by the charter. The
valuation of real property within the city according to the assessment
of 1833, was $6,614,550. The revenue raised for corporation purposes
may be stated in round numbers at $60,000, besides which, the city
contributed as its quota of the state tax in the year 1833, nearly
$9,000. This large amount of taxation is principally derived from real
and personal property, and from licenses to merchants, ordinary
keepers, &c. The number of _wholesale_ merchants, paying license tax
in 1833, as appears by the returns of the State Commissioner was
20;--retail ditto 326, auctioneers 7, lottery ticket venders 7,
ordinary keepers 43, and keepers of houses of private entertainment 9.
According to the same returns there were 739 horses and mules, 157
coaches, 9 carryalls, and 54 gigs.

The expenses of the city are considerable. The principal items of
appropriation are $12,000 for a sinking fund, to pay the interest, and
redeem gradually the corporation debt; $4,000 for the poor; $1,700 to
the Lancasterian Free School and Orphan Asylum; $4,000 for repairing
the streets; and $8,500 for the support of a night watch. The
remaining expenses are on account of the public markets, fire
companies, salaries of officers, paving of streets and various
contingencies. The city debt at this time (1834) amounts to
$136,150;--$95,000 of which, bearing an interest of 5 per centum only,
was incurred on account of the _water works_. These works were
commenced in September 1830, under the direction of Albert Stein, an
accomplished Engineer from Holland, and were completed as far as
originally designed, at the end of the ensuing year. Since that time,
a second pump and wheel, and a third reservoir have been added; making
the cost of the whole work about $100,000. The pumps are each
calculated to raise from the river, and propel into the reservoirs at
a distance of 800 yards, and at a considerable elevation 400,000
gallons of water in 24 hours. These pumps are designed to operate
alternately, either being competent to fill the reservoirs in
sufficient time. The reservoirs will each of them contain 1,000,000
gallons, and double lines of pipes extend from them to the pump house
on the margin of the river. The main pipe from the reservoirs to the
intersection of H and 1st streets is 2,058 yards in length; and the
smallest pipes extend from this through the principal streets,
lessening in diameter to the point of greatest depression from the
level of the reservoirs, a distance of about three miles. Fire plugs
are placed at convenient distances along the line of pipes, and afford
an ample supply of water for extinguishing fires. In the lower part of
the city the pressure is sufficient to force the water to the tops of
the houses through hose, without the aid of engines. Three hundred and
forty houses and tenements are already furnished with water, and the
rents which are daily increasing, amount at this time, April 1834, to
$4,000. The annual expense of superintendence, &c. is $1,000. These
works may justly be considered the pride of the city. The water which
they supply is not only pure and wholesome, but for a considerable
part of the year is sufficiently clear to be used without filters.

The _exports_ of domestic produce from Richmond to foreign countries
are very considerable. In the year 1833, their value in American
vessels, was
                              $2,466,360 00
  And in foreign vessels,        498,131 00
                              -------------
  Making the aggregate of     $2,964,491 00

The value of domestic produce shipped coastwise to the principal
Northern Cities, cannot be ascertained correctly. It is believed to be
at least equal if not greater than the amount exported to foreign
countries, and if such be the fact, the total value of produce
shipped, may be estimated at nearly $6,000,000. The import trade,
however, bears no proportion to the other. The value of merchandize
imported into the district of Richmond from foreign countries for the
year 1833, amounted to only $209,963, and the duties paid to the
Government of the United States to $75,120. Of this latter sum, $7,197
was paid on merchandize brought by foreign vessels.

In 1833, 5 schooners, 9 barks, 37 brigs, and 30 ships, in all 81
vessels, cleared from the port of Richmond for foreign countries, the
tonnage whereof amounted to 22,331, or an average of 275 tons to each
vessel. In the same year 4 schooners, 6 brigs, 2 barks, and 3 ships
entered from foreign countries,--making in the aggregate, 3,412 tons,
or 227 to each vessel.

No inconsiderable part of the produce shipped from the city is brought
down the James River Canal. This important improvement commences at
Maiden's Adventure, on James river about thirty miles distant, and
terminates in a deep and commodious basin in the heart of the town.
The tolls paid to the James River Company on produce descending in the
year 1833, amounted to $43,949, and on various articles carried up the
Canal to $10,139, making in the aggregate, $54,088. Among the items
brought down, may be enumerated upwards of 15,000 bbds. of tobacco,
152,000 barrels of flour, 133,000 bushels of wheat, 677,664 bushels of
coal, 1,374 tons of bar and pig iron; and 2,230,900 lbs. of
manufactured tobacco. Among the ascending articles may be mentioned,
nearly 31,000 sacks of salt, 297 tons of bar and pig iron, and upwards
of 3,000 tons of plaster, lime, &c.

The proximity of the coal mines to Richmond, constitutes that mineral
a valuable article of commerce. Besides the quantity brought down the
canal, there were more than 2,000,000 of bushels (4 pecks to the
bushel) transported on the Chesterfield rail road in 1833, the tolls
on which amounted to $87,813 30. The Chesterfield rail road,
terminates on the Manchester side of the river, and deserves to be
honorably mentioned as the first successful enterprize of the kind in
the state of Virginia. It was planned and executed under the direction
of Moncure Robinson, a distinguished Engineer, and it owes much in its
original design and final accomplishment, to the perseverance and
patronage of Mr. Nicholas Mills, one of the few proprietors of its
stock, and an owner of one of the extensive coal mines at the upper
termination of the road.

James river from Richmond to the ocean, presents a tedious and
somewhat obstructed navigation. This with the circumstance that she is
surrounded by rival towns, each having its peculiar advantages of
location,--will probably prevent the metropolis from {260} ever
attaining a high degree of commercial importance.[2] There is no
doubt, however, of its final destination as a manufacturing city,--as
there is probably no spot in the Union endowed by nature with finer
facilities for that kind of industry. From the commencement of the
rapids a few miles above, the fall is upwards of 100 feet to the level
of tide water, and in all this space there is scarcely a limit to the
extent of water power which exists. In the city and its vicinity,
there are already several flourishing establishments which deserve to
be mentioned. The _Gallego flour mills_ having been destroyed by fire
in the spring of 1833, their present proprietor, Mr. Chevallie, is
rebuilding them at a more convenient site on the bank of the James
river basin, and upon a much more improved and enlarged plan. The mill
house which is nearly completed, is six stories high from the
foundation and covered with tin. It is 94 feet long by 83½ wide, and
is calculated for 20 pair of stones to be worked by three water
wheels. Connected with it, is another building 80 feet square, and
four stories high, in which the wheat will be received and cleaned.
The two together present a front on the basin of 163½ feet, and the
whole appearance is very imposing. The old Gallego mills ground
upwards of 200,000 bushels of wheat in the eight months preceding
their destruction. It is probable that the operations of the new
establishments will be much more extensive. The Gallego brand, and
indeed that of the city mills generally, has acquired much celebrity
in the South American markets and elsewhere.

[Footnote 2: The question as to the future commercial rank of
Richmond, derives additional weight and importance from recent acts of
the Virginia Legislature. The passage of the law for connecting the
James and Kanawha rivers, and uniting the east and west by canals or
rail roads--if the scheme should be carried out with energy and
resolution corresponding with the noble spirit in which it has been
adopted,--must undoubtedly make the Metropolis of the Old Dominion, a
place of much importance. The contemplated rail road from Richmond to
the Potomac, which has also received the fostering aid of the state,
cannot fail likewise to produce consequences beneficial to the whole
country, on the line of the improvement.]

_Haxall's Mills_, have also a high reputation: they are five stories
high and of nearly equal dimensions with Chevallie's. They work 14
pair of stones, with four water wheels, and grind about 200,000
bushels wheat annually. This year that quantity will probably be
exceeded, as it is contemplated to add four additional pair of stones.

_Rutherford's Mill_ works eight pair of stones by two water wheels,
and grinds about 90,000 bushels of wheat annually.

_Mayo's Mill_ in Manchester opposite to Richmond, works six pair of
stones by three water wheels, and grinds also about 90,000 bushels of
wheat annually.

In the city and its vicinity, there are five corn or grist mills, two
manufactories for cut nails, and rolling and slitting iron, two saw
mills, and one iron foundery, whose operations are extensive.

_The Richmond Cotton Manufactory_ is a large and important
establishment. It was established by Cunningham & Anderson, in the
year 1829, and sold by them with all its appendages, to the Richmond
Manufacturing Company, incorporated by an act of the Virginia
Legislature in the winter of 1831. The building is of stone and brick,
four stories high, 146 feet long, and 44 feet wide, situated upon the
north bank of the James, a few hundred yards west of the Armory,
receiving its water power from the James river canal, immediately
below the Penitentiary. The water is also conveyed from the canal in
iron pipes of six inches bore to the building, thence up the stair-way
to within five feet of the eaves, from which in case of accident by
fire, every floor except the upper one, can be flooded in a few
seconds, by simply turning a cock and using a hose. In this factory
are employed from 60 to 70 white operatives and 130 blacks, from the
age of 14 and upwards:--a large proportion of both descriptions are
females. It runs 3,776 spindles, and 80 looms, together with all the
necessary preparatory machinery for spinning and weaving, of the most
approved kinds, and consumes about 1,500 pounds of raw cotton per day.

The fabrics are heavy,--negro shirtings 29 inches wide, 4-4 sheetings
and ¾ shirtings of No. 16 yarn, and cotton yarns from No. 5 to 20--all
of which are celebrated for their superior quality. The capital
employed is $120,000.

_The Gallego Manufacturing Company_ was incorporated in January 1834,
and the capital subscribed is $150,000. The buildings, which it is
supposed will be commenced the present year, will be located near the
Gallego Mills. The _Franklin Company_ for the manufacture of paper,
has also been recently incorporated, and the capital nearly
subscribed.

Besides the manufactures produced at the Penitentiary on state
account, the city has its due proportion of the various mechanic
trades, and private manufactories. Of printing establishments there
are as many as 11, (perhaps an undue proportion) from two of which
there are issued daily, political and commercial papers,--from one, a
semi-weekly political--from four, weekly Religious,--and from one, a
monthly journal devoted to literature, &c. The others are either Book
or Job Offices. The number of professional men is also considerable,
and it is the more remarkable that so many members of the medical
faculty should find employment in a city proverbial for the salubrity
of its climate. Situated at the point of demarcation between the upper
and lower districts, it is fortunately exempt from many of the
maladies which are peculiar to both regions. It is neither visited by
the enervating autumnal diseases of eastern Virginia, nor by the more
violent and inflammatory attacks which belong to the upper country.
The yellow fever, that scourge of cities more populous and commercial,
has never prevailed.

The population of Richmond has nearly trebled in 30 years. By the
census of 1800, the free whites numbered,           2,837
                    Slaves,                         2,293
                    Free colored persons,             607
                                                    -----
                                                    5,737

By the census of 1830, the free whites amounted to  7,755
                           Slaves,                  6,349
                           Free colored,            1,956
                                                   ------
                                                   16,060

The several classes have increased in nearly corresponding ratios.

Richmond has been frequently reproached for a want of hospitality, and
if this virtue consists in unreserved and indiscriminate attention to
strangers and visiters,--the reproach is probably not altogether
unfounded. It must be acknowledged too, that the manners and customs
of what are called the leading classes, are not characteristic of the
old Virginia character,--which was frank, simple and unostentatious.
In almost all considerable towns, even in republican America,
artificial _castes_ or classes exist, which are founded principally
upon the possession of wealth, or the mysterious refinements of
fashion, and have but little reference either to moral or intellectual
distinction. It is probable that this vice of cities is one of the
chief sources of that prejudice which is felt towards them by the
people of the country. These remarks, however, are not to be construed
into a sweeping censure upon towns--for although in all dense
populations, there is always a greater or less degree of human
infirmity,--there is also an equal concentration of the more virtuous
and noble qualities of our nature.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SONNET--THE SEA.

BY A. L. B. M.D.


    There's silent grandeur in the boundless waste
  Of Ocean's bosom when the winds are still,
    And quiet beauty, like the moonbeam traced
  In lengthened shadows on some snow-clad hill;
    There's fiercer grandeur in the chainless sea,
  When the storm-spirit wakes it from its rest,
    And the high waves are dashing wild and free,
  As the white foam they bear upon their breast.
    The thunder's voice is louder on the sea,
  The lightning flashes with a wilder glare,
    And landsmen know not of the dangers, he,
  Whose home is on the Ocean's wave, must dare;
  Yet it is pictured in its mighty roar,
  And in the wrecks which strew the rock-bound shore.


{261}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY

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

No. IV.


Egypt was then in an unsettled state, and a few details respecting its
situation may be permitted, although not absolutely connected with the
present subject.

For many years previous to the invasion of the French (1797) Egypt had
been nominally governed by a Turkish Pasha; but the power was in
reality possessed by a soldiery of a peculiar and formidable
character, who under Beys or Chiefs chosen from their own body, ruled
the country with absolute sway. These troops were called _Mamelukes_,
from the Arabic word signifying _slaves_, their numbers being
recruited entirely by the purchase of young men from the regions of
the Caucasian chain, who were transferred to Egypt, instructed in the
use of arms, and at a proper age enrolled; they fought entirely on
horseback, and were considered by Buonaparte as the finest cavalry in
the world. No person born in Egypt could be enlisted; and marriage
being discouraged, if not prohibited among them, they had no feelings
which were likely to interfere with their _esprit de corps_. Each Bey
held a particular district of the country in subjection, keeping as
many Mamelukes as he could purchase and maintain, paying tribute to
the Porte when he could not avoid it, and supplying his expenses by
wresting from the miserable inhabitants every thing except the bare
means of subsistence. The Pasha had thus little else to do than
collect the tribute, which he effected by the aid of Turkish troops,
and by fomenting dissensions among the Beys.

The Sultan had indeed made several attempts to recover his authority,
of which the only one worthy of note was that conducted by the
Capoudan Pasha Hassan in 1786, which is mentioned in the second number
of these Sketches. This expedition was but partially successful. The
Beys soon regained their power, which they exercised with additional
insolence and rapacity towards all classes; and when the French under
Buonaparte entered Egypt, it was ostensibly for the purpose of
restoring the country to its former master, "_their ancient ally_,"
and of thus revenging the insults committed on citizens of the
Republic by the tyrannical Mamelukes.

The invaders found twenty-three Beys united against them under the
command of Mourad, the most powerful of these chiefs; their forces
consisted of eight thousand Mamelukes, and a vast number of Arabs and
irregular troops. European skill and discipline, as might have been
expected, prevailed, and the Beys having been defeated in several
desperate conflicts, lost their confidence in each other; some, among
whom was Mourad, joined the Turks, others sided with the French, and
the remainder endeavored to maintain their position in the upper
country. When the French had been expelled, the Sultan was determined
to re-establish his dominion entirely, and to extirpate the Mamelukes,
if possible. In pursuance of this plan, at the time of Eaton's
arrival, a desultory but devastating warfare was carried on between
the Turkish troops and those of the Beys, who occupied the banks of
the upper Nile and the _oases_ of the adjoining desert. It was with
one of these Chieftains named Mahomed Elfi, that Hamet had taken
refuge, and he was then at the village of Minieh, about one hundred
and fifty miles above Cairo, at the head of a few refugee Tripolines
and Arabs, closely pressed by the forces of the Turkish Pasha.

The arrival of an American ship of war created a great sensation in
Lower Egypt, and many surmises as to its objects. The French consul
Drovetti, an able but unprincipled man, who has until lately
maintained a great influence in the government of Egypt, denounced
Eaton and his followers as "_British spies who were endeavoring to
open an intercourse with the Mamelukes_," and employed every
dishonorable means to defeat their plans, and have them expelled from
the country. They were however ably assisted by Major Misset, the
British resident, to whom Eaton carried letters of recommendation from
Sir Alexander Ball, Governor of Malta. After a few days spent at
Alexandria they sailed for Rosetta, where having engaged a boat, they
arrived at Cairo on the 8th of December. To this place they were
fortunately accompanied by Doctor Mendrici, an Italian with whom Eaton
had been intimate at Tunis, and who was then physician to the Pasha;
he proved very serviceable in representing their objects in the true
light, and in counteracting the artifices of the French consul.

The Turkish Viceroy of Egypt at that time was Koorsheed, who
afterwards (1821-3) as Pasha of the Morea, distinguished himself by
the defeat and destruction of Lord Byron's old friend Ali Pasha of
Albania, and by his efforts to put down the insurrection of the
Greeks, at its commencement; Mahomet Ali, who has since risen to
supreme power in the country, was then merely the commander of the
Albanian troops. Koorsheed is represented by Eaton as an intelligent
and really high minded man; and after the true objects of the
strangers had been made known to him by Mendrici and Misset, he did
not hesitate to grant them a private interview, which took place on
the 9th of December. In it Eaton played his part well, and succeeded
so far in interesting the Pasha, that he agreed to assist him in his
efforts to detach Hamet from the Mamelukes, provided the Prince should
not have compromised himself, by any open act in concert with those
rebels.

Eaton had previously despatched messengers to Hamet, from Alexandria,
Rosetta and Cairo, directing him to proceed to Alexandria; and since
his arrival at the capital, he had discovered three of the Prince's
former high officers, who gave him more minute information as to their
master's circumstances. There were great difficulties, not only in
detaching him from the Mamelukes, but even in communicating with him
to any effect. The war between the two parties in Egypt was one of
extermination, and from the characters of the combatants on both
sides, neither passports nor flags of truce were likely to afford much
protection to their bearers; moreover, it was very improbable that
Elfi Bey would suffer a person so well acquainted with his strength
and his plans as Hamet must have been, to quit his encampment and go
among his enemies. The enterprising American however exerted himself
to obtain farther demonstrations from the Pasha, and to have every
thing in readiness to proceed against Tripoli, in case he should get
Hamet into his power. He sought out the refugee Tripolines, and
enlisted recruits for the contemplated expedition, principally among
the Franks, {262} Greeks and Levantines;[1] he also distributed his
bribes among the officers of the Court with so much liberality and
discretion, that at a second audience with the Pasha on the 16th of
December, he succeeded in obtaining from him a passport and letter of
amnesty for Hamet, which were immediately despatched by trusty
messengers.

[Footnote 1: The natives of Europe, except those of Greece and Turkey,
are termed _Franks_ in the East; and their descendants are called
Levantines.]

At length on the 8th of January 1805, Eaton received a letter from
Hamet, in reply to his first from Cairo, stating that he would proceed
directly to Alexandria. On receipt of this, the American without delay
set off for the latter place, where on his arrival he found a second
letter from the Prince, expressing his unwillingness to trust himself
alone in the power of the Turkish Pasha; and making an appointment
with him on the borders of the province of Fayoom, near the site of
the celebrated Labyrinth and Lake of Mæris. Eaton instantly determined
to seek him there, and accordingly set out on the 22d, accompanied by
Lieutenants Mann and Blake of the Argus, and an escort of twenty-three
men. At the close of the next day, the party were arrested at the
Turkish lines near Damanhour, about seventy miles from Alexandria,
where the officer in command, a fierce and savage fellow, was at first
inclined to treat with some harshness these strangers who were passing
through the country with a body of armed attendants, _in search of a
refugee Pasha_. But Eaton was never taken unawares; he flattered the
Turk's vanity, by complimenting his military vigilance and discipline,
and showing him the Viceroy's passport, gave him a handsome present,
which secured respect for it. The commander being softened by these
means, listened to the stranger's story, and introduced a young Arab
Chief who declared that he knew Hamet well, and would bring him to the
spot in ten days. Arrangements were made by which the Arab was
despatched to Fayoom, Eaton agreeing to dismiss his escort, and to
remain at Damanhour, with the officers and their servants, until the
Prince arrived.

Notwithstanding these promises, the situation of the Americans was by
no means agreeable: the Turk evidently mistrusted them; they were
closely guarded, and they daily witnessed acts of barbarous cruelty,
which impressed on them the necessity of proceeding with the utmost
caution. Having reason to suspect that there was some hidden cause for
this vigilance, Eaton sounded the Turk, and finally discovered that
Drovetti had been tampering with him, and had instigated him to acts
of violence against them.

At length on the 6th of February, Hamet actually arrived, accompanied
by a suite of forty persons. As soon as he had received Eaton's first
letters from Alexandria and Cairo, he determined to accept the
propositions contained in them, and having succeeded in eluding the
vigilance of his Mameluke friends, he escaped to Fayoom; of four
copies of the Pasha's letter of amnesty, not one had reached him; the
messengers having been seized and imprisoned by the Bey. On the day
after his arrival Eaton set off with him for Alexandria.

On arriving at that place the Turkish Admiral, whose authority was
paramount, refused admittance to the Prince and his followers, and
declared his intention of not allowing them to embark from any
Egyptian port. This was also the consequence of Drovetti's intrigues;
but the refusal proved vain, for it had been already determined that
the expedition should proceed by land, at least as far as Derne, in
order to keep together the Arabs whom they might first engage, and to
recruit from the tribes encountered on the way. This was a project
which none but a man of Eaton's hardihood would have undertaken. The
distance to Derne was at least six hundred miles, through a most
desolate region, inhabited only by wandering barbarians, where
supplies of food and even of water were uncertain; and he was to be
accompanied by persons with whom, except a few, he was unacquainted;
persons lawless and faithless, who hated him for his difference of
creed, and who might well be supposed ready to sacrifice him at any
moment, either under the influence of passion, or in order to obtain
his property and arms.

This expedition being determined on, Hamet proceeded about thirty
miles west of Alexandria, and established himself at a place near the
sea called the Arab's tower, where he was soon surrounded by wandering
Sheiks or Chiefs, offering their services and the use of their camels.
Eaton went to Alexandria, and having obtained some arms, ammunition
and money from the Argus, forwarded them to the camp. He then arranged
with Captain Hull that the latter should proceed to the squadron, and
get fresh supplies, with which he should sail for Bomba, a small
harbor about eighty miles from Derne, there to meet the expedition.

Before proceeding farther, Eaton concluded a treaty in the name of the
United States, with Hamet as Pasha of Tripoli, which was signed on the
23d of February, 1805. In this treaty the United States are made to
engage--(Article second)--"_So far as comports with their own honor
and interests, their subsisting treaties and the acknowledged law of
nations, to use their utmost exertions to establish the said Hamet
Pasha in the possession of his sovereignty of Tripoli_"--(Article
third)--"_In addition to the operations they are carrying on by sea,
to furnish said Hamet Pasha, on loan, supplies of cash, ammunition and
provisions; and if necessity require, debarkations of troops also, to
aid and give effect to the operations of said Pasha Hamet by land
against the common enemy_." By Article eighth--"WILLIAM EATON, _a
citizen of the United States now in Egypt, shall be recognised as
General and Commander in Chief of the land forces which are, or may be
called into service against the common enemy; and his said Highness
Hamet Pasha engages that his own subjects shall respect and obey him
as such_." The other articles provide for the indemnification of all
expenses incurred by the United States, in executing the second and
third articles, the liberation of all American prisoners, &c. A secret
article stipulates _for the surrender of Yusuf, and of Morat Rais
alias Peter Lyle, to the Americans, to be held as hostages, provided
they do not escape by flight_. Finally, _the convention shall be
submitted to the President of the United States for his ratification;
in the meantime there shall be no suspense in its operations_.

That Eaton far exceeded the limits of his commission in making the
United States a party to this treaty, a slight review of his powers
will serve easily to show. Diplomatic powers he had properly none; he
had left the United States as navy agent, and was throughout the whole
affair entirely subordinate to the Commander of {263} the American
forces in the Mediterranean. On leaving Malta, _verbal_ orders were
given by Commodore Barron to him and to Captain Hull, "_to seek out
Hamet and convey him to Derne or such other place on the coast, as may
be determined the most proper for co-operating with the naval force
against the common enemy; or if more agreeable to the Prince, to bring
him to the squadron before Tripoli_." The same orders indeed also
authorised them to "_assure Hamet that the most effectual measures
would be taken with the American forces for co-operating with him
against the usurper his brother, and for re-establishing him in the
regency of Tripoli. Arrangements to this effect with him are confided
to the discretion with which Mr. Eaton is vested by the Government_."
How far this discretion extended, appears clearly from Eaton's own
words in a letter to Colonel Dwight, written on the 9th of April,
1804, during his passage to Europe: "I am ordered on the expedition by
Secretary Smith, without any special instructions to regulate my
conduct; without even a letter to the ally to whom I am directed;
without any thing whatever said to the Commander in Chief on the
subject of supplies; nothing but a general and vague discretion
concerning the co-operation, and nothing more to him of my agency in
the affair, than that '_Mr. Eaton is our agent for the several Barbary
regencies, and will be extremely useful_.'--I carry with me no
evidence whatever from our Government of the sincerity of their
intentions towards the friendly Pasha--I can say as a Spartan
Ambassador to the King of Persia's Lieutenant when asked, 'whether he
came with a public commission or on his own account?' 'If successful,
for the public; if unsuccessful, for myself.'" We do not learn that he
received any instructions from his government, subsequently.

From this we may conclude, that Eaton considered himself, as he indeed
was, fully authorised to assure Hamet of the co-operation of the
American forces for his restoration; and that in signing the treaty,
he knew he was acting like the Spartan Ambassador--at a venture. Some
such arrangement, must however be admitted to have been necessary; as
without it he had no means in the event of Hamet's success, to secure
those interests of his country which were the ultimate objects of his
operations. His own opinion as to the validity of the Convention, is
sufficiently shewn by his letter of May 1st, 1805, to Commodore
Barron, in which he says, "The convention I have entered into with
Hamet Pasha, may be useful in case he succeeds in getting repossession
of his government; otherwise it can do no mischief, even if ratified,
as will appear by the precaution in the second article,"--rendering
the co-operation of the United States, _dependant on their own honor
and interests, their subsisting treaties, and the acknowledged law of
nations_.

The convention having been signed, and some difficulties respecting
the transportation of provisions from Alexandria being arranged, Eaton
and his followers joined Hamet at his encampment, on the 3d of March.

The force assembled at the Arab's tower consisted of about four
hundred persons; being nine Americans, seventy odd Greeks and
Levanters, Hamet with ninety persons in his suite, and a body of Arab
cavalry under the Sheiks El Taib and Mohamet, with some footmen and
camel drivers completing the number. The beasts of burden were one
hundred and seven camels, engaged by Hamet, as Eaton thought, for the
whole distance, at eleven dollars a head, and a few asses. All being
now ready, the expedition against Tripoli really commenced on the 8th
of March, and on the following day began a series of annoyances and
difficulties, arising from the irresolution of Hamet, the intrigues of
his followers, and the faithlessness of the Arab chiefs, which
continued during the whole period. The Sheik El Taib who had been
loudest in his expressions of devotion to Hamet, and of confidence in
the success of his cause, began by hinting to the camel owners that
they should demand their pay in advance, as the Christians would not
fail to cheat them if they neglected this precaution. They followed
his advice, and Eaton who knew them too well to trust them, having
refused to comply with their demand, they refused to proceed. Hamet on
this began to despond, but Eaton quieted this first symptom of
disunion, by promptly calling the Christians under arms, and declaring
his intention to return to Alexandria, abandoning Hamet and his cause.
The feint was successful, and the march was resumed.

On the 13th they were met by a courier from Derne, bringing
information that the whole Province had taken up arms in behalf of
Hamet, and that the Bey was shut up in the castle. The receipt of this
news gave them courage; it was however near being attended by fatal
results; for Hamet's followers, who were in front, having discharged
their arms in expression of their joy, the Arabs in the rear,
apprehending that an attack had been made on them by some hostile
tribe, determined to secure their own share of the plunder, by killing
the Christians who were with them. This was prevented by the very
proper observation of one of the Chiefs, that it would be better to
wait until the result of the engagement in front was known.

On the 18th they reached a castle built of hewn stone, called
Massarah, distant about two hundred miles from Alexandria, and
occupied by an Arab Sheik; here Eaton first learned that the beasts of
burden had been engaged by Hamet to accompany them only thus far.
Their owners demanded immediate payment, and signified their intention
of returning to Egypt. Three days were spent in altercations with
them, after which they were paid by the surrender of nearly all the
funds in possession of Eaton and Hamet. Attempts were then made to
prevail on them to accompany the expedition to Bomba, a small seaport,
at which an American ship of war was expected to bring them supplies;
and on their refusing this, to march two days farther on, to a station
where other camels could be procured. Fifty camels were engaged as far
as the latter place; the others returned with their owners to Egypt.
Meanwhile a report, said to have been brought by a pilgrim from
Morocco, had become current in the camp, that a large force was on its
way from Tripoli to oppose them, and that it had even passed Bengazi.
This report was sufficient to render Hamet dispirited and mistrustful;
he held consultations with his followers and the Arabs, from which
Eaton was excluded; and it soon appeared that a plan was in agitation
among them to arrest the progress of the expedition until information
had been received of the arrival of the American ships at Bomba. Eaton
on learning this, instantly ordered the rations of these persons to be
stopped, resolving to seize the castle and to maintain himself in it
with the {264} Christians, until they were relieved by an American
detachment procured from Bomba or Alexandria; then to abandon Hamet to
his fate. This decisive step produced its effect, and the march was
resumed on the 21st.

The following day they fell in with a tribe of Arabs called
_Ouedalli_, who had never before seen Christians, and what was
strange, appeared to be totally unacquainted with bread; of money
however they knew the value, and it being a scarce article among the
invaders, they could only obtain supplies of meat by giving their rice
and biscuit in return. Eighty of their warriors entered Hamet's
service, and forty-seven tents of Arab families were afterwards added
to their company; ninety camels being also engaged to Bomba. But just
as they were about to march, a courier arrived from Derne, confirming
the report brought by the pilgrim, of the advance of a Tripoline
force; the greatest alarm ensued, the camel drivers fled, the Arab
Chiefs became insolent, and Hamet despairing, seemed determined to go
back to Egypt. Eaton again took the bold step of suspending rations
until the camels returned, and the march was resumed. The Sheik El
Taib the originator of all disturbances, on this withdrew, carrying
with him in addition to his own followers, many of the new recruits,
and hinting that he might probably be found with the enemy. Hamet
prayed that a messenger might be sent to pacify him, and offer him
terms; to this Eaton would not agree; he despatched an order to the
Sheik to return to his duty, coupled with a defiance in case he should
prove a traitor; and having brought the remnant of his forces to
obedience, resumed his progress. Hamet became more fearful and
irresolute every moment, and shewed every disposition to abandon the
undertaking; he deprived the Americans of their horses, and on one
occasion actually marched back a short distance; Eaton continued
onwards, and his perseverance shamed the Prince, who returned, having
succeeded by means of his principal officer, in bringing with him the
deserting Arabs.

During this delay, Eaton employed his leisure moments in attempting to
quiet the religious prejudices of the Arabs against himself and the
other Americans; assuring them that in his country no form of worship
or opinion was either enforced or excluded, all being free to act in
this respect as their consciences dictated; and that God had promised
the Americans a heaven different from those of Mussulmen or of
Papists, to which however any good men would be admitted who chose to
establish themselves in it. His expositions did not convince, but they
served to conciliate. Whether they were warranted or not by the nature
of the circumstances, each person must judge for himself; it may
however be observed, that his declarations cannot be said to be
insincere, as his ideas on religion seem never to have been fixed.

On the 1st of April new difficulties occurred. The Arab Sheiks
demanded an augmentation of the ration, and on its being refused,
openly threatened Eaton. He defied them as usual, and returned the
threat, by giving notice to the Sheik El Taib that if any mutiny
arose, he should instantly put him to death, as being the cause of it;
they were thus again brought to obedience. The expedition had now
reached the country anciently settled by the Greeks, and they
frequently passed extensive tracts covered with massive ruins. Of the
style and character of the architecture Eaton says nothing; he knew
but little of ancient history, and was totally unacquainted with any
of the fine arts; indeed, he was rather disposed to view a magnificent
monument of antiquity as a degrading memorial of despotism. Of the
wells and cisterns which he found among these ruins, he however, as
may be supposed, always speaks in grateful terms. He confirms the
accounts of the barrenness of the surrounding country, from which we
are led to form the opinion that the wealth of these places must have
been derived from commerce with the interior of Africa.

On the 5th they encamped at Salliaum, near Cape Luco, one of the few
places mentioned by Eaton, which can be found on any map or chart. By
the 8th they had arrived within eighty miles of Bomba, and had
travelled about four hundred miles since leaving Alexandria. They had
now but six days provisions left, and Eaton was of course most anxious
to proceed; Hamet however objected, and resolved to await the return
of a messenger whom he meant to despatch to Bomba. Eaton replied that
if he stopped he must starve, and refused to give out rations. The
Arabs determined to seize them, and the American drew up the
Christians under arms in front of the magazine tent. After some time
spent by the two parties in eyeing each other, the Arabs with Hamet at
their head, prepared to make a charge; some of the Greeks and
Levantines quailed, the others and the Americans stood firm; and Eaton
advancing towards Hamet, reproached him with his rashness. As usual
the superior character triumphed; the poor Prince embraced him, and on
his promise to distribute rations after they had marched, the camp was
restored to quiet.

On the 10th the messenger returned from Bomba, bringing the agreeable
intelligence that the American ships were lying off that place; on the
15th they reached it, and what were the feelings of Eaton to find
there not a vessel, nor a human being, nor a drop of water. The
vessels had been seen, but had departed, probably considering the
expedition as having entirely failed, as the time calculated for its
arrival had long since elapsed. The provisions being exhausted,
imprecations now burst forth from the whole Mussulman host on the
Christians who had brought them to this terrible pass. Even in this
situation Eaton did not despair; he ordered fires to be lighted on the
hills as signals, and endeavored to devise some means of getting his
little army on to Derne. The next morning all was confusion, and the
Arabs were preparing severally to seek their own safety, when a ship
was descried bearing down for the place; she proved to be the Argus,
which had been sent with the sloop of war Hornet from Malta, with
seven thousand dollars in specie, and supplies of provisions and
ammunition. The supplies were immediately landed and distributed, as
also were those from the Hornet, which arrived on the following day;
and on the 23d the expedition again took up its line of march in good
spirits.

Of the vast region traversed by the expedition since leaving Egypt,
probably the only account in modern times is to be found in the
journal of Eaton; with the exception of a few tracts offering pasture
for cattle, it was totally barren, consisting of desert plains or
rocky ledges. On the day of leaving Bomba they saw {265} the first
stream or spring of running water, having been hitherto supplied
entirely from wells and cisterns. They shortly after entered a
beautiful and fertile district; as they advanced signs of cultivation
increased, and it became necessary, in order to conciliate the
inhabitants, to take active measures to prevent marauding or wanton
injury of property. News arrived that Yusuf's army was approaching;
but the prospect of a conflict which animated Eaton, depressed the
spirits of the Prince in whose cause he was engaged, and served to
excite the avaricious propensities of his Arab allies. Hamet and his
followers again began their secret consultations. The Sheiks refused
to advance, and the Bedouins, who had joined as independent partizans,
remained within their tents. A promise of money by Eaton however
prevailed; they resumed their march, and on the 25th encamped on an
eminence overlooking Derne.

The country eastward of the Great Syrtis, forming the ancient
Cyrenaica, is now called Barca, and is divided into two provinces, of
which the capital of the western is Bengazi, a small town occupying
the site of the ancient Berenice; that of the eastern is Derne. Each
province is governed by a Bey, who is generally a member of the royal
family. The Province of Derne is beautiful and fertile, and is
considered the most valuable portion of the Tripoline dominions; it
produces in great luxuriance, grapes, figs, melons, bananas, oranges,
dates and other fruits of a tropical climate; and affords good pasture
for cattle, of which many are exported for the supply of Malta and the
Ionian Islands. The capital is a small and irregularly built town,
situated near the seashore, at the mouth of a valley which extends for
a considerable distance into the country; through this valley rushes a
mountain torrent, which in the rainy season sometimes overflows the
town, and in the summer is nearly dry; water for the use of the
inhabitants, and for irrigating the fields and gardens, is however
constantly and plentifully supplied by a spring gushing from the side
of a hill above the town. Its distance (following the seashore) is
about eight hundred miles from Tripoli, from Alexandria about six
hundred; and it is considered on good grounds, as the remnant of
Darnis, one of the principal ports of the Cyrenaica. About fifty miles
west of it, are the massive ruins and extensive excavations which
point out the spot formerly occupied by the wealthy and polished
Cyrene.

The only regular fortification of the place was a battery near the
sea, occupied by the Bey Mustapha, a cousin of the Pasha; his troops,
about eight hundred in number, occupied the adjoining houses, in the
walls of which they had pierced loopholes for their musquets. A few
temporary parapets had also been thrown up in positions not covered by
the battery. The inhabitants of the town were generally in favor of
Hamet; those surrounding the Bey's residence, if similarly affected,
were restrained by fear from any demonstration of their feelings.

On the 26th of April, the day after the arrival of the expedition in
sight of Derne, Eaton sent a flag of truce to the Bey, demanding in
the name of Hamet as rightful Pasha of Tripoli, quiet passage through
the place, and provisions for his troops; promising in case of
compliance, that he should not be removed from his government. The Bey
instantly sent back the flag, with this short but expressive
answer--"_Your head or mine._" In the course of the night the Argus,
the Hornet, and the schooner Nautilus appeared; and on the 27th, Eaton
having succeeded with great difficulty in landing a field piece from
the latter vessel, determined on an immediate attack, it being his
object to gain possession of the town before the arrival of the troops
which were daily expected from Tripoli. Accordingly he himself
advanced with some of the Christians and Arabs down the valley,
towards the entrance of the place; Lieutenant O'Bannon with six
Americans and fifty other Christians took post to the eastward, and
brought the cannon to bear on the Bey's quarters; Hamet with about a
thousand Arabs occupied a ruined castle on the southwest side of the
town. At two o'clock the vessels stood in as near as possible, and
fired upon the battery and houses occupied by the Tripolines. By this
means, and by the active use of O'Bannon's field piece, the battery
was soon silenced, and the Bey's troops rushing from their coverts
upon Eaton's little band, which had now reached the entrance of the
place, succeeded in throwing them for a moment into confusion. They
were however speedily rallied, and being joined by a few of O'Bannon's
men, were brought to the charge; the Tripolines were driven through
the town to their former posts, which they were however obliged
immediately to abandon, the greater part seeking refuge on the
seashore, where they were exposed to the fire from the vessels. The
battery was seized by the Christians; and the guns, found loaded and
primed, were turned on the houses occupied by the Bey and his few
remaining followers. Hamet's troops had remained very quiet during the
affair, which was conducted almost entirely by the Christians; when
success had been assured, some of them entered the town, which they
began to pillage, others pursued the fugitives. It is believed that
they lost none of their number. The Christians had fourteen killed,
and several wounded; among the latter was Eaton, who received a ball
in his wrist on entering the town.

Eaton was particularly anxious to secure the person of the Bey, with a
view to his exchange for Captain Bainbridge; but he had taken refuge
first in a Mosque, and afterwards in the Harem of an old and
respectable inhabitant, who had two years before sheltered Hamet in a
similar manner, when pursued by this same Bey. Preparations were made
by the Christians to drag him from his place of refuge; but the
inhabitants and the Arabs expressed so much dissatisfaction at the
contemplated insult to what they considered most sacred, that it was
found expedient to abandon the attempt. The proprietor of the Harem,
though in favor of Hamet, declared his readiness to die rather than
submit to such a disgrace. Eaton then attempted by stratagems to draw
the Bey forth from his asylum; but they failed, and he at length
escaped to the enemy, his protector afterwards openly avowing that he
had assisted him in so doing, as he had formerly assisted Hamet.

Every exertion was then made to put Derne in a state of defence. Hamet
took possession of his former palace, and endeavored to render it
secure against any insurrectionary movement. Eaton established himself
in the battery; parapets were thrown up in proper positions, and
mounted with guns, to prevent the place {266} from being carried by a
sudden attack. The Tripoline forces at length appeared on the 4th of
May, in number between two and three thousand, under the command of
Hassan Bey, with the Beys of Bengazi, and Ogna, and Hadgi Ismain Bey,
as commander of the cavalry, acting under his orders. They took post
about two miles above the town, on each side of the valley, nearly in
the positions first occupied by Hamet's troops.

Hassan did not think proper to begin his operations immediately; at
length on the 13th his troops rushed down from each side of the
valley, upon a body of Hamet's cavalry which was posted below, about a
mile from the town. The Arabs received them with great steadiness, and
maintained their ground for some time, but being overpowered, fled in
disorder into the town. The Tripolines pursued, and although galled by
the musquetry from the houses, and by the guns of the battery and
ships wherever an opening presented itself, they succeeded in reaching
Hamet's palace. All was near being lost; the Arabs were giving way in
all directions; the Christians were too few in number to quit their
posts, and there was every prospect that Hamet would soon be either
killed or made prisoner. Eaton then turned the guns of the battery
upon the part of the town about the palace, and some of the Tripolines
being killed, a panic seized the others, and they fled with
precipitation, pursued by the Arabs, who behaved gallantly on this
occasion. Of the Tripolines about eighty were killed or wounded; the
loss on Hamet's side did not exceed twelve.

This defeat so much dispirited the Tripolines, that all the exertions
of the Beys could not induce them for some time to make another
attack; the Arabs obstinately refusing to encamp near the town, or to
venture within reach of the cannon shot, with which they had hitherto
been entirely unacquainted. Hassan finding bold and open measures
ineffectual, resorted to others from which he anticipated more
success; he offered six thousand dollars for Eaton's head, and double
the sum for him if taken alive. This magnificent promise however
produced no effect, doubtless from an apprehension that the task would
be difficult, and the reward by no means certain. He then engaged the
services of two expert women, who engaged to take off the troublesome
infidel by poison; but Eaton having received notice of their plans,
took precautions which rendered them ineffectual. The Beys in despair
next endeavored to attain their object by an assault, to be made under
cover of the camels, which were thus to form a moving parapet in front
and on the flanks. But this proposal was attended with no success, the
Arabs being as little inclined to risk the lives of their camels as
their own. In this state of things the Pasha's army began to
disappear; desertions daily took place, and on the 22d of May Eaton
writes, "_We want nothing but cash to break up our enemy's camp
without firing another shot._"

Partial attempts were however made on the 28th of May and the first
three days of June, which were unsuccessful. On the 7th Hadgi Ismain
Bey, commander of the Tripoline cavalry, quitted his post with some
followers, and escaped to Egypt, carrying with him the military chest.
The Bey of Bengazi was also reported to be wavering, and Eaton in his
despatches to Commodore Barron, earnestly urged him to send a few
marines and some money, by means of which he pledged himself soon to
appear in Tripoli and liberate his captive countrymen.

On the 10th the Tripoline forces received a large accession, and the
Beys determined to make a desperate effort. The action was begun by
some of their cavalry, who attempted to descend a pass leading to the
plain near the town; they were met by a body of Hamet's mounted Arabs,
which resisted the attack gallantly, and succeeded in repelling it.
Reinforcements appearing on each side, the action became general, and
it was supposed that at least five thousand men were engaged. The
Tripolines were driven off with some loss; but pursuit was impossible,
and Eaton was obliged still to remain, hoping or rather wishing for
the reinforcements he had so long requested. At Bomba and since his
arrival at Derne, he had received communications from the commanding
officer of the American forces in the Mediterranean, which gave him
great anxiety, and his situation was every day becoming more uncertain
and painful. His doubts were however terminated on the 11th, when the
frigate Constellation entered the harbor, bringing despatches from
Tripoli, dated the 6th; in order to understand the nature of these
several communications, and of his feelings, it will be necessary to
relate the occurrences at and before that city since September 1804.

(_To be continued._)




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

REMARKS ON A NOTE TO BLACKSTONE'S COMMENTARIES, VOL. I, PAGE 423.


MR. WHITE,--I have read the Note on a passage in Blackstone's
Commentaries, which you gave us in your last, with some surprise. I
had supposed before, that no gentleman of any intelligence could be
found within the four corners of our state, who would seriously
undertake to maintain that our domestic slavery, which is obviously
the mere creature of our own positive law, is so right and proper in
itself, that we are under no obligation whatever to do any thing to
remove, or lessen it, as soon as we can. I had thought, indeed, that
it was a point conceded on all hands, that, wrong in its origin and
principle, it was to be justified, or rather excused, only by the
stern necessity which had imposed it upon us without our consent, and
which still prevented us from throwing it off at once, without a
degree of danger which we could not properly encounter. And, at any
rate, I had imagined that all of us were fully satisfied, by this
time, that it was an evil of such injurious influence upon our moral,
political, and civil interests, that we owed it to ourselves as well
as to our subjects, to reduce, and remove it, as soon, and as fast as
possible, consistently with the rights which we had created or
sanctioned by our laws; and with other considerations which we were
bound to regard. In all this, however, it seems, I was reckoning
without my host, the author of the article before me, who has come
forward, at this late hour, to assert the absolute rectitude and
utility of the system, with all the power of his pen. I do not,
however, by any means, feel disposed to question his perfect right to
do so, or to deny for a moment the ingenuity with which he has labored
to maintain his novel position. On the contrary, I freely acknowledge
both; but believing at the same time, as I do, {267} that his
reasonings are false in their principle, and pernicious in their
tendency, I must beg leave to follow his annotations with a few
remarks.

And first, the Annotator, after declaring that he has been impelled to
defend our domestic slavery "by a pious reverence for the institutions
of our forefathers," (a very honorable motive; but strangely
misapplied,) proceeds to say: "It is hardly necessary to expose the
sophistry by which Mr. Blackstone affects to prove that slavery cannot
have had a lawful origin. We do not pretend to trace our title to its
source. We have no call to sit in judgment between the conquered
African and his conqueror. We rest our defence on principles which
legitimate our title, whatever its origin may have been. Yet it may
not be amiss to say a few words to show the fallacy of those plausible
and imposing dogmas, with which we too often suffer ourselves to be
talked down." Now I have always regarded the reasoning of Blackstone
on this point as absolutely unanswerable; and I am happy to know that
I am not alone in my opinion of its weight; for the late venerable
Judge Tucker, I see, in _his_ note upon the same passage, (which I
commend to all your readers,) after quoting it at length, adds these
words: "Thus by the most _clear_, _manly,_ and _convincing_ reasoning,
does this excellent author refute every claim, upon which the practice
of slavery is founded, or by which it has been supposed to be
justified, at least, in modern times." I will not, however, too
hastily conclude against the Annotator's objections; but endeavor to
weigh them with due care. He proceeds thus: "Slavery," says Mr.
Blackstone, "cannot originate in compact, because the transaction
excludes the idea of an equivalent." This is the substance of
Blackstone's argument on this head; but does not give us a full idea
of its force. His own statement of it is as follows: "But secondly, it
is said that slavery may begin 'jure civili' when one man sells
himself to another. This, if only meant of contracts to serve or work
for another, is very just; but when applied to strict slavery, in the
sense of the laws of old Rome or modern Barbary, is also impossible.
Every sale implies a price, _a quid pro quo_, an equivalent given to
the seller in lieu of what he transfers to the buyer; but what
equivalent can be given for life and liberty, both of which (in
absolute slavery) are held to be in the master's disposal? His
property also, the very price he seems to receive, devolves _ipso
facto_ to his master, the instant he becomes his slave. In this case,
therefore, the buyer gives nothing, and the seller receives nothing:
of what validity then can a sale be, which destroys the very
principles upon which all sales are founded?" Now this seems to me to
be pretty good logic; and how then does the Annotator answer it? Why
he says: "For an answer to this specious fallacy, I shall content
myself by referring you to the masterly essay of Professor Dew, who
has so clearly exposed it as to leave me nothing to add." This is
certainly judicious, and I cannot but commend him for his prudence, at
least, in thus turning over the trouble of answering such an argument
to another. How this latter gentleman, however, (who must take the
compliment _cum onere_,) can have contrived to expose so clearly "the
specious fallacy" which, it seems, lurks in it, I confess I cannot
imagine; as I have not his "masterly essay" before me. No doubt his
exposure must be clever; but, with all due respect for him, it is
plainly impossible that it can be sound. As at present advised,
therefore, I shall stick to Blackstone, or rather to his reasoning,
which, as far as I can see, no human wit can ever refute.

But the Annotator takes upon himself to grapple with another argument
of Blackstone, which he states in these words: "The commentator
further tells us that slavery cannot lawfully originate in _conquest_,
as a commutation for the right to kill; because this right rests on
necessity, and this necessity plainly does not exist, because the
victor does not kill his adversary, but makes him captive." Now this,
too, I have heretofore taken for very sound logic; and why is it not
perfectly so? Why because, says the Annotator, the conqueror may be in
such a situation that he can only secure himself against the future
hostility of his conquered enemy, by killing, _or_ by enslaving him;
and if he may enslave him himself, then he may hand him over to
another to deport him; which is the mildest mode of doing the thing.
Of course, "the mere captivity of his enemy does not imply the
security of the captor, should he allow his prisoner to go free." And
he illustrates his argument on this point, very prettily, by a figure.
"The snared tiger is in your power. You may kill--you may cage him.
_Therefore_, says Mr. Blackstone, you are under no necessity to do
either, and the noble beast has a fair claim to his liberty." This is
a dexterous turn; but unluckily it proceeds upon a misconception of
the true point of Blackstone's argument, which the Annotator ought to
have perceived is itself an answer to another. The commentator,
observe, is answering the argument of Justinian, that slavery may
arise "_jure gentium_," from a state of war; that is, from the right
of a captor to kill his enemy taken prisoner in battle. "But it is an
untrue position," says he, "when taken generally, that by the law of
nature or nations, a man may kill his enemy; he has only a right to
kill him in particular cases, in cases of absolute necessity for
self-defence; and it is plain this absolute necessity did not subsist,
since the victor did not actually kill him, but made him prisoner."
Now the answer is obviously complete, _so far as regards the point to
which it applies_. But, says the Annotator, it does not settle the
question. Perhaps not; nor does Blackstone say that it does; but it
settles the argument of Justinian; and that is all that, considered as
an answer, it was intended, or could be fairly required, to do.

But why does it not even settle the question? Why, because, says the
Annotator, the conqueror has a right to dispose of his captive in such
a manner as to protect himself from his future hostility; and if he
may not kill, it does not follow that he may not enslave, or transport
him, provided it is necessary for his own security, to dispose of him
in that way. Very true; but this is new matter, which demands perhaps
a new answer; but does not at all invalidate the former answer to the
former argument. And with regard to this new matter too, Blackstone
has, in my opinion, very fairly answered it in advance by what he
immediately adds, but what the Annotator, (inadvertently no doubt,)
has kept back. Thus he adds: "War is itself justifiable only on
principles of self-preservation, and, therefore, it gives no other
right over prisoners, but merely to disable them from doing harm to
us, _by confining their persons_; much less {268} can it give a right
to kill, torture, abuse, plunder, _or even to enslave_, an enemy,
_when the war is over_." To expand this sentence a little. You may,
says Blackstone, by the laws of war, put your enemy _hors de combat_;
but you must do it, by the law of humanity, which is a prior and
perpetual part of the same law of nature, with as little suffering to
him as possible, consistently with your own safety. You may then, I
grant you, take him prisoner, and "_confine his person_," that is, if
you cannot venture to discharge him on his parole; but "_only while
the war lasts_;" for the very foundation of your right to confine him
grows out of the war, and vanishes, of course, with the return of
peace.

Now it is obvious, I think, that this argument, duly considered, very
fairly answers, by anticipation, the new matter which the Annotator
has brought into view. For how, I ask, can a temporary right to
confine your captive _durante bello_, become the basis for the
transfer of an absolute right to enslave and deport him? Obviously, if
I must even grant that you can transfer your right of self-defence, or
the powers which it involves, to a neutral, (which I might well
question,) you can only transfer it to the extent to which you possess
it yourself. But your right over your prisoner of war ceases with your
war against the nation, or tribe, to which he belongs. And what right,
then, can you have to hand him over to an assignee, who you know will
continue his dominion over him, (and over his children after him,)
without putting it in your power again to restore him, as in duty
bound, upon the cessation of hostilities, to his family and friends?
Or what right can your assignee have to hold the prisoner under your
assignment, one moment after your right itself has run out? Obviously,
none at all. A holds a slave, who is to serve for the life of B, but
to be free afterwards, and sells him to C in fee simple; what right
has C to hold him after the death of B? Clearly none at all.

There is no escaping from the force of this argument, as far as I can
see, but by maintaining, (as the Annotator indeed seems disposed to
do,) that barbarians can have no peace with each other; but that war
among them must be waged _ad internecionem_, to the point of mutual
extermination, or something equivalent. But this notion is plainly
more barbarous than the practice of the most barbarous tribes that we
have ever read, or heard of; for there is not one of them that does
not make peace, after its fashion; (or did not at least, before our
European slavers taught them a different lesson,) and the act of
making peace obviously implies that there can be, and is, a reasonable
security against future hostilities, without the destruction of either
party. And there is no tribe on earth, I suppose, (or was not before
the slave-trade began,) so absolutely and desperately barbarous as to
insist upon holding its captives after the war is over, and the treaty
of peace fairly ratified by a smoking match, or a dance upon the
green.

But the Annotator may yet say, (and does in fact,) that granting all
this, the captor _may have been_ in the dilemma which he has supposed,
_during the war_; that is, he may have been obliged to kill or sell
his captives immediately, to save himself; and he puts a case to
illustrate his argument on this point. "When Colonel Campbell, at the
head of a few militia, stooped from the mountains of Virginia on
Carolina, and bore off the corps of Colonel Ferguson in his pounces,
had he been pursued and overtaken by Tarleton, he must have killed his
prisoners. He could not have held them, and to have enlarged them
would have been to sacrifice the lives of thousands. If, then, he had
had no place of refuge, he might have handed them over to any custody,
civilized or savage, in which they might have been removed from the
theatre of the war." But this case is obviously an imaginary one; and
such as could hardly have occurred in fact. It is remarkable indeed
that the Annotator could find no example in all the romance of real
life to suit the exigence of his argument; but was compelled to
fabricate one for the purpose; or at least to piece out an actual
occurrence, by a supplemental supposition or two of his own; and even
then could not make it serve his turn. Thus Colonel Campbell was _not_
"pursued and overtaken by Tarleton," and, if he had been, would
evidently have had to fight or surrender, and could have had no time
to think about the supposed alternative of killing his prisoners, or
handing them over to a third party, even if one had been there to
receive them. And if you vary the case a little, so as to make him
pursued, but not overtaken; the time that you will thus give him to
hand over his prisoners to others, will equally suffice to enable him
to escape with them himself. Or if you give him time enough to hand
them over; but not enough to escape with them, (a point of nicety that
is hardly conceivable,) then you also allow the pursuing enemy time
enough, in all probability, to come up and recapture them from their
new holders; the very thing to be avoided. The case, therefore, is
evidently altogether fanciful, and proves nothing. At all events, it
is quite clear that such a _nodus_ as it indicates could not have
occurred in any single instance of the sale of captives for slaves, by
any African chief, to the master of a Spanish ship. At least, it is
quite fair to say that, in general, the mere fact of the captor's
having sold his captive, even during the war, must be _prima facie_,
if not conclusive evidence, that he could not have been in the dilemma
imagined, of being obliged to kill, or to enslave him; for it must be
obvious that if he had him so completely in his power as to be able to
bargain, sell, and deliver him to the slaver, and to receive his money
or goods stipulated for him in return; he could not have been very
closely pursued by any barbarous Tarleton in his rear at the time, and
could not have been under any pressing necessity to do either the one
thing, or the other; but, for aught that appears, might have disposed
of his prisoner in some more humane manner. The _onus probandi_, then,
or burden of proof, to show that in point of fact the captor and
vender of any African slave, _was_, in any case whatever, in the
precise predicament supposed, must be on the Annotator; and can he
bear it? Hardly, I suppose. But of what avail, then, can it be to his
argument, that he can _imagine_ or _invent_ a case, (or a hundred
cases, if he likes,) in which there _might have been_ a lawful origin
of slavery, when he evidently cannot show that any thing like it has
ever occurred in fact, from the first beginning of the slave trade
down to the present time?

Thus it appears that the reasoning of Blackstone to prove the
unlawfulness of slavery in its origin, is as strong as we have always
thought it; and very easily defends itself against all that any
ingenuity can urge {269} against it. But say that it is not so; and
grant, if you please, for the sake of argument, that it is all "a
specious fallacy" indeed; what then? Does it follow that slavery _as
it exists in our state_, was just and lawful _in its origin_? By no
means. For say that Mr. Dew has by some miraculous effort of
intellect, very clearly established, in the face of Blackstone's
demonstration, (and in the face of our Bill of Rights also,) that a
man _can_ sell himself; can it be shown that, in point of fact, any
single one of the slaves who were imported into our colony from the
year 1620 to the revolution, _had_ actually sold himself to any one
who claimed to be his owner? And say, also, that the Annotator has
proved, against the unanswerable argument of his author, (and against
the plainest principles of the law of nature,) that a conqueror may
justly enslave and export his prisoner of war in any imaginable case
whatever, can it be made to appear that any one of the Africans
brought to our shore was really captured, and sold, in such a state of
things? On the contrary, we have unhappily the most ample evidence
from history, that the whole of our exotic slaves were either stolen
from their native woods, and brought away against their will, or under
false and fraudulent promises which were never performed; or bought
for swords and rum, (fit price for such articles!) from those who had
captured them, not in just and necessary wars of self-defence, but in
predatory hostilities, excited and fomented for the very purpose, by
the worst of pirates, the foulest and most deadly enemies of the human
race.

But passing from this "grave sophistry," as he calls it, of
Blackstone, the Annotator now comes to the consideration of those
"principles" on which he chooses to rest his defence of slavery, and
"which," he says, "legitimate our title, whatever its origin may have
been." But can _any_ principles, I ask, do this? If slavery, as we
have seen, is clearly wrong in its origin; that is, if it is, in
itself, a violation of the law of nature, can any thing "legitimate"
it; that is, make it lawful; by that law? Is not the law of nature,
like its author, immutable, and eternal? And must not that, then,
which is against this law in one age, be equally against it in
another, and in every succeeding age, to the end of time? And if
slavery, then, was unlawful in its origin, must it not be so now, and
continue to be so forever? Or, can the mere lapse of time make it
lawful? But that cannot alter the nature of things. Indeed I may
remind the Annotator, that our municipal law even, while it legalizes
slavery, does not allow any length of time to bar a claim to freedom;
and much less, then, can the law of nature, which has no statute of
limitations in its code.

But waiving this, let us see, for a moment, what these principles are
which the Annotator supposes may "legitimate our title, whatever its
origin may have been." What are they? Why, if I understand his view of
the subject, (though it is not, I think, very clearly conveyed,) it is
substantially this. By the decree of God, who has said, that "man
shall eat of the fruit of the earth by the sweat of his face," there
must always be a _working class_ of men, in every country, who must be
satisfied to labor for their victuals and clothes; that being the
natural and impassable stint of their wages. It makes no manner of
odds, therefore, whether the members of this working class be free or
slave: if they are fed and clothed, it is all that they have a right
to expect, or any reason to demand. In point of fact, indeed, the
slave of this class is perhaps rather better off than the freeman;
since he is usually better fed and better clothed; and if he has no
hope of any thing better, he has no fear of any thing worse; and, upon
the whole, has a pretty considerable balance of comfort on his side.
It follows from all this, that his master may, very _legitimately_,
hold him down as a slave, _ad indefinitum_, (that is, till slavery
"runs out" of itself, as he thinks it may in time,) without feeling
any qualm of conscience in the case, or giving himself any trouble
whatever about the matter.

Now all this is doubtless very pretty, and very imposing! It has,
however, I acknowledge, some small mixture of truth in it; and if it
were offered merely by way of apology for our slavery, and as a
set-off against the gross caricatures of it which are sometimes drawn
by the _ultras_ of the other side, and especially by our northern
abolitionists, I should hardly choose to criticise it too nicely.
Indeed I am happy to believe myself, that bad as the system
unquestionably is, it is yet not without some alleviating
concomitants, which materially soften its natural horrors, and may
properly serve to make us endure it with more patience, while we must.
But if the Annotator intends to go further than this, and to prove by
these remarks, (as I understand him to do,) that it is _right_ and
_lawful_; then I must protest against the reasoning as utterly vain
and irrelevant. For, granting all his premises, (though there are
certainly some rather strange and startling propositions among them;
yet granting them all for the sake of argument,) I really cannot
perceive how the conclusion follows from them. For if I grant that
there must be _a working class_, does it follow that we have a right
to determine by compulsion, or by positive law, who shall compose that
class? The decree of Divine Providence, as quoted by the Annotator
himself, is that "_man_," (that is, that all men,) shall work for his
bread. What right, then, has any one portion, or set of men, to slip
their own necks out of "the brazen collar," (as he calls it,) of toil;
and fasten it immoveably and inexorably upon another? Is not this at
once evading and altering, as it were, the counsel of the Creator of
all? And if I grant, also, that the slave is happier than the free
laborer, does it follow that his master may lawfully hold him as such?
Does the question of right depend simply, or at all, upon the degree
of happiness which the laborer enjoys? And have I, then, a right to
make _any_ man work for me, according to my will and pleasure,
provided I take care to feed and clothe him well, and make him as
happy as any laborer can expect to be? Would the Annotator think it
exactly right to have such a principle carried home to himself? But he
would perhaps say, that I must not take quite so great a range as
that, but be satisfied to take my man from "_the working class_." But
who compose this working class? All those, I presume, who have been
reduced by the various misfortunes of human life, to the hard
necessity of laboring for others, for their daily bread. But would any
one of this class consent to have the principle of compulsion brought
to bear against him, and surrender forever all hope and chance of
"escaping to the upper air" of a higher class? Certainly not. Then I
must yet further take care, I suppose, to see that my {270} man whom I
am to force to labor for me, on the Annotator's principle, shall be
_black_. So the question of right turns at last upon the color of the
skin. Admirable logic indeed!

But the Annotator thinks that he has found something like an argument
to prove the lawfulness of our slavery, in the text of his author, who
happens to say (on another point,) that, "by the law of England, all
single men between twelve years old and sixty, and married ones under
thirty years of age, and all single women between twelve and forty,
not having any visible livelihood, are _compellable_ by two justices
to go out to service in husbandry, or certain specified trades."
"This," says he, "is as much as to say, they who can only live by
labor shall be made to labor. What more do we? They compel him to
choose a master. We appropriate his labor to a master to whom use and
a common interest attach him, and who is generally the master of his
choice. The wages of both are the same"--to wit, victuals and clothes.
And he adds afterwards, "It is here; on this very point, of the
necessity of forcing those to labor who are unable to live honestly
without labor, that we base the defence of our system." This is
pleasant indeed; but does not the Annotator perceive that he has
entirely mistaken _the principle_ of the English law, which is not, as
he states it, that "they who can only live by labor shall be made to
labor;" but that those who can only live by labor, _and yet will not
labor for themselves_, and are, therefore, likely to become chargeable
to the parish, shall be made to labor _for a time_, and _for wages_,
until they have learned, in this way, to work freely and willingly,
for their own support. But, according to _this_ principle, it is easy
to see that hundreds and thousands of our slaves would be entitled to
their freedom at once; for it cannot be pretended that many of them at
least would not be both able and willing to labor for themselves; and
if all, or the larger part of them, would not, it can only be because
their very slavery itself has incapacitated them for voluntary toil.
But can we, then, plead a defect of theirs which is the consequence of
our own act, to justify that act, in this way? Surely this ground of
defence must be abandoned at once, as wholly untenable, and even
dangerous in the highest degree. At any rate, there is no reason to
charge the English law with countenancing our system. The English law
says that a freeman who can, and will not, work to support himself
shall be made to do so; in order that others may not be called upon to
support him. Our law says that all slaves shall be made to work for
their masters, whether they are able and willing to support
themselves, or not. Is the principle of both laws the same, or
entirely different?

But the Annotator finds an excellent reason why our mode of compelling
all slaves to work, should even be preferred to the English one of
compelling freemen to do so in particular cases; and it is curious
enough. I must give it in his own words: "That such compulsion," says
he, "is often necessary, all reason and experience prove. But to a
people jealous of freedom, it is a delicate question whether such a
power can be safely trusted to the municipal authority. To make it
effectual it must be a power dangerous to liberty. It could never be
carried into effect but by a degree of rigor which must bow the spirit
of the laborer, and effectually disqualify him for the political
functions of a sovereign citizen." This is truly excellent. So, then,
it would be dangerous to our liberty to have such a law as that of
England which allows, in certain cases, a freeman who is likely to
become a freebooter, or at least a hanger-on upon the community, to be
compelled to work for himself; and not at all dangerous to that same
liberty to compel one half of our population to work for the other! It
would, forsooth, "bow the spirit of the laborer," (as if the vagabond
had any spirit to bow,) and "disqualify him for the political
functions of a sovereign citizen;" and so to prevent that occasional
disqualification of a few, we must systematically disqualify hundreds
and thousands from performing those same functions of freemen, which
are so important and interesting to the whole body politic! A notable
expedient indeed to preserve the purity and lustre of our liberty,
from all possible danger of destruction or decay!

Upon the whole, I must say that, in my judgment, the Annotator has
failed entirely either to invalidate Blackstone's argument against the
lawfulness of slavery in its origin, or to advance any principles
whatever which can legitimate it, as it exists in our state, at the
present time. I must not, however, by any means, be understood as
meaning to convey the idea that I consider it as altogether
indefensible before the tribunal of an impartial world. On the
contrary, I still hold, as I have always done, that under the peculiar
circumstances in which we find it amongst us, it is justifiable, or
rather excusable, upon the soundest principles of the law of nature;
and, more particularly, upon the principle of necessity and
self-defence. By the law of nature, I may take away the life of
another when I cannot otherwise defend my own. Of course, I may take
away his liberty in a like case; and, _a fortiori_, I may continue my
custody of his person, when he has been committed to my charge,
however wrongfully, by one in whose act I had no participation; and
when I cannot release him without hazarding my own safety, and his
too. To apply this principle to the subject before us; our fathers
have fastened this enormous evil upon us in the beginning without our
concurrence or consent; and we now find and feel it to be too great
and complicated for us to think of removing it at once. To emancipate
our slaves on the spot, would indeed, in all human probability, be
followed by the ruin of both parties; and would at least be an
experiment too tremendous in its aspect, and too uncertain in its
issue, to be rashly tried. In this state of things, therefore, we may,
I conceive, most rightfully and properly, continue to hold them, as we
would hold prisoners of war, whose persons, we have seen, we may
lawfully confine while it is necessary for us to do so in order to
protect ourselves from their hostilities; but whom, at the same time,
we must sincerely and earnestly desire to liberate, and send back to
their own country, as soon as we can.

A VIRGINIAN.




The Western Monthly Magazine concurs with us in our opinions of
Vathek. The editor says, "Vathek is the production of a sensual and
perverted mind. The events are extravagant, the sentiments pernicious,
and the moral bad. It has nothing to recommend it but ease of style
and copiousness of language."


{271}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE.

  "I'll make thee famous with my pen,
     And glorious with my sword."


It is said, and truly said, that "Truth is often more incredible than
fiction." It is natural too, that we should take a deeper interest in
the fortunes of creatures of flesh and blood, who have actually lived
and suffered, than in the imaginary sorrows of beings that are
themselves but figments of the writer's brain.

Why then do we so rarely meet with any narrative of facts which
engages our feelings so deeply as a well wrought fiction? May it not
be that in all histories of a romantic character there is, from the
very nature of the thing, a degree of mystery which we cannot
penetrate; and that the innumerable little incidents, which adorn the
pages of a romance, and so aptly illustrate the characters of the
parties, are hidden by the veil of domestic privacy? It might be
allowable to supply these; but the attempt to do so, is always
offensive to the reader. We are disgusted at seeing truth alloyed by
fiction, and the fiction always betrays itself. Let a characteristic
chit-chat be detailed, and we find ourselves wondering who it was that
took notes of the conversation. We read the scene between Ravenswood
and Miss Ashton at the haunted fountain, and never ask, whether she
rose from her grave, or he emerged from the Kelpie's flow, to describe
it to the writer. But such a narrative concerning real persons, would
inevitably disgust us; and no writer of any tact would ever attempt
it. None above the grade of Parson Weems ever did. There is no wilder
romance than his life of Marion. But who reads it? We feel that it
profanes the truth of history with fiction, and we throw it away with
disgust. Yet it comes nearer to Schiller's masterpiece, "The Robbers,"
than any thing else. Is it less interesting because the prompting
impulse of the hero is virtuous, not criminal? No; but there is just
truth enough to keep us always mindful of the falsehood.

The great art, and the great charm of Walter Scott, is that he never
_describes_ his characters. He brings us _into their society_, and
makes us _know_ them. But how shall I make known the persons of whom I
wish to speak? I can say that HE was generous and brave, sincere, and
kind, and true, and that SHE was fair and gentle, and pure and tender.
These are but words, and have been repeated till they have lost their
meaning. I can say that both loved; but how can I show the passion
flashing in the eye, and glowing in the cheek--and how can I give it
breath in their own burning words? _I_ heard them not. _None_ heard
them. I can say that the hand of destiny was upon them, and tore them
asunder, to meet no more. I can even use the words of one whose
strains he loved, to tell

  "That neither ever found another
   To free the hollow heart from paining;"

but how can I develope the mysterious means by which this destiny was
accomplished? How could I speak, but in their own words, uttered only
to the midnight solitude, the deep yearnings of their hearts--and the
noble enthusiasm which made it the task of his life to render glorious
the name of him she had honored with her love? Could these details be
given truly, what a romance of real life would they form! Let the
reader judge from the following lines found among his papers, when the
damps of the grave had at last cooled the fever of his brain.

  'Tis sweet, when night is hushed in deep repose;
    And hides the Minstrel's form from every eye;
  To breathe the thoughts that speech can ne'er disclose,
    In all the eloquence of harmony.

  The mellow strain pervades the silent air,
    And mingles with the sleeper's blissful dream:
  The Lover hears the song of maiden fair;
    The humble saint, an Angel's holy hymn.

  Then sweet to know that she, for whom alone,
    Pours the wild stream of plaintive melody,
  Recalls the voice of Love in every tone;
    Approves its truth, and owns its purity.

  Borne on the breeze that cools her glowing cheek,
    But fans the ardor of her fevered breast;
  Lifts the loose lock that floats upon her neck,
    Sports round her couch, and hovers o'er her rest:

  Borne on that breeze, it greets her listening ear
    With tales of raptured bliss and tender wo;
  And tells of Joy and Grief, of Hope, Despair,
    And all that love, and Love alone can know.

  Her fair companions hear the soothing sound,
    But mute to them the voice that speaks to her;
  Burns the warm blush, unmarked of all around,
    And darkling falls, unseen, the silent tear.

  But not unseen of all; for to his eye,
    By Fancy's magic light she stands revealed;
  Her bosom struggling with the half-breathed sigh,
    By the strong pressure of her hand repelled.

  The Tear that in the moon-beam sparkles bright;
    The pensive look; the outstretched neck of snow;
  The Blush, contending with the silver light,
    Whose cold pale gleam would quench its fervid glow;

  He sees and hears it all. The music's stream
    Extends a viewless chord of sympathy,
  Thought answers thought; and, lost in Fancy's dream,
    Each breast responsive swells with sigh for sigh.

  Then O how sweet! warmed by the sacred flame,
    Of mutual--true,--but fruitless--hopeless love,
  To run the high career of deathless fame,
    And mid the world's admiring gaze to move

  Reckless of all but her. By midnight lamp,
    To turn, with heedful eye, the learned page;
  To shake the Senate, or to rule the Camp;
    To brave the tempest's blast, or battle's rage!

  What is the thought that prompts his studious zeal?
    That mans his breast in danger's fearful path?
  That nerves his arm to grasp the gory steel,
    Despising toil and hardship, wounds and death?

  It is that she the impassioned strain will love,
    That gives her charms in deathless verse to shine;
  Her favoring smile his steadfast faith approve;
    Her raptured tears bedew each glowing line.

  It is that she will cherish the renown
    Of noble deeds achieved her name to grace;
  And prize the heart that beat for her alone,
    In glory's triumph, and in death's embrace.

  'Tis that a grateful nation's loud acclaim
    May pour his praises on her favoring ear;
  'Tis that the twilight splendor of his name
    The widowed darkness of her heart may cheer. {272}

  O! ever lovely, loving and beloved;
    Constant in absence; constant in despair!
  By time unwearied, by caprice unmoved;
    Thy lover's faith and fame thine only care!

  Tho' known to none but thee thy minstrel's name,
    Or who the fair that caused his tender pain;
  All undistinguished by the voice of fame,
    The bard who sung; the maid that waked the strain.

  Yet may'st thou catch the unconscious sympathy
    Of some soft nymph, who, from her lover's tongue,
  Hears, with averted look and blush and sigh,
    Her heart's fond secret in this artless song.

  But were I skilled to weave the immortal verse,
    Which after ages with applause would read;
  Thy praise in fitting accents I'd rehearse,
    And with unfading bay would crown thy head.

  Then should my Laura's charms survive the tomb,
    In strains like that the fairy bulbul sings,
  When all unseen he wakes the midnight gloom,
    Hovering o'er beauty's grave on viewless wings.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXTRACT FROM A LADY'S ALBUM.


    And must I stain this virgin leaf,
      So fair, so pure, and so like thee!
    It grieves me--but it is thy will;
      And that is always law to me.

    'Tis said that those who feel the most
      Can best describe love's potent spell--
    That what the heart most deeply feels,
      The tongue most eloquently tells.

    Alas! it is an erring rule--
      It is not true! it is not true!
    Strong Passion's voice was ever low;
      And lower yet as Passion grew.

    When fiercest winds o'er ocean sweep,
      The sea is quell'd--no billows roll
    Their foaming crests upon the deep.
      Thus Passion treads the very soul
    Low in the dust, and bids it weep
      In silent anguish--and 'tis still
  As the aw'd slave who bows before a despot's will.

    Then think not I can tell my love
      In well-set phrase, with fitting smiles;
    He loves not--Oh! believe it true--
      Who knows and practices such wiles.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE PRAYER.


  Oh! mother, whither do they lead
  This wretched form, this drooping frame?
  What means the white rose in my hair?
  These jewels sure are not a dream.
  Of wither'd leaves 'twere better far
  The bridal chaplet had been wove--
  Oh! mother, lead me back again;
  _I cannot love--I cannot love!_

  Look not for love--it is in vain!
  Within this heart no more it dwells:
  Unclasp the volume if thou wilt,
  And ponder on the truth it tells.
  Ah! dearest mother, do not seek
  To warm to life a thing that dies,
  Nor re-illume the flame, when once
  The shrine, in hopeless ruin lies.

  Not to the altar, mother--no,
  I cannot kneel and speak that vow--
  Oh! let me rend these hated gems,
  And tear the white rose from my brow.
  Nay, let the dark grave be my couch,
  Of cypress leaves my bridal wreath,
  And I will wed,--yes, gladly wed,
  And clasp my welcome bridegroom, _Death!_

OCTAVIAN.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SELECTIONS FROM MY PORT FOLIO.

MY OWN OPINION--_A la Shakspeare_.


  There are, who say she is not beautiful.
  "Her forehead's not well turned," cries one. "The nose
  Too large"--"Her mouth ill-chiselled," says a third.
  With these, I claim no fellowship.
  For me, ('tis an odd taste, I know, and now-a-days,
  When people _feel_ by _rule_, such taste is thought
  Exceedingly romantic--yet 'tis true,)
  I look not with this mathematic eye
  On woman's face; I carry not about
  The compass, and the square--and when I'm asked,
  "Is that face fine?" draw forth my instruments,
  And coolly calculate the length of chin,
  Th' expanse of forehead, and the distance take
  Twixt eye and nose, and then, twixt nose and mouth,
  And if, exactly correspondent, it
  Should not prove _just so much_, two and three-eighths,
  Or, one four-fifths, disgusted, turn away,
  And vow "'tis vile! there is no beauty in't!"
  Out, on this mechanic disposition!
  Look you! _That man was born a carpenter._
  He hath no heart--he hath no soul in him,
  Who thus insults the "human face divine,"
  And tests its beauty with a vile inch-rule,
  As he would test the beauty of a box,
  A chess-board, or a writing-desk! Oh no!
  It is not in the feature's symmetry
  (For choose of earth the most symmetric face,
  Phidias shall carve as perfect--_out of stone_,)
  That the deep beauty lies! Give me the face
  _That's warm--that lives--that breathes--made radiant_
  _By an informing spirit from within!_
  Give me the face that varies _with the thought_,
  That answers to the heart! and seems, the while,
  With such a separate consciousness endued,
  That, as we gaze, we can almost believe
  _It is itself a heart_--and, _of itself_,
  Doth feel and palpitate!

                      And such is her's!
  One need _but look on_, to converse with her!
  Why I, without a thought of weariness,
  Have sat, and gazed on her for hours! and oft,
  As I have listened to her voice, and marked
  The beautiful flash of her fine dark eye,
  And the eloquent beaming of her face,
  And the tremulous glow that, when she spoke,
  Pervaded her whole being,--I have dreamed
  A spirit held communion with me then,
  And could have knelt to worship!

P. H.

_Augusta, Georgia_.


{273}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM NEW ENGLAND.--NO. 4.

BY A VIRGINIAN.


_Albany, N. Y. July 27th, 1834._

It is a Southern opinion, that the large factories which have grown up
in the North, within the last seventeen years, are of a very
demoralizing tendency: that so many persons--_such_ persons
too--cannot be housed together, and allowed the free intercourse
unavoidable where the restraint is not for crime, without a large
result of licentiousness and vice. I have long thought thus: and must
confess I entered New England with a sort of _wish_ (arising from my
hostility to the protective system,) to have the opinion confirmed. In
some places, I heard and saw confirmation strong: but in most--and
those the chief seats of manufactures--my inquiries resulted directly
otherwise. The laborers there, it seems, are as moral as any other
class of the population. The females watch each other's deportment
with the most jealous vigilance: a slip is at once exposed, and
punished by expulsion; even a slight indiscretion is sure to draw down
remonstrance, and if that fails, complaint to the ruling power. The
boys and girls are allowed a reasonable part of the year to attend the
common-schools; and are encouraged at all seasons to frequent Sunday
schools. Lectures, occasional or in courses, are delivered, of which
the operatives are eager hearers: and social Libraries, with habits of
reading, sometimes produce among them strengthened and well stored
minds. Wherever these good effects appear, be it observed, the
proprietors and superintendents (generally men of fortune, as well as
intelligence) have taken the greatest possible care to produce them.
And where the unfavorable appearances occurred, there seemed to have
been a corresponding neglect on the part of owners and agent.

The _natural_ course of these establishments, then, seems to be _down
the stream of vice_. Great exertions may enable them to resist, nay to
surmount and ascend the current; but so soon as those efforts cease,
that instant the downward tendency prevails.[1] While the
manufacturing system is young--while high protecting duties enable
employers to give high wages--while a desire to conciliate favor to
the system keeps both owners and operatives upon _their best
behavior_--the favorable moral condition I have described may
continue. But the oarsman cannot forever row up the stream; weariness,
or confidence, or incaution, will, some day, relax his arm. In process
of time, these promiscuous assemblages of hundreds and thousands will
vindicate the justness of the reasoning, which argues the danger of
contamination (a sort of _spontaneous combustion_) from so close a
contact:[2] will shew themselves rank hot beds of vice; and make the
lover of good morals grieve, that so many souls should ever have been
seduced from the healthful air of field, and forest, and rustic
fireside, to sicken and die in a tainted, unnatural atmosphere.

[Footnote 1: Non aliter quam qui adverso vix flumine lembum
             Remigiis subigit; si brachia forté remisit,
             Atque illum in præceps prono rapit alveus amni.]

[Footnote 2: In Godwin's Inquirer, are some very just and forcible
observations on the corrupting effect upon youth, of too close and
numerous an association with each other. He applies it to large
boarding schools. The enlightened President of a Rhode Island
University, on similar grounds (as he told me), does all that he can
to discourage students from boarding and lodging in _College_.
Observation and experience had shewn him the danger of _spontaneous
combustion_, from the too near approach of human passions and
weaknesses. The same principle applies to the case of Factory hands:
only, here, are superadded, elements which incalculably enhance the
danger.]

I mentioned _Lectures, and social Libraries_.--These, and similar
institutions for diffusing knowledge among the multitude, are among
the chief glories of New England. In all the cities, and many of the
larger and middling towns (towns in the English sense,) there are
Lyceums, Young Men's Societies, Library Societies, or associations
under some such name, for mental exercise and improvement. A
collection of books is a usual, and a philosophical apparatus an
occasional appendage. Connectedly with these institutions, or
sometimes, independently of them, Lectures on every variety of
subjects that can instruct or profit mankind, are delivered by public
spirited men--professional and unprofessional--sometimes, by farmers
and mechanics themselves. They are gratuitous; and in a style plain
enough to be understood by all classes of society, who flock to hear
them. For these occasions, the first abilities of the country have now
and then been put in requisition. Story, Everett, and Webster--alike
with the village teacher and mechanic; have contributed their quota of
MIND, towards the holy cause of Popular Instruction. A valuable
lecture from each of these; from Mr. Everett indeed, two Lectures--are
in Vol. 1 of the "American Library of useful knowledge." The name of
this work at once suggests that a similar one, published by Mr.
Brougham and his generous associates in Great Britain, in
_fortnightly_ pamphlets, at a rate so cheap as to be within every
laborer's reach; unfolding, in a familiar style, the useful parts of
scientific and historical knowledge. To his share in this work,
Brougham, you remember, having his hands already filled with pressing
employments, was obliged to devote "_hours stolen from needful rest_."
How magnanimous the spirit, which could prompt that "hardest lesson
that humility can teach--a voluntary descent from the dignity of
science,"[3] to explain the simple rudiments of knowledge to
unlettered minds! the spirit, which could make genius and power drudge
in the lowliest walks of learning, to open and smooth them for the
ingress of {274} intellectual "babes and sucklings!" When will the
great of Virginia deign this magnanimous descent? When will our Leigh,
our Tazewell, our Barbour, our Rives, our Johnson, our Stanard, our
Robertson--a generous spirit, from whose devotion to democracy,
something might be expected towards fitting his countrymen for self
government--when will they, and the host of talents besides that
Virginia possesses, be found striving in this noble race of usefulness
with Brougham, Jeffrey, McIntosh, Webster and Everett? That
trumpet-call of the North American Review five years ago, which might
have roused apathy itself to energetic effort in the cause of Popular
Education, and which--whether it _betokened_ only, or _strengthened_,
the beneficent operation of the spirit that has so long been diffusing
through the North the blessed light of MIND--doubtless met a response
in every Northern bosom; that trumpet-call, in Virginia, fell upon
senseless ears. You indeed, I remember, echoed it; but trumpet-call
and echo both, sounded in ears deaf save to the miserable wranglings
of party, about the more miserable pretensions of opposing candidates:
and, at this day, our people, and their leaders, are in a slumber as
profound on this subject, as if we had no Literary Fund--no Primary
Schools--no youth to educate--no country to save from the certain fate
of popular ignorance.

[Footnote 3: Dr. Johnson.]

It is bed time, and I must forbear saying more at present. Yet I have
not done with New England: there remain several topics, which I
incline to touch. So you shall hear from me at my next stopping place.

       *       *       *       *       *

_West Point, N. Y., July 28._

On board the Steam-boat this morning, I met ---- ---- and his family;
who, without my knowing it, were in Albany all of yesterday. They have
landed here too; and we expect to descend the river together to New
York city, to-morrow. He has given me a very gratifying account of the
Temperance reformation in this state. It seems to be triumphant,
beyond all experience in Virginia, or even in New England. The _means_
have been, _perfectly organized action_--_great diligence of
exertion_--and _the use of the_ PRESS. The organization consists in a
regular and intimate concert, of _township_ societies with _county_
societies, and of these with the _State_ society. This powerful
machinery has been aided by the active zeal, and generosity, of
individuals, who have profusely lavished time, and toil, and money, to
advance the goodly work. And by a judicious use of a great modern
improvement of the Press, a monthly paper (the Temperance Recorder) is
published, at the price of seventeen cents per annum: a copy of which,
or of some other Temperance newspaper, it is believed, is received by
almost every family in the state. Measures are taking to convey light
thus to, absolutely, _every family_. Cannot something like this be
done in Virginia? In Massachusetts, I perceived with regret, a strong
disposition to invoke Legislative action in support of the Temperance
Society: to get the making and vending of ardent spirits prohibited by
Law. In New York, they disarm opposition of so plausible a pretext for
hostility, by fixedly determining to ask--to accept--no such aid; but
to rely exclusively upon _reasoning_, _the exhibition of facts_, _and
the influence of example_--means, which have already achieved, what
were seven years ago deemed chimæras, and which will doubtless be
fully adequate to the consummation of this great work.--But I am
digressing from my design, of dwelling a little longer on some
features of New England.

_Manual Labor Schools_ (on the Fellenberg plan) have not multiplied
there, or grown in esteem, as might have been expected from the
forwardness of the people in adopting every valuable improvement; and
particularly, from the congeniality of this one with their own
long-cherished custom, of blending labor with study. Possibly, this
very custom may, in their eyes, make the improvement unnecessary:
since their youth already substantially enjoy its advantages. To study
in winter--to work in summer--has, time out of mind, been the routine
of New England education: differing from the Fellenberg method only in
having the alternations half-_yearly_, instead of
half-_daily_.--Franklin, the Trumbulls, Sherman, Dwight, Pickering,
Webster, Burges, and all the illustrious self-made men, who have
rendered that otherwise unkindly soil so verdant with laurels, were
nurtured strictly in the discipline of _manual labor schools_: and
perhaps the new method would be quite needless, were not the progress
of wealth, luxury, indolence and pride, now rapidly swelling the
numbers of those who, urged by no necessity, and relying upon no
exertions of their own for distinction, would never feel the salutary
influence of labor, if not sent to schools where it is taught; and
were not the same progress multiplying those also, who never could
procure instruction, except by the opportunity which this method
affords them, of purchasing it by their labor. Perhaps too, the Common
Schools (in which poor and rich are equally entitled to learn) may
tend still more to render the new plan useless; as to the branches of
knowledge taught in them.

_Infant Schools_ appear to have sunk a good deal in esteem, among
intelligent people in New England. At Hartford, a lady, whose name
(were it seemly to publish a lady's name) would give commanding weight
to the opinion, told me that they were found hurtful both to body and
mind: To _body_ (and this the physicians confirmed) by overexciting,
and thus injuring, the brain and the nervous system: to _mind_, by
inducing the habit of learning parrot-like, by rote--by sound {275}
merely--without exercise of the thinking power. It seems agreed, that
some features of the infant school system may advantageously be
transferred to ordinary schools: for instance, the use of tangible and
visible symbols and illustrations. And infant schools themselves are
certainly well enough, for those children who would otherwise have to
be left alone, or untended, while their parents are abroad or at work.
But for _young children_, where the sternest necessity does not
forbid, there is nothing comparable to _domestic education_; no care,
no skill, no authority, like those of a mother--or of a father. And
how few parents there are, who, by methodical husbandry of time, and
reasonable exertion of intellect, might not find both leisure and
ability to train the minds and form the habits of their offspring, for
at least the first nine years of life!

The Common-school system, _as a system_, is certainly admirable. But
some _minutiæ_ of its administration may be censured. Teachers are
often tasked with too many pupils. I saw a young woman of twenty,
toiling in the sway of fifty-two noisy urchins, with twenty of whom I
am quite sure my hands would have been over-full: and it was said to
be no unusual case. Then, _Webster's spelling book_ is in frequent
use. There are half a dozen better ones. And the barbarous usage, of
making a child go on to spell in five or six syllables, before he is
allowed the refreshment of reading--instead of teaching him to read as
soon as he can spell in three letters, and then carrying on the two
processes together, to their mutual acceleration--is still kept up, as
in our _old-field_ schools.--A usage about as worthy of this
enlightened age, as the old rule, of whipping a boy for miscalling a
word, or for not crossing a _t_. I was glad to see Warren Colburn's
books--his Intellectual Arithmetic particularly--in pretty general
use. His merit is, not so much that he has smoothed the road to that
child-perplexing branch of knowledge (though in that respect he has
entitled himself to every child's gratitude), as that he has rendered
the study an improving exercise to the mind--a strengthener and
quickener of the reasoning faculty; and has disclosed the _rationalia_
of many processes of calculation, as mysterious before to the young
mind as so many feats of jugglery. A pervading fault in the management
of the common-schools, is a _false economy_; shewn, in choosing
teachers less by their proper qualifications, than by their cheapness.
In Connecticut, more especially, this wretched mistake seems to
prevail; as a curious fact, told me in Providence, strikingly
illustrates. Of the many who go forth from the University there, and
from several good Academies in the state of Rhode Island, to find
employment as teachers in the adjoining states, few or none, it was
said, found it in Connecticut: owing to the niggardly wages paid
there. The man for their money, is he who _asks the least_.

Wide discretion, as to the classification of the Common-schools, and
as to the extent of the studies in them, is given to the _Towns_. In
some, the people, or their commissioners appointed to superintend the
schools, are content with a single grade or _tier_, in which are
taught merely the _necessary_ sorts of knowledge, from Arithmetic
downwards. Others classify them, into 1st. _primary_ schools, where
only spelling, reading, and writing, are taught: 2nd. _secondary_
schools, for the rudiments of Arithmetic, Geography, English Grammar,
and further progress in reading and writing: 3rd. _Apprentices'_
schools, where the above branches are further taught, with the
addition of some History, Book-keeping, and Geometry: 4th. _High_
schools, for Algebra, Geometry, use of the Globes, Latin, (and
sometimes Greek) with perhaps the elements of Natural Philosophy. The
classification sometimes stops at the third, sometimes at the second,
tier. There are but few towns, in which it is carried to the fourth.
Worcester is one of these: Boston, and Salem, are the only others that
I heard of. In the first and second grades, boys and girls are
schooled together: in the higher grades, male and female schools, are
separate.

Latin and Mathematics are coming to be considered as a regular part of
female education, throughout the North. But I have not ascertained
satisfactorily, whether it is a mere smattering that is taught, or so
thorough a course as may solidly improve the memory, taste, judgment
and reasoning powers. In relation to women even more emphatically than
to men, (it seems generally agreed) these studies are less to be
prized, for any specific pieces of knowledge they furnish, than for
the activity, strength, acuteness and polish, they give to the various
powers of the understanding. The Yankees are too shrewd, and too
habitually observant of practical utility, not to perceive this truth,
and act accordingly.

The voyage hither from Albany abounds with captivating spectacles. For
the first fifty miles, these consisted chiefly of waving hills,
interspersed with modest but handsome country seats half-veiled by
trees;--and of villages and landings, where, at intervals of four or
five miles, our immense floating Hotel would halt to take in and land
passengers--if halt it could be called, when her motion was not
actually suspended, but only slackened, while by _her boat_, she
rapidly communicated with the shore. The Catskill Mountains were in
sight; and we were nearly entering the Highlands, so celebrated in the
journal of every tourist, from Dolph Heyliger downwards, for their
almost matchless combination of beauty and sublimity; when the _lean_
"orderer of all things," for reasons best known to himself and his
employers, contrived to coop us all under hatches at dinner. A slender
appetite, and a surmise that there would be something worth seeing,
carried me on deck {276} before the rest were half done eating; when
mountains, hemming in the majestic Hudson to a width of not more than
five or six hundred yards, broke at once upon my view. They rise, from
the water's very edge, within twenty or thirty degrees of the
perpendicular, to a height of fourteen or fifteen hundred feet; their
sides and summits undulating with various prominences and depressions,
occupied by dark brown rocks, intermingled with scanty shadings of
evergreens, stunted bushes, and shrubs. After sailing three or four
miles between these awful embankments, we reach West Point. Here are
quite too many pleasing objects, for enumeration; a skilful
book-wright could make a volume of them. 'Kosciusko's Garden' is a
romantic _sinus_, or recess, in the precipice which forms the eastern
face, (upon the river) of the _table land_ called West Point. Hither,
it is said, that hero used daily to retire for meditation and repose;
and a shelf in the rock is shewn, as the couch where he often
reclined. Nay, within a few inches of where his head probably used to
lie, an indentation in the rock is pointed out, said to have been made
by a cannon ball, fired at him from a British man of war that lay in
the river: but this story "wants confirmation." You descend by a
flight of stone steps to the "Garden," which is only ten or fifteen
feet above the river. It is furnished with wooden seats; and with a
neat fountain of whitish marble, in which bubbles up a bold vein of
water.

On the north-eastern angle of the "Point," around which the river
somewhat abruptly sweeps, is a handsome monument, erected by the
Cadets some years ago, to the same hero. It is a plain marble column,
about fifteen or eighteen feet high; with no inscription save the
single word "KOSCIUSKO." This simple memorial is, in moral sublimity,
scarcely inferior to that conception, one of the noblest of its kind
in the whole compass of poetry--

  "We carved not a line, we raised not a stone,
   But we _left him alone with his glory_."

There are few names which can justly be relied upon, thus to speak the
epitaphs of those who bore them. Among those few, doubtless, is the
name of KOSCIUSKO. History, and the halo thrown around that name by
Campbell, will ensure it a place among the "household words" of Poland
and America, and of every people who shall speak the language or
breathe the spirit of either.

  "Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell,
   And Freedom shrieked, as KOSCIUSKO fell!"

To be mentioned thus, and so deservedly--is to be embalmed in Light,
and set conspicuously on high in the Temple of Fame.

A similar inscription is upon the tomb of _Spurzheim_, in the cemetery
of Mount Auburn, near Boston. To me, this seems to be taking too high
a ground for him: though you, who are a phrenologist confirmed, may
not think so. Possibly, you are right. Contemporary celebrity is no
measure of posthumous fame. PARADISE LOST was almost unknown till near
half a century after its author's death: and he was contemptuously
designated as "_One Milton_," by a man then conspicuous, but whose
very name (_Whitelocke_) it has at this moment actually cost me _an
effort_ to recollect. So, possibly, Spurzheim's renown may freshen
with time; and a discerning posterity, honoring him above Napoleon,
and even above Kosciusko, may apply the just saying of a _great_--that
is a voluminous--poet:

                    "The warrior's name,
  Though pealed and chimed on all the tongues of Fame,
  With far less rapture fills the generous mind,
  Than his, who fashions and improves mankind."

Good night.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXTRACTS FROM MY MEXICAN JOURNAL.

CITY OF MEXICO--CHAPOLTEPEC.


May 25, 1825.--This morning we made our entree into the city of
Mexico. Passing through the little villages of _Istapalapa_ and
_Mexicalsingo_, we rode for several miles over a paved
causeway--_calzada_--lined with the _schinus_,[1] aspins, and a
species of willow very much resembling the lombardy poplar--in sight
of the numerous towers and domes which rise above the scarcely visible
flat-roofed houses of the city. The approach to it, but for this and
other fine avenues, would be perfectly tame, as its situation is a
level, whose elevation above the plain which surrounds it is quite
imperceptible. From the gate--_garita_--we turned into the _Paseo de
las Vigas_, a beautiful promenade on the bank of the canal, which
leads from _Chalco_, through the eastern portion of the city, into the
lake of _Tescuco_. We were here joined by the few American residents
of Mexico, and accompanied by them, soon entered its streets, which in
the suburbs are exceedingly filthy, but as we advanced, they were
clean, well paved, but not wide, with good yet narrow sidewalks of
broad flags of porphyry. My first feeling was disappointment--not so
much with the city, as with the crowds of wretched ill-dressed people,
of beggars, and poor half-naked Indians, bending under heavy burdens.
There are no carts or drays for the transportation of goods, which are
carried upon the backs of these poor creatures, who are enabled to
carry a load of three hundred pounds, by means of a leather band or
strap, the _cargador_ leaning forward at an angle {277} of about 45°,
the burden resting on the back, supported by this strap. With so heavy
a load they travel great distances, moving in a brisk walk or trot.

[Footnote 1: The _Schinus_ or _Arbol de Peru_ is a beautiful tree,
somewhat resembling a willow; it is odorous, and bears in bunches a
small red berry, which is almost as pungent as black pepper, as a
substitute for which it is used by the poorer people.]

The houses of Mexico, some of which are very spacious and magnificent,
are constructed generally of a light volcanic production called
_tetzontli_, in some instances cut smooth and square, but more
frequently rough, when the walls are plastered with lime and painted.
The handsomest are built of light gray porphyry. They are mostly of
two stories, some of three, with _axoteas_ or flat roofs. They have
all open squares. A gate, large enough for carriages to pass through,
leads from the street into the _patio_, or court yard. The basement
upon the street is occupied commonly as a store or shop, and in the
rear are the stables. Across the patio, fronting the gate, is the
staircase, which leads to the _corridors_, or interior porticoes,
which surround the area, and are ornamented with flowers. From the
corridors, the doors open into the various rooms, which communicate
with each other around the whole area, in instances where the house is
so large as to occupy the four sides. It is an airy style of building,
the windows being large, level with the brick floor, opening like
double doors, and is well adapted to the delightful climate of Mexico.
The most serious evil is the want of privacy to the chambers. Each
window has its balcony.

The streets of Mexico run nearly from north to south, and from east to
west, crossing at right angles. The greatest longitudinal length is
about two miles--the latitudinal about a mile and three quarters;[2]
but as the figure of the city is unequal, these lengths are far from
uniform. In either direction the view is terminated by the mountains
which bound the plain of Mexico. In the central and most frequented
parts of the city, the streets are well paved and are kept clean; but
apart from these, they are amazingly dirty--the drains passing through
the centre being open, offensive both to the sight and to the smell.

[Footnote 2: This measure does not mean the distance of the opposite
_garitas_ or custom-house gates from each other, which is considerably
greater--but comprises the compactly built part of the city, not
comprehending the scattered houses in the outskirts.]

The _Plaza Mayor_ is the principal open square in the centre of the
city. On the northern side of it is the cathedral; the government
house, formerly the vice regal palace, occupies its eastern side; on
the southern and western sides are the _Cabildo_, (town-hall,) and
colonnades or _portales_, within which are the principal stores, and
where varieties of goods and trinkets, lottery tickets and shilling
pamphlets, are sold. In the southeastern portion of this square stood
the magnificent equestrian statue of Charles IV, raised on a fine
pedestal, and surrounded by a handsome iron railing. It has been
removed lately to the patio or court of the university, where it
remains to be admired for its admirable workmanship in bronze,
although it is seen to disadvantage in a compass too confined for it.
In the southwestern part of this plaza stands a collection of stores,
a sort of bazaar, called the _Parian_, which disfigures it extremely;
but as the city derives a large revenue from the rent, there is little
prospect of the levelling system being extended to this little town of
shops.

The cathedral is a splendid edifice, with a front of three hundred and
fifty feet, upon the plaza. It stands upon the same spot which the
famous Aztec Temple of _Huitzilopochtli_ occupied. The eastern part of
the front, built of red _tetzontli_, is a curious gothic, bearing a
more antique appearance than the other portion, which last, indeed, is
the front to the body of the edifice. This is built of gray porphyry,
ornamented with pilasters and statues, and surmounted by two handsome
towers. The interior is very rich and magnificent; the dome is lofty
and supported by large stone columns. The grandeur of the whole is
diminished greatly by the choir, which occupies a large portion of the
nave, and is connected with the chief altar by a railing of bronze,
surmounted by silver figures supporting branches for candles. A superb
chandelier of silver is suspended nearly under the great dome in front
of the grand altar, which is richly ornamented with gold and silver.
The tout ensemble has an imposing effect; and at night, when
illuminated, with the music of a full choir, instrumental and vocal,
the impressions it makes are irresistibly strong. The depth of the
whole edifice is about four hundred and fifty feet.[3]

[Footnote 3: The entire length of the interior of the cathedral is 373
feet--its width 179 feet. Those in the journal are the external
dimensions. The structure was begun in 1573, and cost $1,752,000. It
was dedicated in 1667. The grand altar bears a later date, and was
dedicated in 1743.]

In the southwestern corner of the cathedral, inlaid in the exterior
wall, is the celebrated calendar stone of the ancient Mexicans. It is
a huge mass of gray porphyry, having a circular face seven feet in
diameter, on which the figures that represent the months are
sculptured in relief. In the centre is a head, from the mouth of which
water seems to flow--surrounded by two circles, a large and a small
one--the latter divided into twenty parts, with hieroglyphics which
designate the twenty months of eighteen days each, into which the
Mexican year was divided. The remainder of the face is ornamented with
figures in relief.

The _Palace_, filling the eastern side of the _Plaza_, occupies a
square of six hundred and sixty feet by six hundred, within which
space are comprised the residence of the president, the offices of the
different departments of the government, the senate chamber and that
of the deputies, the mint, {278} prison, botanic garden, and the
barracks of a regiment of infantry. On this spot Cortes fixed his
residence after the capture of the city; but he exchanged it
subsequently for the site of Montezuma's palace, on which now stands
the _Casa de Estado_, the family mansion of the conqueror. This
classic ground is to the west of the cathedral, fronting it; and the
space, believed to have embraced the residence of the Mexican kings,
is a square of about six hundred feet. On the northern side of this
square passes the street running west, _Calle de Tacuba_, by which
Cortes retreated on the memorable _noche triste_ (unfortunate night)
when he was driven from _Tenochtitlan_, or _Tenictitan_, as Cortes
writes the name of the ancient city.

The botanic garden occupies an inner _patio_, or court of the palace,
and is altogether unworthy of the celebrity which it has obtained in
foreign countries. It is confined and crowded. Collections of seeds
sold by the superintendent at high prices, have, to the great chagrin
of foreigners, been found invariably to comprise the most ordinary
plants, when the most rare and valuable were promised to the
purchasers. An additional garden has been laid out recently at
_Chapoltepec_. There are two tall trees of the _Manitas_, in the
botanic garden--all, with the exception of one at _Toluca_, that are
said to be growing in the republic. The Professor of Botany, _Don
Vicente Cervantes_, informed me that it is a common tree in Guatemala.
The flower is exceedingly beautiful, of a bright scarlet color; its
supposed resemblance to a hand, gives the name to the trees, _Arbol de
las Manitas_--but it is far more like a bird's claws.

       *       *       *       *       *

Less than a league from the city to the west, is the porphyritic rock
of _Chapoltepec_,[4] which rises one hundred and sixty feet above the
plain. On its summit is a palace or castle built by the Viceroy
Galvez, but never finished. Towards the city it bears the appearance
of a fortress, and the work is so constructed as to withstand a siege.
The founder, no doubt, had it in view in its construction, as the
resort of the Viceroy in case of insurrection among the people, of
which there had been several instances. The view of the city and plain
of Mexico from this spot, is remarkably beautiful. Baron Humboldt,
whose enthusiasm sometimes led him to extravagance, thus eloquently
describes it:[5] "Nothing can be more rich and varied than the picture
which the valley presents, when, on a fine summer's morning, the
heaven being cloudless and of that deep blue which is peculiar to the
dry and rarified air of high mountains, we ascend one of the towers of
the Cathedral of Mexico, or the hill of _Chapoltepec_. A beautiful
vegetation surrounds this hill. The ancient trunks of cypress, of more
than fifteen or sixteen metres[6] in circumference, divested of
foliage, rise above those of the schinus, which, in figure, resemble
the weeping willows of the east. In the depth of this solitude, from
the top of the porphyritic rock of _Chapoltepec_, the eye overlooks a
vast plain with well cultivated fields, which extend even to the foot
of the colossal mountains, covered with perpetual ice. The city seems
washed by the waters of the lake of _Tescuco_, whose basin, surrounded
by villages and hamlets, reminds one of the most beautiful lakes of
the mountains of Switzerland. Long avenues of elms and poplars lead on
all sides to the capital. Two aqueducts, constructed upon lofty
arches, cross the plain, and present an aspect both agreeable and
interesting. To the north is seen the magnificent convent of Our Lady
of _Guadalupe_, with the mountains of _Tepexacac_ behind it, among
ravines which furnish shelter to dates and tufted yuccas. To the
south, the whole country between _San Angel_, _Tacubaya_, and _San
Agustin de las Cuevas_, appears an immense garden of oranges, peaches,
apples, cherries, and other European fruit trees. The beautiful
cultivation is contrasted with the savage aspect of the bald mountains
which enclose the valley, and among which are distinguished the famous
volcanoes of _Puebla_, the _Popocatepetl_, and _Iztaccihuatl_. The
first forms an enormous cone, whose crater, constantly inflamed,
throwing out smoke and ashes, opens in the midst of eternal snows."

[Footnote 4: _Chapoltepec_ signifies the mountain of grasshoppers;
from _Chapolin_, a grasshopper, and _tepetl_, mountain.]

[Footnote 5: Vol. 2, Book 3, c. 8.]

[Footnote 6: About fifty English feet.]

A less enthusiastic spectator would subtract many of its beauties from
this glowing description, and still could not fail to admire--to
admire much and long, the prospect from _Chapoltepec_. He would see a
fine city, with its sixty domes and twice as many towers, but the lake
of _Tescuco_ is too distant and indistinct to seem to wash it with its
waters--and he would look in vain for the villages and hamlets that
surround it. The fruit trees of _Tacubaya_, _San Angel_ and _Agustin_
exist, but unfortunately are not seen. These villages are situated on
the southwestern border of the plain, and abound in orchards, but
these are shut from view by high stone walls. With like disappointment
he would look towards the _smoking_ volcano of _Puebla_; the
_Popocatepetl_ does indeed smoke, but the smoke is indiscernible
except from the mouth of the crater itself--nor has it been known to
throw out ashes since 1665, when it continued to discharge for four
days. In other respects the preceding description is not too highly
wrought.

       *       *       *       *       *

About a mile from _Chapoltepec_ is situated the little village of
_Tacubaya_, celebrated for its mills, {279} but chiefly for the
_palace_ and garden of the Archbishop of Mexico. From this palace,
which stands upon a commanding point above the village, the view is as
extensive, and perhaps even more beautiful than that from
_Chapoltepec_, inasmuch as this last is comprehended in it. The garden
is laid out prettily, and contains some fine plants and fruits, but is
very much neglected. A large orchard of olive trees adjoins it, which
yield plentifully; but the olives, which may not be so well cured, are
not as good as those imported from Spain. The cultivation of olive
trees was forbidden under the Spanish government, lest it might
interfere with the monopoly of the mother country, which exported in
1803, olives to the value of thirty thousand dollars.[7]

[Footnote 7: Humboldt, vol. 4, p. 374-564.]




In two subjoined articles, extracted from the "American Annals of
Education," a very useful periodical, published in Boston,--are the
same which are referred to by an intelligent correspondent in the last
number of the "Messenger." (See page 205.) They are well worth the
reader's attention.

HEINROTH ON THE EDUCATION OF INFANCY.

(Translated from the German.)


We have often put the question to parents, at what period of infancy
moral discipline should begin, and we have heard various ages
assigned, from six months to a year. But in watching the management of
early infancy, in observing one child incessantly fed and dandled, and
yet incessantly fretful, in seeing another burst into distressing
outcries, if its wants were not gratified at the instant, in remarking
how another would submit, with comparative quiet, to be laid down when
it desired to move, and suppress its cries when its gratification was
delayed,--above all, in seeing how the infant of poverty, or of savage
life, submits to be left unnoticed and unattended, while its mother
toils the livelong day for a subsistence, and can only snatch a few
moments of repose to feed and fondle her nursling, we could not but
ask, whether the _first want_ and the _first gratification_ do not in
fact commence the course of moral discipline. Is not the question
often, if not always, settled in early infancy, whether the appetites
and passions shall be established with uncontrollable despotism before
the dawn of reason, or whether they shall be kept in their appropriate
and subordinate place, until reason assumes the throne? On points like
this, we are anxious to present the results of wider experience and
deeper research than our own; and we have been gratified to find in a
work of Heinroth, Professor of Medicine in the University of Leipzig,
opinions expressed which entirely accord with those which observation
and reflection have led us to form. We present our readers with a
translation of the passage, and earnestly recommend it to the
attention of mothers especially, as containing the results derived
from extensive experience, by a man whose medical knowledge, and whose
reputation as a writer on education, give his opinion high authority.

"When a child enters the world, its education is commenced by its
physical treatment,--by the manner in which its bodily wants are
provided for. As it is the offspring of love, so it should be
cherished in the arms of love, from the first moments of its life. We
take it for granted that it is blessed with a healthful, virtuous, and
affectionate mother. She is the angel who is to watch over that frail
existence, and guard it from accident; she should suffer nothing in
the elements of nature, nor surrounding circumstances, neither cold
air, dazzling light, excessive heat, or oppressive clothing, to excite
the child to pain. Even its first nourishment should not be given till
the want begins, lest injurious excitement be the consequence; and it
should not be given more freely, or more frequently than this want
absolutely requires.

"The _first day_ of the infant's life must be greeted with _order_ and
_temperance_; and both must preside over its whole future management.
As one sense after another developes itself, each should be supplied
with agreeable objects; for cheerful circumstances produce cheerful
dispositions. No obstacle should be allowed to the free play of all
the limbs and muscles--nothing which will hinder the development of
life and strength--and no undue pains must be taken to excite even
these; let them advance quietly and naturally.

"The look and voice of the mother's love should be the first food of
the infant soul. Life itself is joy; let joy cherish the germs of
life. The sight and the touch soon find appropriate objects; but even
now must the spirit of education watch over the child. It must not
grasp all in its reach; it must not touch the flame, or the knife, or
in short, any thing injurious to it. As soon as it learns to hear, it
learns to listen to its mother's voice, that is, to obey. The ear
gradually becomes the spiritual leading-string of the growing man. The
child cannot see and touch, without _desiring_, and does not desire,
without exercising _the will_. His first will is _self-will_, and it
soon takes root and strengthens, if the will of the mother does not
promptly meet, and gently, but firmly check it.

"Here then, education must begin,--with the first want, and its
supply. It begins, therefore, immediately, with the physical treatment
of the child, for its first wants are only physical. Every mode of
treating an infant is wrong which does not satisfy its wants in the
right way, and peculiarly wrong is every unseasonable or excessive
supply. The first wants of infancy are food, warmth, air, motion and
sleep. A greater number of children suffer from an excess of these
{280} comforts, than from too scanty a portion of them. It is true,
bad nourishment, confined air, want of cleanliness and of free
exercise, and unquiet sleep arising from these causes, destroy many
children who are left to the care of hireling nurses. But on the other
hand, a greater number suffer from the peculiar care of an
over-anxious mother, from superfluous nourishment, and excessive
wrapping, from guarding against all those influences of air, deemed
pernicious, from artificial motion, and from the sleep thus
artificially produced and maintained. In this way, many of the most
favored nurslings leave the world when they have scarcely entered it.
It is not however with the dead, but with the living that we have to
do. Few mothers will allow themselves to be charged with too little
care or indulgence; and even experienced nurses avoid it from
prejudice and disposition. Let us then examine the errors in physical
treatment, arising from excess, and particularly from excess in food.

"It is a most pernicious custom to stop every cry of a child with
food, whether it is done from the idea that it needs so frequent
nourishment, or to make it quiet. Inquire why the infant cries, and
remove the cause, if it can be discovered. It will be more rarely the
want of food, in proportion as it has been accustomed to regularity.
If the child is irregularly fed, it acquires bad habits, it departs
from _order_, ('Heaven's first law,') whose first principles should be
implanted in man while instinct still governs him. But the infant who
is thus accustomed to excess, soon becomes _inordinate_ in its
demands, and TEMPERANCE and ORDER, the great pillars of life, are both
overthrown. It will become greedy when it is unseasonably fed, even
with simple food, and the evil becomes still greater when it is
pampered with delicacies. An artificial necessity is produced for
continual gratification of the palate, so that it will often not be
pacified without having something pleasant to the taste constantly in
its mouth; and upon this, the whole enjoyment of its young life
depends. The sense of taste checks the progress of every noble sense;
the child concentrates its whole thoughts on the enjoyment of this
single appetite. In this way, it is prepared to become, not only an
epicurean, but a sensualist; and the obvious evils of overloading the
stomach and producing disease are not the only evils arising from this
treatment. The _moral character_ is also injured before it is fairly
developed. The child thus miseducated, becomes obstinate and
self-willed. If its demands are not satisfied, (and its cries are
demands,) it will soon learn to fret itself, almost into childish
insanity. See now the seeds of moral corruption implanted in the
physical soil, whose roots strike deeper in proportion as they are
sown earlier!

"Whence is it that we so frequently see this pernicious physical
treatment, and its natural fruits? Why do we see so many over-fed,
gormandizing, ill-humored, selfish and self-willed children? The
combined power of three great causes are at work: _maternal love_,
_vanity_ and _ignorance_. We may venture to say, every mother in her
senses loves her child more than she loves herself. How can she then
refuse to give him any thing! Food is the most obvious comfort, the
greatest pleasure he enjoys, and she gives it freely. She wishes her
child to _thrive_, to become strong, vigorous and fleshy. And now
_vanity_ comes in play. Every mother is vain of her child, and would
fain have it the finest, and for this purpose also it is excessively
fed. Yet this does not happen without the third cause,--_ignorance_.
Ignorance does not perceive that the thriving of the child depends
upon the quantity which it digests, rather than upon the quantity it
swallows, and overlooks the great medium, which it does not
understand, the organs of nourishment, whose office it is to prepare
_nourishment_ for the body from the food which enters the stomach.
Only so much food as the child really digests does it any good; what
remains undigested is a source of evil.

"As these bad habits began with blind and injudicious affection, so
they end with the same. How can one who loves a child so much, give it
pain! When the necessary consequences of this treatment appear, and
the child becomes ill-humored, selfish and self-willed, and beginning
very early, to worry its mother; this blind and weak love, incapable
of resistance, pleads, '_The poor child cannot understand yet._ The
understanding is not developed the first year. Let it grow older, and
then I will educate it.' In the meantime, before the understanding is
developed, the child is _miseducated_ and _spoiled_. The first use it
makes of the understanding, is in tormenting the mother; and it soon
becomes a little tyrant. There are too many mothers of this sort, who
are slaves to their children. They reap only what they have sown."

       *       *       *       *       *

EFFECTS OF MATERNAL INDULGENCE.


We have expressed more than once the pleasure we felt on finding the
subject of education occupy so much more attention of late in other
periodicals, &c., and have given several extracts. We add another
striking article from the Albany Journal and Telegraph.

'Messrs. Editors,--Of the solemn character of the duties devolving
upon mothers, all writers agree to express the same sentiment. Where
these duties are neglected, where a mother's fondness controls all
without judgment and intelligence, the most unhappy consequences
follow. I do not know where these have been drawn out in a more vivid
and awful picture than in the late work, entitled Guy Rivers. It does
not fall within your {281} line to have to do with such works, yet I
trust you will allow me to furnish an extract which does fall in with
the practical object of your paper. Guy is a highwayman--a murderer--a
cold blooded murderer--an outlaw--of most violent, headlong passions,
which pause at nothing where their gratification is concerned, and yet
he is a man of great shrewdness and of superior natural intellect. At
the point where the extract is made, this man's course is approaching
its catastrophe. In his den he sees its approach, and his mind is
occupied with bitter reflection. With his Lieutenant this is his
conversation; and when I think of what I have known of maternal
weakness, I shudder to think how near to the life the picture may be.

'"I do you wrong, Dillon--but on this subject I will have no one
speak. I cannot be the man you would have me; I have been schooled
otherwise. My mother has taught me a different lesson,--her teachings
have doomed me, and these enjoyments are now all beyond my hopes."

'"Your mother!" was the response of Dillon, in unaffected
astonishment.

'"Ay, man--my mother. Is there any thing wonderful in that? She taught
me this lesson with her milk--she sung it in lullabies over my
cradle--she gave it me in the plaything of my boyhood--her schoolings
have made me the morbid, the fierce criminal, from whose association
all the gentler virtues must always desire to fly. If, in the doom,
which may finish my life of doom, I have any person to accuse of all,
that person is--my mother!"

'"Is this possible? Is it true? It is strange, very strange."

'"It is not strange--we see it every day--in almost every family. She
did not _tell_ me to lie--or to swindle, or to stab. No! Oh no! she
would have told me that all these things were bad--but she _taught_ me
to perform them all. She roused my _passions_ and not my _principles_
into activity. She provoked the one and suppressed the other. Did my
father reprove my improprieties, she petted me and denounced him. She
crossed his better purposes and defeated all his designs, until at
last, she made my passions too strong for my government, not less than
hers; and left me, knowing the true, yet the victim of the false. What
is more,--while my intellect, in its calmer hours, taught me that
virtue was the only source of true felicity, my ungovernable passions
set the otherwise sovereign reason at defiance, and trampled it under
foot. Yes--in that last hour of eternal retribution, if called upon to
denounce or to accuse, I can point but to one as the author of
all--the weakly, fond, misjudging, misguiding woman, who gave me
birth. Within the last hour, I have been thinking over all these
things. I have been thinking how I had been cursed in childhood, by
one who surely loved me beyond all other things beside. I can remember
how sedulously she encouraged and prompted my infant passions,
uncontrolled by her reason, and since utterly unrestrainable by my
own. How she stimulated me to artifices, and set me the example
herself, by frequently deceiving my father and teaching me to disobey
and deceive him. She told me not to lie, and she lied all day to him,
on my account, and to screen me from his anger. She taught me the
catechism to say on Sunday, while during the week, she schooled me in
almost every possible form of ingenuity to violate all its precepts.

'"She bribed me to do my duty, and hence my duty could only be done
under the stimulating promise of a reward. She taught me that God was
superior to all, and that he required obedience to certain laws, yet
as she hourly violated those laws herself in my behalf, I was taught
to regard myself as far superior to him. Had she not done all this, I
had not been here and thus: I had been what I now dare not think on.
It is all her work. The greatest enemy my life has ever known has been
my own mother."

'"This is a horrible thought, captain, yet I cannot but think it
true."

'"It is true. I have analyzed my own history, and the causes of my
character and fortunes now, and I charge it all upon her. From one
influence I have traced another, until I have the sweeping amount of
twenty years of crime and sorrow and a life of hate, and probably a
death of ignominy, all owing to the first ten years of my infant
education, when the only teacher that I knew was the woman that gave
me birth."'

This is a fictitious tale indeed, but it is sadly true to nature. We
have seen the victim of indulgence trained by the mere neglect of
restraint to a violence of passion which reviled and abused the mother
that bore him. We have known the abandoned son turn with doubled fist
and furious gestures to his mother, and tell her,--"_You_ have trained
me to all this." We have known those who escaped this dreadful fate,
mourn through life, the mental suffering, or the bodily debility,
which the mistaken indulgence of a mother's love had entailed upon
them. And if the _man_ could always look back with the skill of
Heinroth to his early childhood, even when no gross neglect of
discipline was to be discovered, would he not accuse her early and
excessive indulgence of his dawning appetites and craving desires as
the source of that violence of passion--that obstinacy, which cost him
so much painful discipline in youth, and perhaps still poison the
peace of his manhood? Is there no argument, no appeal which can reach
the heart of those mothers, who are sacrificing the future peace and
character and hopes of their children, to the mere pleasure of
gratifying them for the moment?


{282}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

AN ADDRESS ON THE SUBJECT OF LITERARY ASSOCIATIONS TO PROMOTE
EDUCATION.

_Delivered before the Institute of Education of Hampden Sidney
College, at their last commencement, by_ JAMES M. GARNETT.


_Gentlemen Members
    of the Institute of Education:_

In compliance with the invitation with which your committee honored me
some months ago, and for which I desire here publicly to make my
acknowledgments; I now present myself to address you on the subject of
"literary associations for the promotion of education."

Thus called upon for a purpose so philanthropic, a cause so truly
glorious, and one moreover of such vital importance to our whole
community, I could not hesitate to comply, however apprehensive I
might feel of not being able to do full justice to the subject. I came
to this determination the more readily, from the confident belief that
the invitation would never have been given, had not the gentlemen
members of your committee as well as those for whom they acted, been
prepared to extend towards my deficiencies every indulgence which they
might require. This brief explanation of the circumstances which
brought me here, and of my own feelings on this highly interesting
occasion, seems due not only to myself, but to the very respectable
assembly in whose presence I now appear. Let me endeavor now to fulfil
the duty, which I have undertaken to perform.

Literary associations for the promotion of education, unquestionably
transcend in importance all other voluntary combinations of human
beings that either _do_ or _can be imagined_ to exist for other
purposes than mental culture, as far as the intellectual and moral
powers of man surpass his mere animal appetites and passions: for it
is by education alone--education I mean _as it should be_, that the
former can be fully developed and perfected;--by education alone _as
it should be_, that the latter can be so restrained and regulated as
to minister to our comfort and happiness, instead of overwhelming us
with irreparable misery and ruin. Obvious as this most momentous truth
surely is, and deeply as we should imagine it would be felt by every
rational being, it is but too certain that the number of those who do
feel it in any such way, is most lamentably small in proportion to our
whole population. This would be altogether incredible, were we to
judge only from listening to our constant vauntings of the rapid
progress of society in all the arts and sciences; of the
multiplication and vast extent of modern discoveries; and the actual
improvements in every branch of worldly knowledge. But when we use our
_eyes_, as well as our _ears_; when we look immediately around us and
view attentively our condition in Virginia, the striking want of
public spirit in regard to the general instruction of the people, and
the melancholy scarcity of "literary associations for the promotion of
education;" it inflicts a pang of deep disappointment--of bitter
mortification on the heart of every true, intelligent lover of his
country. Travel through our sister states to the north and east, (as
many of us would be much the better for doing,--to remove our
senseless prejudices,) and we behold such associations, almost every
where. No large city is without many of them; while they are found
diffusing their incalculable blessings through nearly every little
town and village, under some one or other of the various forms and
titles which they there assume: such for example, as lyceums,
conventions of teachers and other friends of the cause, institutes of
instruction, and education societies. Their precious fruits manifest
themselves in their numerous schools;--in their neighborhood
libraries; in their public book stores; but above all in their
multiplied places of public worship. These all combined in one view,
present to the mind's eye of the contemplative patriot and
philanthropist, a picture of social improvement and happiness, which
it is impossible to mistake, or to consider without the most heartfelt
emotions. The plain simple realities which we may there see, unaided
by any of the fashionable magniloquence about "the march of
intellect;" unvarnished by any false coloring or exaggeration
whatever; force upon our minds a most thorough conviction, that the
people of these happy states, owe the whole, either directly or
indirectly, to their constant and zealous encouragement of
associations for the promotion of education. These have been so
ramified and extended among them, as now to embrace nearly every
member of their several communities. Why, my friends, why let me most
earnestly demand of you, should not we Virginians, "go and do
likewise?" Why should not we profit by their meritorious example; and
love them for it as we ought to do with a truly fraternal regard,
instead of entertaining against them (as far too many of us do,)
dislikes and animosities which are much more disgraceful to ourselves
than injurious to them? And here permit me to remark, _en passant_,
that were such regard cultivated and cherished, as it should be among
all the states of this great confederacy, we should not only improve
each other rapidly in every useful art and science; but the bonds of
our fraternity, would be so increased and strengthened, that the whole
world could not exhibit a government wherein all the numerous
blessings of civilized life would be so widely diffused, so highly
valued, so richly enjoyed.

But to return to our neglect of associations for the improvement of
education. Shall we plead utter ignorance of their numerous
advantages, their extensively beneficial effects, or shall we {283}
acknowledge what I fear is the shameful truth, and what a very large
majority of us may utter--each man for himself--the Heathen's
confession: "_Video meliora proboque, deteriora sequor?_" Shall we not
hope however, that the glorious period of moral reform is not far
distant; that the time is fast approaching when this wretched,
debasing--nay, wicked habit of following the worse, where we both see
and approve the better course,--is about to be eradicated in a great
measure; by a vigorous enlightened prosecution of all the means
necessary to effect a thorough change among us? To you, gentlemen
members of the Hampden Sidney Institute, I believe Virginia is
indebted for the first example of a voluntary association on a large
scale, to promote education--an example which I most earnestly hope
will be zealously followed in every part of our widely extended
territory,--until the great, the vital object, which you so laudably
aim to accomplish, shall be fully realized to the utmost extent of
your wishes. It will be a time of heartfelt rejoicing, a day of
glorious jubilee, to all who may live to see it--a day which even _we_
of the present generation may highly enjoy by anticipation, although
we have little prospect of living to participate in all its precious
blessings. By the way, how do _we_ obtain this power of anticipation,
this faculty of feeling inexpressible delight in all the advantages,
gratifications and enjoyments of those who are to live after we are
dead and gone? Are we not indebted for it to _education_--to that
moral and religious part of it which teaches us that we have immortal
souls which connect us inseparably with future generations--which
command us to provide as far as we can for _their_ happiness--which
convince us that this very occupation, more than any other, will
minister to our own felicity; and which in fact constitutes one of our
most sacred duties upon earth? Oh! that we could all feel this
momentous truth in the inmost recesses of our hearts! Utterly
superfluous then would be not only the effort of the humble individual
who now addresses you, but every other of a similar nature; for there
would not then be a single member of society, possessed of the common
capacities and feelings of humanity, who would not anxiously unite
with heart, hand, and all available means, in promoting universal
education, as the only practicable mode of insuring universal
happiness. _This_, so far as it is attainable in our present state of
existence, necessarily depends upon every human Being, of sound mind,
understanding thoroughly all the various duties which he has to
fulfil, as well as comprehending and feeling the utmost extent of his
obligations to fulfil them--and _this_ again depends both upon _what_
and _how_ he has been taught; in other words, upon _education as it
should be_.

To do justice as far as I possibly can to the cause which I am now
pledged to support, I feel myself here bound to assert that in almost
all our attempts to educate the youth of our country a most pernicious
error is committed, either in regard to the meaning of the term
_education itself_, or else in the methods pursued to accomplish our
object. Should I succeed in establishing this charge, it will
certainly result in the irresistible demonstration of that which I
have been invited to illustrate--the great utility of voluntary
associations, in some form or other, for the promotion of education.
Admit the purpose to be essentially desirable, the obstacles to its
attainment such as I believe they can be proved to be, and the
necessity for such associations in the absence of all effective
legislation, follows as an undeniable consequence. They naturally
possess, in common with all other combinations of human effort to
attain a particular end, far greater power of accomplishing _that
end_, than the insulated and separate exertions of all the individuals
concerned,--even supposing that every one would exert himself to the
utmost, in his own particular way. This truth has resolved itself into
the well known adage--"united we stand, divided we fall;" and I know
of no more forcible exemplification of it, than in the present state
of education among us Virginians. Individually consulted, we cry out
nearly to a man, "let us educate our people!" but if called on for
combined action, very few or none respond to the invitation. We have
no common system--the result of general concert; no uniform plan,
either as to the objects, or modes, or courses of instruction; no
generally established class-books in the various studies pursued in
our schools and colleges; no particular qualifications made
indispensable for teachers; but each is left to the vain imaginings
and devices of his own heart, or to be governed by the chance-medley,
hap-hazard contrivances of individuals, very many of whom have neither
the capacity, knowledge, experience, nor inclination to devise the
best practicable methods for accomplishing the grand purpose of
education. Politics, law, physic, absorb nearly all the talents of the
State; while the vital business of instructing the rising generation;
a business which requires minds of the very highest order and moral
excellence to execute it properly, is generally left to be pursued by
any who list--pursued far too often most reluctantly, as a mere
stepping-stone to some other profession, and to be abandoned as soon
as possible for almost any thing else that may turn up. The inevitable
consequence is "confusion worse confounded;" driving parents and
guardians to frequent changes both of schools and teachers for their
children, where changes of books and modes of instruction follow,
almost as matters of course; for those who are to handle the new
brooms rarely believe they will be thought cleaner sweepers than their
predecessors, unless they display their superiority by pursuing {284}
some entirely different method. This petty ambition would be too
ridiculous to deserve serious notice, were it not for the vast amount
of evil which it produces, by not only retarding the progress of all
youths under a course of instruction, but by constantly and powerfully
tending to bring the whole class of teachers into general contempt.
Under these circumstances, the existence of which none can deny, where
shall we seek an adequate remedy for evils of such magnitude; where
turn our eyes but to well organized voluntary associations for the
promotion of education? These would collect and combine the powers,
the talents, the knowledge of a very large portion of all the
individuals in our society best qualified to accomplish the object.
They would create a general taste, an anxious desire for intellectual
pursuits; they would elevate the profession of the teacher to that
rank which its vast importance to human happiness renders essential to
its success; and would assuredly extend their influence to the
remotest limits of our community, far more rapidly than could any
scheme of legislative creation. It has been so in every other State,
so far as the experiment has been tried. Why then should we doubt
their success among ourselves? We who believe ourselves possessed of
the wisest, the freest, the happiest government on earth, are
incalculably more interested than any other nation (if our belief is
true), in the cause of universal education; for on _its_ success, the
very existence of free government itself, nay of individual and
national happiness so far as government can affect either, must
ultimately depend.

To this conclusion my own mind has been irresistibly brought by the
whole course of my observations and experience for the last forty
years of my life. But as some of my auditors may possibly differ from
me, I will respectfully ask leave now to state more particularly my
views of the great objects of education and the errors into which we
have fallen in pursuit of them--errors which I verily believe will
never be corrected but by voluntary and numerous associations, similar
at least in design, to the one here established.

These objects are, _the perfecting of all our faculties, both of mind
and body_; but chiefly, the full developement of man's _moral nature_,
as the means of leading him thoroughly to understand, as well as
voluntarily, constantly, and anxiously to aim at accomplishing all the
glorious ends of his creation. Nothing deserves the name of education
which does not tend directly and intelligibly to these great objects.
Judge then, I pray you my friends, how little what is usually called
education is entitled to be so styled! But first hear that you may
judge. Is it not the sole aim in all our schools of the lower kinds to
enable pupils to enter those of a higher grade, not by the evidences
they can produce of advancement in the knowledge and practice of moral
and religious principles, but by their proficiency in the elements of
certain languages and abstract sciences? And what are the great, the
ultimate purposes to be achieved after reaching these higher
schools--the colleges and universities of the land? Are there any
other, generally speaking, than merely to obtain a college degree--a
diploma for a more extended proficiency in the same or other languages
and abstract sciences? Is moral and religious acquirement ever made a
pre-requisite? Is moral and religious conduct always rendered
indispensable? Yet man without these is either a drone or a nuisance
in society. Surely then, I may assert without fear of contradiction,
that education conducted on any of the plans most prevalent among us,
is really _not what it should be_,--for it continually places objects
of scholastic pursuit in the highest rank, which have no just claim to
any such elevation; but should ever be held subordinate to the far
more exalted and all essential acquisition of sound, moral and
religious principles. No more of these however, than will superinduce
general conformity to college rules, and decency of general conduct,
are ever required of candidates for collegiate honors; and all these
may be and frequently are obtained without other proof either of moral
or religious attainment, than what has just been stated.

This cannot be right. Man, in fact, _must be_ considered and treated
from infancy to the last moment of his life as a being formed by his
Maker for a state of existence far, very far different from the
present--a state for which his sole business on earth is,--constantly
to be preparing, by a diligent culture of _all_ his powers--by the
beneficent use of _all_ his means; and by the faithful performance of
_all_ his duties to himself, to his fellow creatures, and to his God.
_This_ and _this only is education_. The learning of languages, arts,
and sciences, which too often comprise the whole of education,
furnishes him only with the stepping-stones, the scaffolding, and the
tools to aid him in the erection of the grand edifice, which although
based on earth, should rear its Dome to the highest Heaven, and be
built for eternity as well as for time. But alas! these sciences, arts
and languages, are almost always mistaken for the edifice itself--an
edifice whose external decorations are much more valued and regarded
than the great purposes for which it should be constructed: in other
words, it is prepared more for show than use--more to attract the
admiration of others, than really to benefit for all time the vain
possessor who is to live in it, and to derive lasting security,
comfort and true enjoyment from the skilful adaptation of all its
various parts to the complete attainment of these inestimable
blessings. To the mistake here figuratively expressed, more than to
any other cause, we owe the countless failures, the innumerable,
unsuccessful, heart-sickening efforts to educate the {285} rising
generation: for scholarship, by which I mean a thorough acquaintance
with all that is usually taught in our schools of the highest grade,
is really and truly _not thorough education_, but a very
inconsiderable and quite inferior part of the grand total. That which
crowns the whole--that to which all else should be merely
subsidiary--that which alone can elevate man from earth to Heaven,--is
_moral and christian education_, producing constantly, by divine
grace, _moral and christian practice_. It is _this_ and _this only_,
which can enable us to meet as we should, all the changes and chances
of this mortal life--to carry along with us into whatever calling or
profession we may choose, all the requisite knowledge, ability and
will, to render it most conducive not only to our own subsistence,
comfort and happiness, so far as these are dependant thereon, but to
the general good of the whole community in which we live. In other
words, it is moral and christian education alone, that will give us
both the power and effectual desire to fulfil every duty of the
present life in such a manner as will best promote our own interests,
temporal and eternal, as well as the great interests of society at
large, in every way towards which we can possibly contribute. This
efficient devotion of our powers and our means to the good of others,
proceeding from a union of moral and religious principle, should ever
constitute man's highest honor here below, since it is certainly the
most important of all his earthly duties.

Literary institutions may bring to the utmost possible degree of
perfection the methods of acquiring all languages, arts and
sciences--they may invent matchless ways of making accomplished
scholars, in the ordinary acceptation of the term--they may
indoctrinate the youth of our country in every thing usually called
scholastic learning--all this they may do with a rapidity and
certainty heretofore inconceivable, yet they will fall immeasurably
short of attaining the grand, the paramount objects of all which
deserves to be called education, unless the fixing indelibly of moral
and religious principles in the minds of all who are to be educated,
be made the basis, the essence, and vital end of all instruction
whatever. The idea is utterly preposterous that human beings ever can
be taught to form adequate conceptions of the great purposes for which
they were created--of the indispensable necessity of fulfilling most
faithfully all their duties, in order to accomplish these purposes;
and of the ineffable happiness both here and hereafter, that will be
secured to all who do thus fulfil them, merely by teaching them all
the languages, arts and sciences in the world,--if _that_ be omitted,
without which all else is but mere dust in the balance,--I mean
self-knowledge, self-control, self-devotion to duty as the supreme
objects of our temporal existence. Do not, I beseech you, my friends,
here misunderstand me. Far indeed, very far am I from underrating the
real advantages, the true value of what is generally understood by the
term scholastic attainments. No one can estimate more highly than I
do, their power of extending our views, liberalizing our sentiments,
enlightening our minds, strengthening our intellectual faculties, and
exciting an ardent desire to increase our knowledge. Considered as the
_means_ and not the _ends_ of education, I would always award to them
the highest rank. But when we have said _this_, nothing more can
justly be affirmed in their favor--if disconnected, as they too often
are, from the ultimate and vital purposes of all perfect education.
These undeniably are, (and it cannot be too frequently repeated,) to
expand, to warm, to christianize the heart--to call into vigorous,
untiring action, all our best affections, our noblest attributes, and
to fit us thoroughly both for our present and future state of
existence. Unless that which is called education will do _this_, we
may safely assert that it is grossly _miscalled_, and that if it is
never made to comprehend any thing more than what is generally
understood by the term scholastic attainments, a mistake more fatal to
the happiness of our species can scarcely be committed. Of this I
would ask no better proof than would be afforded by an impartial
examination of the actual acquirements, the conduct and the characters
of those who are honored with the high sounding title of accomplished
scholars. If they are really _better educated_, ought they not
certainly to be not only wiser but _better men_, that is if education
actually was what it most assuredly should be? But what is the fact?
Do we find them better men, better citizens, better neighbors, friends
and heads of families or states, than those who, with less
scholarship, have had much more attention paid to their moral and
religious education, than to those scholastic acquirements of which
nothing but the most thorough, moral and religious instruction can
teach us either the true value or the proper use? Gladly, most gladly
do I admit that very many amiable men will be found among the former;
for I am happy to say that I know many such--but it is equally true,
that those praiseworthy traits of character and conduct which we
frequently see apart from religious belief in christianity, form
exceptions to the general rule that _un_belief in christianity tends
certainly to produce both vice and depravity. Whereas immoral
character and practice among professors of religion, form exceptions
to the general rule that christian faith tends surely to produce
christian conduct. The first class of persons are good in spite of
their worldly creed--the latter are bad in direct opposition to what
they believe to be right.

We shall never arrive at a clear, satisfactory conclusion in regard to
this all important subject, education, but by first solving the
questions, _what {286} are_ the paramount duties of the present
life--_what_ the only means of securing their fulfilment? Are these
duties _solely_ or even _chiefly_, to speak, or to understand a great
variety of tongues--to measure the earth, the waters of the mighty
ocean, nay the heavens themselves, with instruments and means of human
invention--to wear away life itself in the vain attempt to discover
the elementary principles of all visible things--to scan thoroughly
the vast powers and possible expanse of human intellect--and to
astonish the world by the perfection to which all human science, arts
and accomplishments may be brought? Or, _are they_ that we should
think wisely, act justly, and practice truth, industry, self-denial,
and universal benevolence,--from the sincere, heartfelt, ever active
love of our fellow creatures,--and willing obedience to all the
commands of our God? Are the means to secure the fulfilment of all
these most momentous duties, such as are usually adopted in our
schools?--or, shall we not find them in very numerous instances nearly
destitute of any but means rather of counteraction than promotion? By
what other term can we characterize the usual school appliances, to
the chief of which I beg leave to invite your special attention? These
are, the fear of human punishments and disgrace, instead of the fear
of offending our Maker--the stimuli of emulation and ambition: the
first, to surpass supposed rivals and competitors for fame and
fortune; the latter, to attain the worldly distinctions of high rank
and emolument in what are called the "learned professions," or the
celebrity of political power, and elevation above our fellow men. But
will any sober, reflecting person say, that such appliances do not
tend constantly, nay almost certainly, to make us fear man more than
God--to inspire more dread of public sentiment than love of public and
private duty--to poison our hearts with jealousy and envy, and to
intoxicate us with pride, vanity and ambition, rather than to fix
indelibly in our souls all those truly christian virtues, which man
must not only possess but exercise--not only acquire but ardently
cherish, to attain the great end of his being?

The answers to the foregoing questions involve matters of the deepest
possible interest not only to the present, but to all future
generations; for it depends entirely upon them, and the effects they
may have on those who regulate and direct our schools of all kinds,
whether the whole business of scholastic education shall be conducted
in reference merely to the things of time, or to the immeasurably
higher concerns of eternity. In judging of this matter, let us not
trust entirely to the customary forms of expression, in which all our
schools, from the highest to the lowest, publicly invite patronage.
These are rarely deficient in promises that the moral and religious
principles and conduct of the pupils shall be strictly attended to;
which proves at least the general belief in the class of instructers,
that the parents and friends of children attach great importance to
these matters. But no one who has the least knowledge of the manner in
which our schools are usually conducted, can be ignorant that such
promises are much more a matter of form than substance, however
sincere the individuals may have been in making them. "_Profession_,"
we all know "_is not principle_;" neither is it very generally
followed by conformable practice. In nothing is this melancholy fact
more conspicuous, than in the neglect, throughout our schools of every
kind, of all such moral and religious instruction as would thoroughly
convince the pupils that _this_ is deemed of infinitely higher value
than every thing else which either _is_ or _can be_ taught at such
places. But instead of such instruction, if we examine with a view
solely to ascertain the truth, we shall find almost every where that
the real, the constant, the supreme object, is to make what are called
good scholars and learned men--men to make a figure in the world, and
to be celebrated in the various walks of well disguised pride, vanity
and ambition. To accomplish this object all efforts are strenuously
directed, all appliances industriously used; while moral and religious
principles, if inculcated at all, will be found to occupy rather a
nominal than a real and efficient rank. If any doubt it, let them
inquire as impartially as they can, what manner of men those are in
general who constitute the educated class? Are they in most instances
moral and religious persons, or _are they not?_ Do they seem better
qualified or more disposed to fulfil the various duties of life, than
those who have not been blessed with equal opportunities for
intellectual improvement? If they do not, we may be absolutely certain
that some radical errors have been committed in their
education,--since the great object of all that deserves the name,
assuredly is to make men, not merely more learned, but wiser and
better--more intelligent and more virtuous, than they could possibly
be without it. That they _would be so_ under a proper system of
instruction--a system wherein mere scholastic learning, in the common
acceptation of the term, should never be considered synonymous with
education, none can possibly doubt who have ever paid the least
serious attention to the subject, or who have any faith in the
scripture declaration that, _if we train up a child in the way he
should go, he will never depart from it when he is old_. Whenever,
therefore, we witness any departure among such of our young people as
are said to be well educated, it amounts to a demonstration that _they
have not been thus trained_. If they had been, such departures would
be very rare, instead of being most fatally common; nor should we
find, even after making all due allowances for the frailty and
depravity of our nature, these educated youths, in so many deplorable
instances, despisers of religion, {287} loose in their morals,
voluptuaries in practice as well as principle, ignorant or regardless
both of their public and private duties, and devoted entirely to their
own selfish, depraved gratifications. But the lamentable truth is,
that in a vast majority of our schools, whatever promises may have
been honestly promulgated to the contrary, the moral and religious
principles of the pupils are _not made_ paramount objects of
attention. On the contrary, it seems to be almost always presumed,
that the great work of forming these principles has been accomplished
under the parental roof, where alas! (to our shame be it spoken,) it
is in thousands of instances utterly neglected! Each pupil is
consequently left to form them for himself, after his last course of
collegiate instruction, during which these all essential guides to
present and future happiness are rarely put into requisition, farther
than may be deemed necessary to the peace and good order of the
establishment, or as a part of the mere compendious formulary of
instruction. The fatal and almost certain consequence is, that
multitudes of college graduates, after being emancipated from
scholastic restraints, either plunge at once into the destructive
vortex of folly and vice, or devote themselves so entirely to the
pursuits of wealth, pride, vanity and ambition, as effectually to
exclude from their minds all thoughts of another life. These minds,
thus pre-occupied, have actually no place left for such ideas and
reflections as tend to produce a thorough conviction of the necessity
for making some preparation to quit our present state of existence,
with a reasonable hope of infinitely greater happiness in the next we
are destined to enter. That the one we are now in cannot possibly last
beyond a period most fearfully brief, infidels as well as christians
are compelled to observe; for none live to be capable of observation
whose experience has not perfectly assured them, that all are doomed
to die; none live to years of reflection, who can well avoid sometimes
looking forward, however sceptically, to that awful doom, without many
terrors and alarms as to what may follow so fearful a change. For
_this change_, so absolutely sure, so truly appalling to man,
christian education alone can effectually prepare us--and ought
therefore most assuredly to be made the basis, the substantial part,
the great end of all education whatever.

That we can never hope to see so desirable and highly important a
reform accomplished without some other means, some other agencies than
such as we have heretofore had, seems to me demonstrably true. It
appears equally clear that they must be voluntary associations, in
some form or other, for the promotion and improvement of education,
consisting of true, sincere, persevering, efficient friends to the
cause--no "sleeping partners," (as mercantile men say,) but all, both
active and zealous to the utmost of their power. To expect such reform
from legislation is a vain hope, unless we already had such law-makers
in sufficient numbers for the purpose, as _that_ reform in our
parental instruction, schools and colleges alone could produce. When
such consummation can take place, all essential as it seems to our
national welfare, and devoutly as every one may wish it, none but he
who knoweth all things can possibly tell. But each of us may venture
so far as to predict, that voluntary institutions and societies,
similar, gentlemen, to that which you have established, hold out far
more cheering promises of success than can be hoped for from any other
source. They will serve as appropriate nuclei, (if I may thus apply
the term) for attracting around them the scattered talent, the
learning and active benevolence of society. When thus concentrated,
they will perform for our intellectual world what the sun does for
that magnificent world of effulgent stars and constellations with
which _he_ is surrounded--by diffusing in every direction that genial
light and heat, so essential to adorn, to sustain, and to invigorate
both. What a glorious prospect! what a delightful anticipation! Shall
we not then cherish it, my friends, as a _possible_ event--nay, as one
which nothing is wanting to accomplish, but a general combination of
the intelligence, the zeal, and active perseverance of the numerous
and sincere, but too desponding, too supine friends to the cause of
universal education?

You, gentlemen members of this institution, have commenced the noble
work. Let your exertions then to sustain and carry it on never know a
moment's intermission, and my life on the issue, but a few years will
elapse before the happy effects of such efforts will be felt and seen
to the remotest limits of our community. Your patriotic example will
soon be followed in other parts of our beloved state; similar
associations will be formed elsewhere; a similar spirit of benevolence
will be awakened and exerted, until poor old Virginia will once more
hold up her long drooping head among such of her sister states as have
most advanced in all those useful arts and sciences, best calculated
not only to adorn and embellish private life, but to secure both
individual and national happiness.

Before I conclude, permit me to address a few remarks to _you_, young
gentlemen, the cherished alumni of this college. Although not directly
applicable to our main purpose, I hope they may be found to have an
important bearing on it,--since I shall adduce a few practical
illustrations of the fatal errors you may commit in regard both to
professional and domestic duties, unless you adopt forthwith and
forever, as constant guides, those good principles of education which
voluntary and numerous associations for its improvement, seem alone
capable of introducing into all our schools. You will be the first to
enjoy the precious fruits of all such as the members of this institute
will probably recommend. Suffer me then to add my {288} humble efforts
to theirs for your benefit; and deem me not obtrusive, if they should
partake somewhat of the admonitory character: for, be assured that my
remarks shall all be such as a friend and father would make to those
in whose happiness he felt the deepest solicitude.

If I have succeeded in my most anxious desire to impress upon your
minds the thorough conviction that the principles of morality and
religion, indissolubly united, _must_ form the beginning, the middle
and the end of all that deserves the name of education, your first,
your constant and supreme effort will be _to acquire them_. Then
indeed, you may pursue the usual course of your scholastic studies,
not only without danger of mistaking the means for the end, but with
incalculable advantages both present and prospective; for all will be
made conducive to the great, the eternal purposes for which you were
created. Your knowledge of foreign languages and histories will
contribute to convince you that there have been and still are nations,
kindred and people like yourselves,--with similar wants, passions and
capabilities, deserving your sympathy, your regard, your brotherly
love,--that national antipathies should have no place in a human
bosom--that national wars, except for defence, are national crimes;
and that man should consider man his brother, in whatever condition or
on whatever spot of the habitable globe he may be found.

Your mathematics will lead you to the conviction, strong and
irresistible as the demonstrative principles and reasonings upon which
the whole of this noble science depends, that nothing but a God of all
perfect wisdom and love could have endowed you with faculties and
powers capable of deriving not only the highest mental gratifications
from such a source, but of applying the discoveries which produce
these gratifications to an infinite series of the most beneficial
purposes.

Your chemistry will aid in teaching you that none but a Being
infinitely wise and of boundless power and goodness, could possibly
have contrived and arranged such a vast multitude of substances, in
all their endless variety of combinations and affinities, such an
immense world of multiform matter--all as it would seem conducive in
some way or other to human comfort, gratification, or high enjoyment.

Your philosophy and metaphysics, will draw you irresistibly to a great
first cause--the supreme, beneficent, ever bounteous Author of all the
objects of our senses, of all the powers and conceptions of our
understandings; and will indelibly stamp upon your hearts the
sentiments of adoration, love and obedience, as the only proper
tribute you could pay to a Being, who, so far as we can comprehend his
works, hath made them all subservient, either directly or indirectly,
to our own happiness, both in time and eternity. These sciences will
bring home to your bosoms and business the vital truth that you have
minds of vast powers of comprehension--faculties capable of
undefinable expansion; and souls of such godlike energies, aspirations
and capacities of enjoyment, as nothing less than a God of all power,
wisdom and love, could either have created or bestowed. In a word,
whatever path you may pursue within the whole circle of scientific and
literary research, it will lead you, if under the constant guidance of
moral and religious principles, to the possession of the chief good
here on earth, and to "that house above, not made with hands, eternal
in the heavens."

There are indeed no circumstances nor situations in which you can
anticipate even the possibility of being placed, unless bereft of all
consciousness or sanity of mind, that can exempt you from the
obligation of making these principles the chart and compass as it
were, by which you are to steer your earthly course. Let us imagine a
few of such as most commonly occur in our progress through life--such
as are matters of choice rather than necessity--and we shall then more
clearly see the indispensable use of such a chart and compass to
direct us safely and happily in our unavoidable passage to realms of
eternal duration.

Almost every man, for example, at some period of his existence,
desires to become a husband--to unite himself for life to some
individual of the other sex, as a means of enjoying far greater
happiness than he possibly could in any single state. It is a
situation in which millions voluntarily place themselves--a situation
of vast and complicated responsibilities--involving numerous
relationships and duties of the highest imaginable importance, upon
which depend not only the domestic and social happiness of
individuals, but the moral condition of whole communities and nations.
Yet, how few of these millions, even among the most deeply versed in
scholastic lore, unless they are men of the soundest moral and
religious principles, are ever guided in their choice by any thing but
fancy, whim, caprice, or some other far less excusable motive? Their
scholastic acquirements alone, never avail them in the slightest
degree. The eye is usually the sole guide--the appellate court of
reason and judgment not being so much as even consulted. When married,
they generally become parents, and thereby incur duties the moat
sacred and of the most awful responsibilities; for they are _then_
answerable for the souls of _others_ as well as for _their own_--for
souls, with whose happiness they are intrusted even by the God of the
universe himself! Yet how, let me ask, are these momentous duties
generally fulfilled, even by the best scholars, unless they are also
moral and religious men? Instead of fulfilment, we too often behold
total neglect, nay frequently the grossest, most shameful, most
criminal violation; and all this too by individuals who have obtained
the highest {289} collegiate honors. What is the fair inference from
such facts? Why, that no education which has not the united principles
that I am endeavoring to recommend for its basis, its means of
completion, and its great end, can fit man even for the two most
common and by far the most important conditions of life.

Let me call your attention now to a few of the chief professions in
which the young men of our country are most apt to engage; and let us
endeavor to ascertain how far mere scholastic acquirements, even of
the highest grade, will enable you to pursue these professions with
profit and honor to yourselves, and with benefit to the community of
which you are members.

If you become physicians, without something more than the mere nominal
worldy belief in the general utility of moral and religious
principles, you will have nothing but the very feeble, seldom regarded
check of worldy prudence, to restrain you from hurrying into the
practice of the profession, before the proper preparation can possibly
be made. Your own pecuniary emolument will become your chief
object,--this you will be apt to pursue with no farther regard than
your popularity requires, to the numerous risks you will incur of
destroying both the health and life of others. You will hasten on in
this course with a brevity of preparation far shorter than is deemed
necessary to make even a good cook or washer-woman--although the thing
to be practised upon, in the first case, is _human life itself_;
while, in the latter cases, they are only the human appetite for food
and some of the habiliments of the human body! Yet, it is upon the
skill and humanity of the members of the medical profession, that
society must depend for the alleviation or cure of all those
indescribable miseries, under which, in the countless forms of
sickness and disease, mankind are doomed to suffer to the end of the
world--doomed alas! in a great measure, by their own vices and
profligacy, superinduced by false education much more than by any
naturally inherent defect either in their bodily or mental
constitutions.

Should the profession of law be your choice, here also you will find
that mere scholarship, mere literary and scientific acquirement,
unsustained by deeply fixed, continually active, moral and religious
principles, will avail you quite as little as in the practice of
medicine. Instead of becoming "compounders of strife," as these
principles enjoin us all to be, you will be much more apt to turn out
encouragers of litigation. You will often without scruple aid the
rapacious and vindictive in the gratification of their criminal
passions, by defending them from the legal consequences of their
indulgence. You will frequently vindicate the oppressor in his wrongs,
assist guilt in seeking safety, and enable crime to escape its just
and lawful punishment. Calumniators, thieves, robbers, and destroyers
of life as well as of innocence, will be indebted to you for renewed
opportunities of preying upon the peace, the property, the happiness
of society. You will thus, as far as depends upon your professional
labors, actually cherish crime, pervert justice, and defeat the ends
of all those conservative laws which it should be _your_ peculiar
province to expound, _your_ inviolable duty to sustain in all their
purity and force, by never for a moment countenancing or aiding their
violators. Then the appropriate punishment for every outrage against
penal law would always follow every perpetration of unlawful deeds;
for each fee offered by such enemies of mankind as commit atrocious
crimes, would be considered and rejected either as the price of
property wickedly gained--of innocence utterly ruined--of character
irretrievably blasted, or of life criminally taken away. I do not
speak of those doubtful cases wherein lawyers may be deceived by the
_ex parte_ statements of their clients; but of such as carry deep and
damning guilt in their very face--of those in which the applicants for
counsel prove themselves, _by their own shewing_, to be _steeped_ as
it were in infamy, iniquity and deadly crime--of those who practice
injustice as a lucrative trade, ruin character by way of recreation,
and destroy innocence as a pleasurable pursuit--of those who, as long
as their money lasts, rely upon lawyers to defend them in making the
property, the character, the happiness of others subservient to their
own diabolical appetites and passions. Would all lawyers make it a
point of conscience never to appear for such wretches, unless the
courts assigned them as counsel, the criminals themselves would never
be unjustly condemned; neither would they ever escape punishment, as
they now often do, by the ingenious but highly pernicious sophistry of
their hired defenders. Laws would then attain the great ends for which
they were enacted, and our whole community would enjoy a far greater
degree of safety from the perpetrators of crime than it has ever done
heretofore.

Should political life be your choice, after finishing a scholastic
course wherein both morals and religion have been so little regarded
as not to be made paramount objects of pursuit, instead of becoming
pure patriots, solely devoted to your country's good, you will be much
more apt to turn constant calculators of the chances for personal
aggrandizement--careful measurers and weighers of your own private
interests against your public duties, and deep casuists in the means
of evading or violating the last to promote the first, wherever your
real purpose and only anxious desire may admit of probable
concealment. You will become, with few exceptions, if possessed of
sufficient talents and cunning, members of that most pernicious class
of politicians called demagogues, who in fact have always proved the
curse of every country {290} wherein they have acquired political
power. These have patriotism, patriotism, continually on their lips,
but never in their hearts and actions--deeming it much easier to feign
love of country than really to possess and exert it--much more thrifty
to wheedle and cajole the people for their own base selfish
purposes,--than manfully and like true friends combat their prejudices
and inform their understandings. You will reach the lowest, most
despicable grade of political prostitution, by turning
_man-worshippers_; and soon learn to offer up your incense in exact
proportion to the vanity of your idols and their power to gratify your
wants; until at last you will neither see, hear, nor understand any
thing but as they wish you; and will call black white, or white
black--just as they bid you do. To this wretched state of degradation
and self-abasement do most politicians sink themselves, whose
educations have not been firmly based on sound, moral and religious
principles.

Let us suppose, lastly, that you should prefer the mercantile
profession to any other, after acquiring all the learning to be gained
in the customary course of education. What will probably be your
practice as merchants, if the principles which I am recommending as
the essentials of all education, have not been made so of yours? Will
this practice be guided by the social or the selfish principle? Will
it be, "_live and let live_," or "_live for self alone_?" But very
little observation and experience will compel you to admit that the
latter maxim will in most cases be the ruling one. Nay, it will not
only rule you, but blind you also to the great truth which should
always govern the whole mercantile class, that all fair commerce is
nothing more than an interchange of equivalents--a supplying of each
other's wants--by which both sellers and buyers are mutually
benefitted--a bond of peace and union, instead of a war of cunning for
the accumulation of pelf. In fact every thing called commerce or
barter, wherein this effect of mutual benefit does not take place, so
far as depends upon the intention of the parties, is neither more nor
less than _fraud in disguise_--fraud concealed under the specious
title of skill in trade--in other words, it is an unjust attempt on
both sides to get some undue advantage in the traffic. Such attempts
you never would make--indeed you could not possibly make them, were
your hearts constantly and deeply influenced, during the whole of your
scholastic course, by the pure, the genuine principles of morality and
religion, while your conduct was regulated by them as the guardians of
your honor, the preservers of your reputation, the unerring guides
that point the way from time to eternity.

_These principles and these alone_ form our only safeguards against
vice and crime--our only security for using whatever other education
we may acquire, as rational and accountable beings should use all the
powers of their minds and bodies. Once acquired and ardently
cherished, they will prove to you "a refuge in every storm--a present
help in every trouble"--the sweetest solace in all adversity--the ever
faithful monitors and guides in prosperous fortune. Armed with such a
panoply you may safely march through all the most perilous paths of
life, without fear of serious injury; and proceed, rejoicing on your
way, that you have neither lived nor labored in vain. _Yours_ will be
the only true glory of the present life,--that of contributing to
human happiness--_yours_ the sole victory worthy of beings endowed
with such godlike faculties,--the victory over your own passions--and
_yours_ the indescribable rewards after death, of those "who have done
the will of their Father on earth as it is in heaven."

Look always to these principles as to the polar star of your earthly
course--act up to them faithfully, under all the trying circumstances
in which you may be placed; and each of you may then, in the confident
hope of being graciously heard, begin and close every day of your
lives with the comprehensive prayer of the pious Thomson:--

  "Father of light and life! thou Good Supreme!
   Oh! teach me what is good! teach me thyself!
   Save me from folly, vanity and vice,
   From ev'ry low pursuit! and feed my soul
   With knowledge, conscious peace, and virtue pure;
   Sacred,--substantial,--never-fading bliss!"




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE CONTRAST:

OR, A FASHIONABLE AND AN UNFASHIONABLE NEW ENGLAND WIFE.


Horace Lawrence and Ellen Frazier had been three years married, when
Alpheus North, their friend, and nearest neighbor, brought home his
beautiful bride, the accomplished Anna Weston.

They resided in a little village, the principal attraction of which
was, that it was a good place for business. The village was, indeed,
beautifully situated. From every point the landscape was diversified
by hill and dale--the one crowned by here and there a towering
oak,--the other shaded by the branching elm. The clear waters of the
river, pursuing its rather circuitous course, might be seen from every
eminence; and its passage being in many places obstructed, waterfalls
added to the variety and beauty of the scenery.

But the inhabitants of the village had been influenced by other
motives than the gratification of the eye, to locate themselves on
this favored spot. The _useful_ was to them the only _truly
beautiful_; and however much the admirer of the lovely and picturesque
in nature might have regretted it, there men of business delighted in
adding mill to mill,--and in seeing the fine river obstructed by {291}
logs and slabs,--and every corner wearing the appearance of a
lumber-yard. It was a real business place. The men were all intent on
accumulating dollars and cents; and although among their wives and
daughters, there was abundance of tea-drinking, visiting, and
sociability,--and here and there an effort at the genteel,--there was
neither science, nor literature, nor refinement in the place,
excepting the little that just retained the breath of life, in the
habitation of the aged pastor of the parish, and that which was
enclosed in the room of the young physician.

Had he consulted taste alone, the village of L---- was the last place
Horace Lawrence would have selected as his place of residence; for he
was scientific, literary, and refined,--calculated at once, to enjoy
and adorn polished society; but though the son of a gentleman, a
finished education was all his father could give him;--of course he
had his own fortune to make. He was a lawyer, and the village of L----
presented a fair opening for one of that profession.

As soon as his business was sufficiently established to warrant it, he
had married. He did not choose Ellen Frazier because she was either
the most beautiful, the most accomplished, or the most fascinating
young lady of his acquaintance; but because she had superior strength
of mind, and firmness of character,--was amiable, well-principled, and
well-informed--and therefore likely to make a judicious friend, and a
good wife and mother. She belonged to a family that had for successive
generations ranked high in New England for learning and piety; but her
father was in narrow circumstances; and all the money he had to spare,
was expended on the education of his two sons;--so that Ellen was
constrained to make the most of her resources, to acquire the
education of a gentlewoman. But she loved knowledge,--and when that is
the case, no one will remain in ignorance. She was not scientific, but
her mind was richly stored with useful knowledge, which rendered her a
valuable friend, and a most entertaining companion. And in her own
mother she had been blessed with a living example of all that is most
valuable in woman, in the several relations of life. Mr. Lawrence was
not disappointed in his wife. She possessed his entire confidence; and
every year witnessed an increase of his respect and affection for her.
They were a well-matched, and happy pair.

Alpheus North was a native of the village of L----. His father was an
untaught man, but shrewd and intelligent; and by dint of industry and
frugality, arose from being a shoemaker, his bench his only property,
to having money in the stocks,--two or three saw-mills on the river,
and a very genteel house, beautifully situated in the outskirts of the
village. Resolved that his son should be, what he was conscious he
himself was not, namely, a gentleman, he spared no expense on his
education. And he met the only return he wished;--Alpheus was a
scholar, and an elegant man. He was more. For while his father had
been thinking of his education and fortune, and providing for both,
his mother had been thinking of his heart. She was an illiterate
woman, but devotedly pious; and she thought little of the prospects of
her children for this world, in comparison with their fitness for the
next. Her first object had been to bring them up in "the nurture and
admonition of the Lord;" and if all the holy desires of her heart were
not satisfied in their behalf, they were certainly well-principled;
reverencing the Bible, and respecting, if not possessing true piety.
And Alpheus, the only son, was the most amiable, the most tender, the
most hopeful of them all.

Mr. and Mrs. North died within a few months of each other, the year
that Alpheus left college; and he inherited from his father the house
in L----, beside other property to the amount of fifteen thousand
dollars. Having no predeliction for either of the learned professions,
and feeling strongly attached to his native place, he established
himself at L---- as a merchant.

Anna Weston was the only child of parents, who, though neither
well-educated, nor well-mannered, moved in the first circles in the
town in which they resided, nobody knew why, and supported their
station, nobody knew how. They always contrived to appear genteelly in
their house, without any obvious means; for Mr. Weston's whole
business seemed to be, the now and then taking the acknowledgement of
a deed, or some other trifling business as a justice of peace; and no
one could name any property as his,--whether houses, or lands, or
money. This, however, only gave rise to idle speculation, and
furnished conversation for those vacant minds, that can find no more
entertaining or instructive subject of conversation, than the affairs
of their neighbors; for he owed no man anything, and therefore no one
was really concerned as to the exact amount of his property. The fact
was, that both Mr. and Mrs. Weston were remarkably skilful in making a
good deal of show, with very limited means; and their study from
January to December was how to keep up appearances.

Anna was the idol of her parents. She was beautiful in person, and
amiable in disposition,--with as much _tact_ as father and mother
both. Her education was completely superficial; but she studied every
thing _a little_,--and by usually being seen in the morning with a
book in her hand, and often speaking of her favorite studies, it was
taken for granted, that her mind was uncommonly well stored. But every
thing about her character and acquirements was completely artificial,
her sweetness of temper alone excepted.

{292} Anna was visiting an old school-fellow in Boston, when Alpheus
North for the first time saw her. Her beauty instantly captivated his
eye; her graceful, and somewhat showy manners, pleased his fancy; and
her amiable disposition and sprightly conversation, engaged his
affections. He was soon deeply in love; and before declaring himself,
only wished to know, whether her principles were such as the son of a
mother like his own could approve. He conversed with her on the
subject of religion, and was delighted to find, not only that her
feelings were tender, but that she was a member of the church in her
native town. He at once offered his hand, which was accepted; and in
due time he brought his beautiful bride to L----, after having taken
her to Saratoga Springs, and one or two other places of fashionable
resort.

Between Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence, and Alpheus North, there was no
ceremony. Similarity of education, and, on some accounts, congeniality
of taste, had made them fond of each other's society from first
acquaintance; and time had ripened this early preference into
friendship. Mr. North was ever a welcome visiter at the house of Mr.
Lawrence, where he was treated more as a brother than as a common
acquaintance.

The next morning after his arrival at L---- with his bride, he called
upon Mrs. Lawrence, to bespeak from her an early call; as Mrs. North
must necessarily feel solitary among entire strangers; and, indeed,
where there were none with whom she could wish _ever_ to be intimate,
Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence alone excepted. He hoped he should now be able,
in some degree, to requite the cordial hospitality that had been
accorded to him, and which had constituted so large a share of his
happiness.

In a short time an intimacy between the two families was established.
Mrs. Lawrence could not, indeed, very frequently visit Mrs. North, as
she had two young children; and her wish to promote the comfort of her
husband, to superintend the general well being of her family, and take
care of these little ones, kept her, the greater part of her time,
within her own doors. But Mrs. North had no confinement,--and with the
most graceful ease she waived ceremony, and at any hour of the day
would put her blooming and smiling face into the nursery, the parlor,
or whatever room Mrs. Lawrence might chance to be in, and be quite at
home.

Two months had elapsed since Mrs. North came to L----, when one
morning as she was sitting in the nursery with Mrs. Lawrence, she
said--

"I look upon you with increasing astonishment every day, to see you
always so cheerful and happy." Mrs. Lawrence looked up in some
surprise, and inquired, "Why she should be otherwise."

"Why?--Because you are so perpetually employed--shut up in your own
house. I should think you would be wretched!"

"I am so constantly, and necessarily, and, for a greater part of the
time, so _interestingly_ employed, that I have no leisure to be
unhappy," said Mrs. Lawrence, with a smile.

"Interestingly! Pardon me," said Mrs. North, "but can domestic
concerns _ever_ be interesting?"

"How can you ask such a question, my dear Mrs. North?"

"Call me Anna, do--I hate _Mrs. North_ from an intimate
friend,--especially one somewhat older than myself," said Mrs. North.
"But tell me how you can be _interested_ in what I have thought must
be irksome to every one."

"Every affectionate wife, my dear _Anna_," said Mrs. Lawrence, "must
be _interested_ to promote the comfort and prosperity of her husband;
every mother, especially every _christian_ mother, must be interested
in the care and instruction of her children; and my Lucius is now two
years old--capable, therefore, of receiving moral impressions that may
endure through eternity;--and _every lady should strive to be so much
of a lady_, as to have her whole household well regulated, and all
domestic business well, and reasonably performed."

"O, certainly," said Mrs. North. "Yet every human being needs
recreation. You will soon wear yourself out by such unceasing
attention to domestic duties."

"By no means. You know that variety of objects and occupations is an
antidote to exhaustion; beside, books and my flower-garden are a never
failing source of pleasure and relaxation. Indeed, my dear Mrs. North,
I wonder how a wife and mother can ever know _ennui_, or find much
time to devote to general society."

"Would I had your resources," said Mrs. North. "But, really, were it
not for you, I believe I should die of _ennui_ in this stupid, vulgar
place, notwithstanding I have the kindest, and most attentive husband
in the world. But he cannot always be with me, of course; and when he
is attending to business, you are my only resource. Do you know that
for a month past, I have been dreading the approach of this week?"

"On what account?"

"Because I thought that when Mr. Lawrence went to attend court, you
would certainly go with him, after having been immured so long. I
dreaded it so much, I could not even ask you whether or not you should
go."

"I very seldom go anywhere with Mr. Lawrence, to be absent more than
one day," said Mrs. Lawrence. "We do not feel quite easy to be from
home at the same time."

"And do you ever go without him?" asked Mrs. North.

"Not very often; for when he is with me, home is much the pleasantest
place in the world. My {293} friend," she added, with a smile, "you
have not yet been a wife long enough to know much about it. Three or
four years hence you will find employment enough; and that which, I
doubt not, will prove so interesting, that you will not be willing to
transfer it to other hands."

"Perhaps so--but, really, I do love society. I do love to drive about
a little, and see the world, and the people that are in it. And, by
the way, do you know that I go to Boston, with Alpheus, in a
fortnight? Business calls him there,--and he says he cannot go without
me. I am glad of it, truly. I should not like to ask him to take me
with him,--and stay at home, alone, I could not!"

"I am glad you are to have the pleasure of a journey," said Mrs.
Lawrence. "And there is no reason why you should not. Mr. North is, of
course, at present, your principal care; and you have little else to
do, but study to promote his happiness."

The journey to Boston on business was only the precursor of another,
in a different direction, for pleasure; for Mr. North, himself, loved
to visit different parts of the country; he took pride in the
admiration and attention his young wife commanded; and, beside, he
could not but perceive that L---- seemed more and more unpleasant to
her, after every excursion,--and it was his constant desire to promote
the happiness of one so tenderly beloved. Perhaps he took not the most
certain way to increase her happiness;--but that was the fault of his
head--not his heart!

Mrs. North never _teazed_, or even _asked_ her husband for any
gratification. She was, at once too amiable, and too polite to do
either; yet she had a way of her own--and a most graceful and
fascinating way it was--of leading him on to propose the very thing
she had resolved on,--and then yielding to his plan, with an air of
relinquishing some more favored scheme of her own, for the pleasure of
gratifying him. Indeed, every thing she did, was done in the most
amiable and graceful manner--even to the spending of money, which she
did with the air of a princess. And her husband sometimes feared she
was a _little_ too profuse; but she dressed with such taste; was so
generous, and so much the _belle_ wherever she appeared, that he could
not find it in his heart to supply her purse less liberally.

For nearly three months Mr. and Mrs. North were scarcely at L---- for
more than a week at a time; and the cold winds and bad roads of
November, alone led them to settle quietly at home. On every return to
L----, Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence had been duly visited; and now, when the
autumnal campaign was fairly over, their society was more needed, more
valued than ever. Scarcely twenty-four hours passed, without bringing
Mrs. Lawrence the favor of a longer or shorter visit.

"And so, my dear Mrs. Lawrence, you have not been five miles from
L----, since my journey to Boston last August?"

"I have not."

"Nor wanted to be, I suppose," said Mrs. North.

"All circumstances considered, I have not," answered Mrs. Lawrence.
"It would afford me great pleasure to see various parts of the
world,--in the Southern as well as Northern States of the Union,--in
Europe as well as America; but as I am situated, by the providence of
an all-wise Father, I must content myself with the knowledge of
different places, that I can derive from books. And this, if not so
satisfactory, is, at least, a cheaper mode of obtaining information,
than travelling."

Two things in this answer struck Mrs. North. "A cheaper mode!" Yes--as
Mr. Lawrence inherited no fortune, it was necessary for his wife to
think of economy. How fortunate for herself that Mr. North's father
was a rich man! "Knowledge--travelling to obtain knowledge!" The idea
had never before occurred to her mind. She had always travelled solely
for pleasure.

Mrs. Lawrence really felt attached to Mrs. North. Her amiable temper
and pleasing manners had won her affections, and she wished to do her
good. She soon learned that her friend had many false notions: that,
in her estimation, wealth was the most valuable distinction; that show
was elegance; and that dress and idleness were gentility. She saw,
too, that she was nearly, or quite destitute of internal sources of
happiness; that all the nobler powers of her mind lay dormant; that
she seemed to have no idea of intellectual pleasures. Mrs. Lawrence
had no conception of the difficulty of the task she wished to
accomplish; she knew not how deep-rooted were the evils she wished to
subdue; knew not that they were completely intertwined with her whole
mental constitution.

Mrs. Lawrence often heard Mrs. North talk of books; and she directed
her to a course of reading, which she thought would at once prove
highly interesting and beneficial. But Mrs. North had never really
read a book for pleasure, or for intellectual improvement, in her
life. She had never been taught by her parents, and had never
conceived the idea herself, that the object in the acquisition of
knowledge, was to fit her for the discharge of duties to herself and
others.

The knowledge she really possessed, was acquired for the express
purpose of _display_--to give her distinction in the circle in which
she moved. Of course she had gone about the acquisition of it, not as
a pleasure, but as a task that must be accomplished. Mrs. Lawrence had
likewise heard her speak of the benevolent societies with which she
had been connected in her native place, and she strove to awaken her
sympathies for the poor in L----, and excite interest in benevolent
{294} enterprises of a higher order. But although Mrs. North would
give freely, and, particularly if a subscription paper was handed
about, would subscribe liberally, there was evidently no heart in her
charities. She could find no pleasure in searching out the destitute
and afflicted in her own person. If she heard of one who was sick, she
would perhaps send them a sum of money preposterously large, that
_Mrs. North might be spoken of as a most munificent lady_; but she
could not have made a basin of broth, to have saved a life. She knew
nothing of the system of benefitting the poor at a very trifling
expense of time and labor, by making comfortable garments out of old
ones that were lying useless, an encumbrance to closets and drawers.
It is nearly useless to give such garments to the poor in an
unprepared state; seldom have they sufficient ingenuity, or patience,
or industry, to turn them to profitable account. Mrs. Lawrence was
fully aware of this; and she was remarkable for the ingenuity and
dexterity with which she would make a comfortable suit of clothes for
a poor child, out of garments that appeared not worth a farthing. She
was a blessing to the poor around her; and her husband had in no way
to pay the penalty of her charities, as is sometimes, unhappily, the
case. Mrs. Lawrence endeavored to interest Mrs. North in this way of
doing good; but the attempt was fruitless. How could a lady degrade
herself by attending to such occupations! How could the delicate and
elegant Mrs. North bend her beautiful person over such work; or soil
and deface her fair, round fingers by such menial employments! Equally
unavailing were all Mrs. Lawrence's efforts, to interest her friend in
the cultivation of flowers, or in any employment or pursuit, by which
she could make herself happy in solitude.

The piety of Mrs. North was in perfect accordance with every other
point in her character. At a season of revival of religion in her
native place, many of her youthful companions becoming deeply
interested in the subject, her sympathies were awakened; and she
mistook these feelings, as is, alas, too often the case, for
renovation of heart.--Beside, "religion walked in her golden
slippers;" it was _fashionable_ to be benevolent, and charitable, and
attend meetings; and Anna Weston went with others; and with others she
publicly and solemnly "avouched the Lord to be her God," and
consecrated herself to his service! But one view of her own heart she
had never had. She still loved the world, and the things of the world,
"the lusts of the eye, and the pride of life," and scarcely felt, or
knew that it was wrong. She lived for herself; and she loved
herself--supremely; and she was not conscious, much less was Mr.
North, that her strongly expressed attachment to her husband,
principally arose from the ability he possessed to gratify her in all
the selfish desires of her heart.

Mrs. Lawrence could not but perceive that the feelings of Mrs. North
were very superficial on the subject of religion; and she knew that
the views that resulted in such practice, must be erroneous. As a
christian, deeply interested in the honor of Him "who had redeemed her
to God by his own blood,"--and anxious that every one of his professed
disciples should "walk worthy of their high vocation," she often
conversed with Mrs. North on the subject; and by the gentlest and most
touching appeals, strove to touch her heart, and awaken and
_enlighten_ her conscience. But here, too, she was unsuccessful. Mrs.
North would so readily assent to all she said, with "Certainly"--"O,
yes, every christian should feel and act thus,"--that Mrs. Lawrence
felt that the case was, at present, hopeless. There was no _feeling_;
there was not even _thought_;--it was a mere assent of the voice.

But an event was now in prospect that seemed to have a great effect on
Mrs. North; and which frequently has a vast effect in deciding
character. Life is always uncertain,--and, in a moment of reflection,
every one is willing to acknowledge it; but when a lady has the
prospect of becoming a mother, there is a definite period to which she
looks forward, as the one in which she may be called from time into
eternity. It is an unthinking woman indeed, who is never serious under
such circumstances. Mrs. North was far otherwise. Life was very dear
to her; since her marriage it had been a scene of unclouded sunshine.
But now there was a dark curtain raised before her, beyond which she
trembled to look.

Mrs. Lawrence was one of the most judicious of woman. She cheered and
sustained her friend's spirits, not by leading her to forget, or think
lightly of her danger, but by teaching her to look at it
rationally,--and be in a state of preparation for her hour of
trial.--And never had she been so much encouraged, for never had Mrs.
North appeared so much as she wished to see her. Her feelings were
very tender, and a review of the many blessings she had enjoyed,
seemed to fill her with gratitude for the past; and inspire in her
some degree of confidence for the future. She professed to hope, that
whether she were to live, or to die, all would be well.

At length Mrs. North became the joyful mother of a fine son; and her
feelings were in a glow of gratitude. Her heart seemed to expand with
love for every one. Her husband--her friend--never had they been half
so dear!--With her congratulatory kiss, while the tears of deep
tenderness suffused her eyes, Mrs. Lawrence whispered--"Consecrate
yourself, dearest Anna, and this precious little immortal, to the
service of Him who has been your benefactor and preserver!" With
tremulous lips, Mrs. North returned the kiss, and emphatically
whispered--"O dear friend, may I {295} never forget the impressions of
this hour? May I never forget the deep debt of gratitude I owe to my
Father in heaven?"

But, alas, it was not the goodness of Ephraim alone that was "as the
morning cloud, and the early dew!" for the greater part of the
goodness of the whole human family is of the same transitory and
fleeting nature. At the end of six weeks, when Mrs. North left her
chamber, she was precisely the Mrs. North of the year before--equally
thoughtless, equally negligent of duty. With pain Mrs. Lawrence
witnessed all this;--with deep pain she saw indications that the
character of a _fashionable woman_ must be supported at the expense of
being an unnatural mother.

Physicians, when practising in fashionable houses, have a wonderful
faculty of divining what prescriptions will be most agreeable. Mrs.
North had a fine constitution; but like many women brought up with
false notions, she conceived that firm health and refinement were
incompatible with each other. Dr. G----, was very willing to humor her
whim, as it was in no way detrimental to his pecuniary interest; and
he cheerfully acquiesced in her recovering from her confinement as
slowly as she pleased. And when, by her own confession she was well,
he put the cap-stone to the favor in which he previously stood with
her, by saying, what his shrewd observation told him would just accord
with her wishes, namely--that her strength was quite unequal to the
task of nursing; her babe must be sent from home;--the Dr. knew just
the nurse for it--a fine, healthy, good-natured woman, who would take
the best possible care of it, for two dollars a week; and Mrs. North
must take a journey, as change of air and scene were indispensable to
the perfect restoration of her health.

Mrs. Lawrence was truly grieved when she found this arrangement was
made. She had foreseen the probability of it, but she could not be
reconciled to the measure. She justly considered maternal feelings
among the most sacred that belong to earth; and she knew that nothing
more strengthens a mother's love, than the entire dependance of the
child on her for comfort and happiness. She was fully convinced, that
anything that weakens this tie, that nature has made so strong, must
be injurious alike to both parent and offspring. She was musing on the
subject when her husband came in.

"You look sad, my dear Ellen. What is the matter?"

"Mrs. North has put the dear little boy out to nurse."

"She is a fashionable woman! Did you not expect it?"

"I feared it--but I blame Dr. G----, for had he not have proposed it,
I think Anna would have kept the poor little thing with her. He says,
too, that she must journey to confirm her health."

"He knows his patient," said Mr. Lawrence.

"You are severe, my dear husband."

"Do you think so?--but time will show. Meantime I am going to take you
a journey."

"Me! where?"

"To Fryburg. Business calls me there next week--I shall be absent from
home but few days, and the excursion will do you good. Be it as it may
with Mrs. North, change of air and scene are really necessary for
you."

"But the children?" said Mrs. Lawrence.

"I have provided for them," said Mr. Lawrence. "Nurse Bevey has
promised to come and take care of them during our absence?"

"Well, since you have arranged it all," said Mrs. Lawrence, "do
propose to Alpheus that he and Anna accompany us. It may suffice,--and
prevent them from taking one of those long journies that I begin to
dread."

Mr. and Mrs. North were delighted with the proposal. Preparations were
immediately commenced, and at the appointed time, they all set out on
their excursion. We shall not travel with them. Suffice it to say,
that on the evening of the second day after their departure, they
arrived at Mrs. O----'s hotel, in Fryburg. Mr. Lawrence was rather
impatient, as the journey might have been performed in much less time.
But short stages, and long rests were necessary for Mrs. North--at
least she said so--and Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence could not with propriety
drive on before them.

On the morning after their arrival, on looking about them, the ladies
were both in raptures at the scenery around. They had seen nothing
like it before. But we will accompany them to the little Jockey-Cap
mountain, which lies not far from a mile from Mrs. O----'s, which they
ascended in the afternoon, and hear what they say of it there.

"This little mountain is not difficult of ascent," said Mr. Lawrence,
when they had attained its summit--"yet it is rather wearisome, making
ones way through the shrub-oaks--so do you, my dear Ellen, and Mrs.
North, rest awhile on this table of granite, and amuse yourselves by
picking out some of the well-defined garnets that are imbedded in the
rock. When you are rested, you may come with us toward the verge of
the precipice, and view the scenery around."

In a few minutes the ladies got over their fatigue,--and joined their
husbands to enjoy the prospect.

"What is the name of this beautiful sheet of water on our left, Mr.
Lawrence?" asked Mrs. North.

"It is called 'Lovell's pond,'" replied Mr. Lawrence. "It was on the
margin of this peaceful _lake_, as it should be called, that Capt.
Lovell and his company of militia, met Pangus, the Indian Sachem, at
the head of a part of his tribe, {296} prepared for deadly conflict.
In Lovell's company was a man named John Chamberlain. His rifle, as
well as that of Pangus, had become foul from frequent firing. Standing
but a few paces apart, each cleaned his rifle at the pond--and each
commenced loading at the same moment,--while each watched the motions
of the other with the most intense interest--knowing that he that was
first ready to discharge his rifle, would undoubtedly be sole
survivor. The rifle of Chamberlain was so much worn, that in being
loaded, it primed itself. This circumstance decided the fate of the
Indian Chief--he fell."[1]

[Footnote 1: After the "fight" at Lovell's pond, the remains of the
Pigwacket tribe of Indians, left the woods and lakes of New Hampshire
and Maine, for the broader waters and deeper forests of Canada. In
1777, Chamberlain had become an old grey-headed man,--living alone,
and laboring in a saw mill to support himself. He was one evening
informed that a young Indian had appeared in the Village, with rifle,
wampum belt and tomahawk, having the noble bearing of old Pangus, the
Sachem. Chamberlain instantly took the alarm; but old as he was, was
not intimidated. Well knowing the Indian character and habits, about
the dusk of the evening he put his mill in rapid motion, raised his
coat as a "decoy"--and retired to a short distance to watch what might
follow. In a short time he witnessed the cautious approach of the
savage, who repeatedly advanced and receded, ere he aimed his rifle at
the coat. As soon as he had fired, and raised himself to his full
height, (which was above six feet) to ascertain the effect of his aim,
Chamberlain discharged the same rifle that had taken the life of the
Sachem. As the bullet went through his heart, young Pangus sprung some
feet in the air, and fell lifeless in the stream below.]

"O, the ever wakeful Providence of our Heavenly Father," whispered
Mrs. Lawrence.

"The beautiful swell of land, directly in front of us, and clothed
with verdure to its summit, is Starkes-hill," said Mr. Lawrence; "that
on our right, just back of the village, is Kearsarge mountain."

"And those beyond, piled one upon another, in seemingly endless
succession--far--far as the eye can reach," cried Mrs. Lawrence, "are
the celebrated white mountains of New-Hampshire. O, how sublime! how
grand! how awful! And Mount Washington raises its towering head far
above the others, as if to overlook, and guard them all. What majesty
is here!--and how elevating to the soul, to view such specimens of our
Creator's workmanship!"

"And what is the name of this beautiful stream, that flows between us,
and the highlands?" asked Mrs. North.

"This river," replied Mr. North, "still retains its Indian
appellation--the Saco!"

"And see," said Mrs. Lawrence, "how it winds around and about, as if
reluctant to leave this broad and beautiful intervale, and striving to
linger in it to the last possible moment."

"I have been told," said Mr. Lawrence, "that before some short canals
were cut, to accelerate the passage of lumber down the stream, that
the Saco ran upwards of thirty miles, in this place, in making the
actual progress of only six towards the ocean."

"And then the beautiful, quiet village," said Mrs. Lawrence, "lying so
securely amid its guardian mountains, with its long, straight
street,--and its church and academy spires, pointing to heaven,
speaking of spiritual and intellectual improvement. O, this scene is
perfect in beauty!--and in grandeur! There the sublime and beautiful
are most happily associated. The overpowering awe that steals upon
one, while viewing those mighty efforts of creative power, which fills
the soul with sensations altogether too big for utterance,--is
modified, when the eye falls, and rests on the peaceful village, which
speaks of human society, comfort and happiness. It seems as if the
inhabitants, brought up with such scenes of beauty and sublimity
constantly before them, must be more free from base and ignoble
passions, than those who live and die amid scenery of a different
character. Every spot on which the eye rests, speaks of the grandeur,
the power, the benevolence--and, if I may so express myself, the
_taste_ of the Divine Architect. I can conceive of nothing more
beautiful--more perfect!--and nothing can have a more elevating effect
on the soul of man! I must believe, with Dr. Dwight, that 'he who does
not find in the various beautiful, sublime, awful and astonishing
objects, presented to us in creation, irresistible and glorious
reasons for admiring, adoring, loving and praising his Creator, has no
claim to evangelical piety.'"

"You are an enthusiast, Mrs. Lawrence," said Mr. North, smiling.

"Perhaps I am. But nothing, after _moral grandeur_, touches my heart
like the beautiful face of nature. Every flower and tree, and hill and
valley that meets my eye, gives me delight,--and speaks to my soul of
the glorious Being that made them:--how much more such a picture as is
now spread before me!--My dear husband, when our children are old
enough to appreciate its beauty, they must be brought to this spot. It
cannot fail of having a salutary effect, both on the heart, and mind."

Mr. Lawrence pressed his wife's arm to his side, in token of
approbation. His admiration was divided between the scenery before
him, and a wife,--capable of deriving such exquisite delight, from so
pure a source; and the piety of whose heart, gave a religious cast to
every thing around her. He admired the grand and beautiful in
nature,--but he admired her moral beauty and purity far more.

{297} Mr. North, too, highly enjoyed the natural magnificence
presented to his view; but Mrs. North had felt far greater sensible
delight, when, with a well-filled purse, she had visited a repository
of rich and fashionable goods, or the shop of her milliner. Yet she
tried to be eloquent in praise of the beauties on which they gazed;
for admiration of them was certainly at that moment _fashionable_ on
the summit of the Jockey-Cap; yet there was no heart in her
exclamations of delight; there was no feeling in her expressions of
admiration. Her remarks repressed rather than elicited enthusiasm.
They were like a body without a soul.

On the third morning after their arrival at Fryburg, Mr. and Mrs.
Lawrence prepared to return to L----. The latter was much surprised
when she found that Mr. and Mrs. North were not to return with them.

"O, we are going through the _notch_ of the White Mountains," said
Mrs. North. "We are told here, that the scenery beyond is infinitely
more magnificent than this, and well worth a much longer journey to
see."

"I doubt not its magnificence," said Mrs. Lawrence, "and should
exceedingly like to view it; yet I much doubt whether any scene, in
beauty of combination, can exceed that we have seen from the
Jockey-Cap. But the little boy, my dear Anna!--Are you not anxious to
see him?"

"O certainly--the little darling!--Yet he is in perfectly good hands,
and a week or two can make no difference. He knows, as yet, no mother
but nurse."

"Nor will he ever," thought Mr. Lawrence.--Mrs. Lawrence sighed.

"Will you take the trouble, my dear friend," said Mr. North, "to look
in occasionally upon nurse, and see that she neglects not her duty?"

"O, do," said Mrs. North; "it will be a great relief to my feelings,
to know that your vigilant eye, is now and then upon the dear boy."

A mingled expression of pity and contempt, sat on the features of Mr.
Lawrence as he turned away; while Mrs. Lawrence promised to see the
little one as often as possible, during the absence of the parents.
They soon parted--the one pair for the _notch_,--the other for home.

"I am truly grieved," said Mrs. Lawrence, when they were fairly on
their homeward journey--"I am truly grieved that Alpheus does not
return to L---- with us. I had hoped, that on becoming a mother,
Anna's character would undergo a change. I hoped she would learn to
love home, and domestic scenes. It is to be lamented, that such
qualities as she has, qualities that might make a superior woman,
should all be lost in the woman of fashion--the votary of pleasure.
Fain would I do her good if I could--but I know not how to acquire
influence over her mind."

"It is a hopeless case," answered Mr. Lawrence. "Her character has no
foundation: It is all superstructure. She never acts from principle.
She has no strength of mind. I mean not that she is naturally
deficient in intellectual powers; but she is a _parvenu_, and all her
mental efforts, instead of giving and increasing mental vigor, are
directed to the one object of making a show, and noise in the world.
And as is almost universally the case with those of her class, she
_overdoes_. She is thoroughly selfish; and ere any real improvement
can rationally be hoped for, the present _edifice_ must be completely
demolished, and a foundation laid, of new views, new motives, and new
principles. Poor Alpheus! I pity him. The greatest defect in his
character, is that love of show that he inherited from his vulgar
father,--and by which he was governed in the selection of a wife. He
is so amiable and indulgent in his disposition, that he permits her to
lead him as she will. I foresee that she will be his ruin."

Mrs. Lawrence called to see the "deserted baby" as she called him, the
next day after her return to L----, and continued to do so, once or
twice a week, until the return of his parents, which was delayed for
something more than a month. He grew finely,--and before his mother's
arrival, was beginning to "_ca_" and "_coo_" and smile in the nurse's
face. And Mrs. Lawrence felt that it would bring a severe pang to her
heart, were the first smile and look of love of an infant of her own,
bestowed on an hireling,--however worthy she might be. But Mrs. North
had no _weakness_ of this kind; on the contrary, she was delighted
with the happiness he manifested in nurse's arms, as it was
incontestible proof of her faithful discharge of duty.

Eight years passed away, and in that time the number of Mrs. North's
children increased to four; but never was a woman less incommoded by a
growing family. Never was there one on whom care sat more lightly. A
few months confinement to L---- now and then, was to her the most
serious part of the business. Five or six weeks, of as many winters,
during this period, had been spent in Boston or New-York; for a whole
winter in L----, unless confined to her chamber, Mrs. North declared
would kill her outright. And the expense was nothing to be thought of;
for Mr. North _must_ go to purchase goods, and attend to other
mercantile concerns; and taking her with him made but little
difference, as she must be supported somewhere,--and her being with
him made not a great difference in the length of his stay. The summers
she passed in L---- were rendered tolerable, by the society of those
fashionable friends she from time to time invited to her house.

Meantime, however, sagacious people began to whisper, that Mr. North's
partner in business, Mr. Mason, (a young man whom he had taken into
partnership, that his affairs might not suffer {298} from neglect,
during his frequent absenses from home,) was growing rich,--not from
dishonest practices, but by attention to business, and economy; while
it was shrewdly conjectured that Mr. North lived to the full extent of
his income, if not a little beyond it. Some persons of that class who
can always foresee what will happen, predicted, that in five years the
junior partner would be sole possessor of the stock in trade, if not
the real estate of Mr. North.

At the close of the same period Mrs. Lawrence was the mother of five
children. She had almost given up the hope of doing Mrs. North any
personal good; but she watched over her friend's neglected children,
during the long periods of her absence from home, with as much
vigilance as was consistent with the faithful discharge of duty to her
own. So far from exhausting,--her diligence increased her mental
vigor; and her character was constantly improving in dignity, and in
every christian grace. Mr. Lawrence had been unremitting in his
attention to business,--and his property had gradually and constantly
increased. His house contained every thing necessary for comfort,
gentility, and intellectual improvement. All was in perfect _keeping_.
Good judgment, and correct taste were manifest in every thing in and
about the dwelling, while there was nothing like show or splendor.

"Your husband is now rich, my dear Mrs. Lawrence," said Mrs. North,
after one of her visits to New York, "and I wonder you do not change,
in some measure, your style of furniture and living. You should have
an elegant centre-table in your drawing-room, and damask curtains,
like mine, instead of those modest ones that now hang at the
windows,--beside some beautiful ornaments for the mantel. And in your
library, that you love so well, and which is so nobly stocked with
books, you must have some such delightful _lounges_ and chairs as I
saw in New York,--that you may be quite at your ease while reading. A
few of these things would make your house look delightfully."

"I am quite satisfied with my furniture, my dear Anna," replied Mrs.
Lawrence,--"and can enjoy a book as much, and understand it as well,
in my old fashioned rocking-chair, as if reclining on the most
delightful _lounge_ in the world."

"Undoubtedly you can; but why not pay some attention to fashion and
elegance, both about your house and dress? I really wonder at the
simplicity of your dress! Your apparel is always very well, certainly,
as to material and form,--but it is too plain. I wish you would
commission me to get some dresses for you;--you would look like
another creature under my hands;--and you can perfectly well afford to
consult your taste in these matters."

"Were the property of my husband twice as large as it is," said Mrs.
Lawrence, "I could not feel justified in incurring unnecessary
expense. We have now five children to educate; and that, of itself,
will require a _little fortune_. And independently of that, I could
never be at peace with myself, should I expend in unnecessary
ornament, that which would make so many light hearts, and cheerful
faces among the poor,--to say nothing of the more noble, more holy
object, of ameliorating the condition of the heathen world."

Mrs. North colored slightly as she replied--"I know the tenderness of
your conscience; but surely one so remarkably disinterested and
benevolent as yourself, may occasionally indulge a little without
compunction. Do you not carry your scrupulosity too far?"

"There is little danger of our erring on the side of benevolence,"
said Mrs. Lawrence. "And if, when we appear for final judgment, it be
said to us, 'inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of these, ye
did it unto me,' we shall hardly regret that we made not a more
elegant and splendid appearance, while inhabiting, what will then
emphatically appear to us, 'this _dim_ spot, called earth.'"

The following winter Mrs. North accompanied her husband to Boston.
They had been absent nearly six weeks, when Mrs. Lawrence was one
evening alarmed by the cry of 'fire,' and hastening to the door, she
saw the flames bursting from that part of Mr. North's house, in which
the nursery was situated. Giving hasty directions to her servants, she
flew, with all possible speed, to the spot. Mr. Lawrence, and many
others were already there, and had succeeded in rescuing all the
children from the blazing chamber, though the third child was burned
in a most shocking manner. All the children were immediately consigned
to the care of Mrs. Lawrence, who had them instantly conveyed to her
own house,--while a man was despatched to call Dr. G---- to the aid of
the little sufferer.

Meantime the whole village was collected at Mr. North's house, which,
by the most strenuous exertions, was saved from utter destruction,
though greatly injured. The fire caught in the nursery, through the
carelessness of the nursery-maid, who left the younger children, and a
blazing fire, under the care of the elder,--while she joined the other
servants in the kitchen, to talk over the gossip of the day.

In a short time, Dr. G---- arrived at the house of Mr. Lawrence, and
after examining the suffering child, gave his opinion that he could
not long survive the injury he had sustained.

As soon as Mr. Lawrence reached home, he despatched a letter and
messenger to apprise Mr. and Mrs. North of the calamity that had
befallen them; and in as short a time as possible they arrived at
L----, the latter nearly frantic with grief.

When she could bring herself to see the little boy, that a few weeks
before, she had left {299} blooming in health and beauty--now a
spectacle of horror--she was overwhelmed. Bitter were the reproaches
she expended on the negligent nursery-maid: but more bitter still her
own self-upbraiding. Repeatedly was she on the point of making a most
solemn asseveration that never again, for a day, would she leave her
dear, _dear_ children. The moanings of the suffering child, seemed to
rend her heart with anguish; and it appeared impossible that she could
ever forgive herself.

She now appreciated the value of such a friend as Mrs. Lawrence. Her
feelings were such, that she could do nothing for the afflicted boy;
could not even remain in the room, while he was under the hands of the
surgeon. Mrs. Lawrence was Dr. G----'s constant assistant,--and indeed
almost the sole nurse of the child; from the hand of no one else would
he willingly receive either food or medicine. Mrs. North looked on
Mrs. Lawrence with astonishment; and could not but think, that with
all her tenderness, there was a _hard spot_ in her heart, that enabled
her to be useful in such a scene of suffering. Mrs. North had no
knowledge of that true christian sympathy, firmness, and philosophy,
that impels one to relieve, instead of flying from suffering; and she
dignified her own weak and selfish indulgence by the name of
sensibility.

"O, my dear friend, how can I ever be sufficiently grateful for your
kindness? My _sensibilities_ are such, that it shatters my nerves to
pieces to witness suffering in any one--how much more in one's own
sweet infant! How must the dear boy suffer, were there no one to help
him but his poor, _sensitive_ mother! It is really a misfortune to
have a heart so feelingly constituted!"

The little boy lingered several weeks in great pain,--and then his
liberated spirit took its flight from its decaying tenement. Three
months after, Mrs. North became the mother of her fifth child; and as
soon as she was able to go out, it was sent from home to nurse, like
all its predecessors,--and she started on a journey to visit her
parents. This journey was very well--very right; but Mrs. Lawrence
feared that the impression made by her recent trouble, was fast fading
away; that the rod of affliction would have no correcting
influence;--produce no favorable change, either in character or
conduct. When preparing to leave home, to have her mourning dresses of
the most elegant, fashionable, and becoming kind, engrossed the whole
woman, and left no room for any other thought or feeling. How
inconceivably obdurate may the heart, even of a mother, be rendered by
selfish indulgence!

The fears of Mrs. Lawrence were but too well founded. It was October
when Mrs. North returned from her visit to her parents; and a few
weeks after Mrs. Lawrence perceived there were great, and unusual
preparations making for another journey. But she asked no questions.
Her heart sickened; but she despaired of doing good, and was weary of
giving unheeded admonitions; weary of attempting to touch a heart
incased in the "triple mail" of vanity, selfishness, and love of
pleasure.

Without inquiry she soon learned from Mrs. North, that she and Mr.
North designed to spend the greater part of the winter in Washington.
Mr. North had business as far as Philadelphia; they had both ever been
anxious to visit the seat of government, and hear the eloquence of the
senate; so good an opportunity might never again occur,--"and,
really," Mrs. North added, "I have passed through scenes so
_heart-rending_, so wearing to my constitution, that I need something
more than ordinary, to restore me to myself again." She could leave
home with an easy heart; for the unfaithful, _cruel_ nursery-maid was
dismissed from her service; and she had engaged Mrs. Berry, Mrs.
Lawrence's own good nurse, (at very high wages, it was true,) to take
care of her children, and superintend her household while she should
be absent. At the appointed time they departed.

"Why will you thus grieve, my dear Ellen?" said Mr. Lawrence. "It is
utterly useless."

"I know it, Horace, yet how can I help it? O, how completely do the
love of pleasure, and the pride of fashion, destroy all the best
feelings of the heart!--all the finest sensibilities of our
natures!--To see a woman, capable of better things, thus bent on
gratifying herself, in despite of every call of duty, and warning of
Providence,--and leading an amiable husband to neglect every thing but
herself, is dreadful; and yet, it is for the poor neglected children I
grieve. What is to become of them? What can be expected of them?--thus
continually left to their own guidance."

"Nothing good, of course, Ellen. They are a set of untaught,
ungoverned, unmannered little bears; and must continue so, unless they
are so fortunate as to lose their mother, or she reform. But you have
done, and are still doing, all that a friend can do, under such
circumstances. Having, therefore, discharged your duty, be cheerful,
and borrow not troubles that properly belong to another."

Mrs. Lawrence received frequent letters from Mrs. North, filled with
glowing descriptions of what she was seeing, and hearing, and doing;
and wishes that her kind friend were with her to participate in such
pleasures--pleasures that would suit even the correct and refined
taste of Mrs. Lawrence,--they were so intellectual. She frequently
expressed regret that time flew so rapidly, as she dreaded to leave
scenes so replete with pleasure. In every letter she would send
_kisses_, or something _equally valuable_ to her dear little ones; but
said she felt perfectly easy about them, under the care of good Mrs.
Berry; and {300} having the eye of the best of friends frequently upon
them.

Mr. and Mrs. North had been absent something more than two months,
when Mr. Lawrence received a letter from the former, requesting the
loan of a hundred or two of dollars. Mr. North said he had written to
Mr. Mason for a remittance; but having a payment to make out, he had
not been able to forward it to him. If Mr. Lawrence would oblige him,
doubtless Mr. Mason would in a short time be able to reimburse him; if
not, Mr. North would do so, immediately on his return to L----.

The very day this letter was received, Mr. Mason called at the office
of Mr. Lawrence, to consult with him concerning what was to be done in
the present juncture of Mr. North's affairs,--and as a preliminary
measure, to secure to himself the store and goods it contained, which
would scarcely be sufficient to satisfy his just demands. Mr. North's
debts were numerous, and his creditors were becoming clamorous; and
although Mr. Mason had written to him, he seemed not to be alarmed,
and had given no directions.

Mr. Lawrence was unwilling to have any thing to do in this unhappy
business; yet he could not refuse to assist an industrious and honest
young man, who was in danger of losing the earnings of several years'
close attention to business, should he refuse to lend his assistance
as a lawyer. He therefore did what his sense of justice and duty
demanded, though he pitied his inconsiderate friend; and he
immediately wrote him, informing him of what was done,--and inclosing
(which he knew must be a gift) a draft for the money of which Mr.
North had requested the loan. He concluded his letter, by urging his
friend's instant return to L----, if it were yet possible to give his
affairs a favorable turn.

Three days after this, all property that could be found, belonging to
Mr. North, was seized by his creditors.

"My dear Horace," said the greatly agitated Mrs. Lawrence, "what will
Alpheus and Anna do?--what _can_ they do?"

"They must begin the world again, upon better principles," said Mr.
Lawrence. "I hope they will learn wisdom from experience."

"But what can we do for them, my dear husband? You will receive them
here when they arrive? Anna will feel so wretchedly!"

"For a day or two, certainly, if you wish it, my love."

"And for no longer? The contrast will be so striking, they will be
overwhelmed! We must afford them all the assistance and consolation in
our power?"

"Certainly!--but let us assist them in a rational way. They must feel
the blow, and its consequences. We could do nothing to prevent it,
short of utter ruin to ourselves. And it is necessary they should feel
out; for nothing less could prove a cure for their folly. They must
taste the bitter fruits of their extravagance. They must learn to live
within their income, however small; and practise the self-denial that
poverty demands. They must learn to be industrious, and support
themselves by their own exertions."

"Poor Alpheus!--poor Anna!" ejaculated Mrs. Lawrence.

"If Alpheus had possessed either common firmness, or common prudence,"
said Mr. Lawrence, "or would Anna have listened to the admonitions, or
followed the example of the best and kindest of friends, your
sympathies would never have been thus called upon."

"O, make no comparisons,--it would be unjust," said Mrs. Lawrence.
"Anna was never blessed with the instructions of such a father, or the
example of such a mother as mine."

"True--and let us hope that this event will only prove a 'blessing in
disguise,' to teach her what she would learn in no other way. Let us
hope it will be for the best."

"O, may it prove so indeed!" said Mrs. Lawrence. "May the misguided
and unfortunate Anna learn, that to be a _fashionable woman_, is not
the way to be either respectable, or useful, or happy."

S. H.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

HINTS TO STUDENTS OF GEOLOGY.

No. II.

BY PETER A. BROWNE, ESQ.


The most effectual way to guard against the dangerous tendency of
theories is to collect and lay open to examination at one view some of
the most celebrated of them, with which mankind have from time to time
been furnished. Several of these will be found to be so obscure that
astonishment is excited that they were ever dignified with the name of
philosophy; others are so entirely inconsistent and at the same time
have such equal claims to plausibility that they mutually confute each
other; a few are so intimately connected with the truths that the
study of geology and astronomy have displayed that it is difficult to
escape the hazardous abyss into which they would lead--but the greater
part are the effusions of fancy, and resemble more the emanations of a
feverish or disordered brain than the cool dictates of reason and
common sense. It is confidently believed that the student who will
attentively read them _all_, will be very slow to adopt _any one_ of
the number.

The most ancient Indian and Egyptian philosophers agreed in rightly
ascribing the creation of the world to an OMNIPOTENT and INFINITE
BEING, and it is a curious fact that they represented him as having
_repeatedly destroyed_ and _reproduced_ the _world_ and its
_inhabitants_. In "the Institutes of Menu," the sacred volume of the
Hindoos, which were written eight hundred and eighty-eight years B.C.,
are the following verses:

"The Being whose powers are incomprehensible, {301} having created me,
(Menu,) and this universe, again became absorbed in the Supreme
Spirit, changing the _time of energy for the hour of repose_."

"When this power _awakes_, then has this world its _full expansion_;
but when he _slumbers_ with a tranquil spirit, then _the whole system
fades away_."

It is perfectly ascertained that the Greeks borrowed this idea of a
former successive destruction and renovation of this world from the
Egyptians. Plutarch tells us that it was the theme of one of the hymns
of Orpheus; and it is well known that Orpheus, although a Greek poet,
gained all his knowledge of astronomy, divinity, music and poetry in
Egypt.

This most ancient Pagan theologist believed that all things were
created by a Being whom he represents as _invisible_ and
_incomprehensible_, and to whom he has given the appellation of THE
COUNSELLOR _of_ LIGHT _and_ SOURCE _of_ LIFE; but he has degraded this
sublime idea of the Almighty by supposing that from an egg, the
progeny of _chance_, all mankind have been produced.

The philosopher _Leucippus_, who was also a Grecian, taught that "the
universe was _infinite_; that it was in part a _plenum_ and in part a
_vacuum_--that the plenum contained innumerable corpuscles or atoms of
various figures, which, falling into the vacuum, struck against each
other; and hence arose a variety of curvilinear motions, which
continued till at length atoms of similar forms met together, and
_bodies_ were produced. The primary atoms being specifically of equal
weight, and not being able, on account of their multitude, to move in
circles, the smaller rose to the exterior parts of the vacuum, whilst
the larger (entangling themselves,) formed a spherical shell, which
revolved about its centre and which included within it all kinds of
bodies. This central mass was gradually increased by a perpetual
accession of particles from the surrounding shell, till at last (says
Leucippus) the EARTH was formed. In the mean time the spherical shell
was continually supplied with new bodies, which, in its revolution, it
gathered from without. Of the particles _thus_ collected in the
spherical shell, some in their combination formed _humid_ masses,
which, by their circular motion, gradually became _dry_ and were at
length ignited and became STARS. The SUN was formed in the same manner
in the _exterior_ surface of the shell; and the _moon_ in its
_interior_ surface. In this manner the universe was formed."--Such a
jargon of _learned nonsense_ requires no comment; yet Leucippus had
for a time the reputation of possessing superior wisdom!

Epicurus adopted the idea of Leucippus as to the atoms, and imagined
that they moved _obliquely_, and Democritus bestowed on them
_animation_. Gassendi contended for atoms and a _void_, and Descartes
asserted a _plenum_ and a subtle _matter_, which revolving in vortices
was under the direction of an intelligent being.

Hippasus and Heraclitus maintained that the being who was the author
of all things was _fire_.

Many of the ancient philosophers believed this world to be
_eternal_--among these may perhaps be ranked Pythagoras, Aristotle,
Socrates and Plato.

Zeno advocated with great zeal the theory of "two principles,"
_spirit_ and _matter_, one active and the other passive.

_Mahomet_ maintained that the world was created in two days, and the
mountains were afterwards _placed_ upon it; and that during _these_
and two _additional_ days the inhabitants were formed; and in two more
the seven heavens were created.

The waters of the deluge are ridiculously represented by him as being
poured out of an _oven_. The Alcoran says that all men were drowned
except Noah and his family; and that at an appointed time God said, "O
earth swallow up the waters!" "and thou, O heaven, withhold thy rain!"
and _immediately_ the waters abated. Is it not surprising that so many
thousands should have adopted this theory.

Mr. Thomas Burnet was a man of genius and taste, a learned divine and
a philosopher; but he suffered his imagination to take the lead of his
judgment. He was the friend and object of admiration of Addison. His
work is entitled, "The sacred theory of the earth, containing an
account of the origin of the earth and of all the general changes
which it hath already undergone or _is to undergo till the
consummation of all things_." He taught that originally the earth was
a _fluid mass_, composed of various materials; that of these the
heaviest descended to the centre, and formed a _hard_ and _solid
body_--that the waters took their station round this body--and that
all lighter fluids rose above the water, forming first a strata of
oily matter and next a strata of air--that the air was then impure,
containing great quantities of earthy particles, which gradually
subsided and composed a _crust_ of earth and oil--that this crust was
the first habitable part of the earth and abode of man and other
animals--that the surface was _uniform_, no _mountains_ nor _seas_ nor
other inequalities were to be seen--that in this _state_ it remained
about sixteen centuries; by which time the heat of the sun gradually
drying the crust, produced cracks or fissures, which gradually
penetrating deeper and deeper, finally perforated the entire
crust--that in an instant the whole split in pieces and fell into the
great abyss of water. _This_ (says Burnet) was the UNIVERSAL
DELUGE!--That with these masses of _earth_ were carried vast
quantities of _air_, and the masses dashing violently against each
other, accumulated and divided so irregularly, that great _cavities_
filled with air were left between them--that the waters gradually
opened passages into these cavities. In proportion as they were filled
with water, the surface of the earth began to discover itself in the
most elevated places, till at last the waters appeared no where but in
those extensive valleys which now contain the ocean--that islands and
sea rocks are small fragments, and continents are large masses of this
ancient crust.

His theory was attacked and pretty roughly handled by his
cotemporaries Erasmus Warren, John Keill and McFlamstead, the
astronomer royal.

How Burnet could imagine that man and other land animals could have
inhabited an earth which had a _plane surface_, it is difficult to
conceive. If these animals resembled those that at present inhabit
this planet, they could not have subsisted without water; and if this
element was supplied by rain, and the earth had no inequalities of
surface, the whole earth must have been covered by a sea or at least
been a swamp. It was perhaps this reflection that generated the idea
of Demailet, that man was originally a _fish_.

Mr. Robinson was a respectable clergyman of the English established
church. In 1694 he wrote what he calls an _anatomical_ description of
the earth. He {302} contends that matter at first consisted of
innumerable particles of divers figures and different qualities; these
he obliges to move about in a confused manner until the world was
finally created, by the _infusion_ of a _vital spirit_. He is of
opinion that the earth is a _great animal_; that it has a skin, flesh,
blood, &c. He lays it down as incontrovertible, that the centre
contains a vast cavity of a multangular figure, containing crude and
indigested matter, endued with contrary qualities, and causing much
strife and contention. When the airy particles prevail, they cause
hurricanes; when the fiery ones are uppermost, earthquakes and
volcanoes are the result. The mountain chains he takes to be real
ribs, and finally he seriously tells us, that this vast animal is
subject to fevers, agues, and other distempers. Yet Robinson had his
day, and all his readers did not appear to consider him a lunatic.

Mr. John Woodward was a classical scholar and an eminent physician. He
was _also_ a man of much observation; but he was infected with the
disease of theory-making.

He agreed in part with Burnet, but _refined_ upon him.

He contended that the waters of the ocean were aided by a supply from
the central parts of the earth in effecting the general deluge. He
also believed that the _whole fabric_ was dissolved instead of the
_crust_, as taught by Burnet. He said, that in order to assist in this
general dissolution, the _power_ of attraction, of _cohesion_, was
suddenly suspended. Every thing being thus dissolved and jumbled in
one common mass, a precipitation took place according to the laws of
gravitation. Locke pronounced a panegyric upon this theory!

Mr. William Whiston, a celebrated astronomer and learned divine, also
gave loose to his fancy in an extraordinary manner.

He was of opinion that the ancient chaos from which this earth
originated, was the atmosphere of a comet; that the detail given by
Moses is not of the _creation_ of the world, but of its _passage_ from
the state of a _comet_ to that of a _planet_, so as to make it
habitable.

In the beginning, (says Mr. Whiston,) "God created the _universe_,"
but the earth was then an uninhabitable comet, surrounded by darkness;
and hence, he says, we are told that, "_darkness covered the face of
the deep_;" that it was composed of heterogeneous materials, having
its centre occupied with a globular hot nucleus of about two thousand
leagues in diameter, round which was an extensive mass of thick fluid;
that this fluid contained few solid particles, and still less of water
or air; that on the first day of the creation, the _eccentric_ orbit
of the comet was exchanged for an ellipsis nearly circular, and every
thing instantly assumed its proper place. The different materials
arranged themselves according to the laws of gravity, and the annual
motion of the earth then began. That the _centre_ of the earth is a
solid body, still retaining the heat of the former comet; that round
this is a heavy fluid and a body of water in concentric circles, upon
the latter of which the earth is founded; that after the atmosphere of
the earth had been thus freed from the earthy particles of that of the
comet, a pure air remained, through which the rays of the sun
instantly penetrated, when God said "_let there be light_." He
ascribes to the _precipitation_ with which the earth was formed, the
great difference _now found_ in the materials that compose its crust,
and the mountains and vallies to the laws of gravity. He maintains
that before the deluge the water of the present ocean was dispersed
over the earth in small caverns, and that the mountains were at
greater distances, and not so large as at present; but that the earth
was a thousand times more fertile, and contained a great many more
inhabitants, whose lives were ten times longer. All this he is of
opinion was effected by the _superior heat_ of the nucleus; but that
this heat augmented the passions and destroyed the virtue of man and
the sagacity of other animals, and caused the universal sentence of
death which was inflicted by the deluge. He says, that that event was
occasioned by a change in the inclination of the earth's axis,
occasioned by the tail of a comet meeting with the earth, in returning
from its perihelium, when "_the cataracts of heaven were opened_."
Newton denied that there was any thing in astronomy wherefrom to
presume this change of inclination. But the celebrated Count de Buffon
left his predecessors far behind, after premising that the sphere of
the sun's attraction is not limited by the orbits of the planets, but
extends indefinitely, always decreasing according to the squares of
the augmented distances: that the comets which escape our sight in the
heavenly regions are, like the planets, subject to the attraction of
the sun, and by it their motions are regulated: that all these bodies
(the directions of which are so various,) move round the sun, and
describe areas proportioned to their periods; the planets in ellipses,
more or less circular, and the comets in narrow ellipses of vast
extent.--He asserts, that comets run through the system in all
directions; but that the inclinations of the planes of their orbits
are so very different, that though, like the planets, they are subject
to the laws of attraction, they have nothing in common with regard to
their progressive or impulsive motions, but appear in this respect to
be absolutely independent of each other.

He then conjectures that a comet, falling obliquely into the body of
the sun, drove off a part from its surface, and communicated to it a
violent impulsive force. This effect he supposes was produced at the
time when God is said, by Moses, to have "separated the light from the
darkness," by which Buffon understands a _real, physical_ separation;
the opaque bodies of the planets being detached from the luminous
matter of which he supposed the sun to be composed, and he imagined
that the part struck off was one six hundred and fiftieth part of the
sun's body.

He informs us that this matter issued from the sun, not in the form of
_globes_, but of liquid _torrents_ of fire; and that a projectile
motion having been communicated by the stroke of the comet, the light
particles separated from the dense, which, by their mutual
attractions, formed globes of different solidities; and that the
projectile force being proportioned to the density of the particles,
determined the respective distances from the sun to which they would
be carried. Our author having thus (at one blow of a comet) created
the planets out of the superabundant materials of the sun, and having
driven them to the distances of their spheres from that body, was put
to a great straight to prevent them from obeying the law of
projectiles, in returning whence they issued, and in obliging them to
revolve round a common centre. This part of his theory is _very lame_
indeed. He first unphilosophically ascribes {303} this change of
direction to an acceleration of velocity; and secondly, the
acceleration he very erroneously supposed would take place by the
anterior particles attracting and hastening the posterior ones, and by
the posterior ones pushing forward or hastening the anterior ones. But
appearing to be unsatisfied himself with this explanation, he next
makes the shock of the comet remove the sun from its former
situation--so that when the planets, according to the law of
projectiles, returned to the place from whence they had departed, they
did not enter into the sun again, who had thus _fortunately_ stepped
out of their way, or Buffon's ingenious creation would have been
entirely destroyed.

But to proceed. He supposes that the earth, having acquired its
present shape by its motion while in a liquid state, the fire was
eventually extinguished by its rapid passage through space, or after
having consumed all the combustible matter it contained. Mr. Buffon
acknowledges that the constituent parts of the earth's crust are now
of very different densities; but he gives no satisfactory explanation
for the change which must have taken place, if as he supposed, they
were _once homogeneous_. Nor does he account for the separation of the
_land_ from the _water_. It is true he leaves us to infer that such a
separation took place; for he says, that "the motion of the _waters_
is _coeval with time_." He also says, that the waters occupy the
lowest grounds, and that all the mountains have been formed at the
bottom of the sea, by means of currents and tides. His primeval world
must therefore have had cavities, in which the waters were preserved.

Such is the theory of the Count de Buffon, a gentleman of great
ingenuity, taste and erudition; whose works, so long as he confined
himself to _facts_ and _reasoning_, have been universally admired; but
whose _theories_ have been as much ridiculed by _others_ as _he_
ridiculed those of Burnet and Whiston. Soon after the publication of
this theory, Buffon was summoned before the Faculty of Theology at
Paris, and there informed that fourteen propositions in his works were
reprehensible and contrary to the creed of the church. One of these,
which related to geology, was, "That the waters of the sea were
concerned in producing the mountains and valleys of the land." And it
is curious to remark that _this_, which was almost the only correct
geological proposition in the whole work, Buffon _publicly renounced!_
Upon this theory of Buffon I would take leave, upon the highest modern
authority, further to observe, that "from a long series of
observations, made with powerful telescopes, Herschel discovered that
the solar light and heat do not emanate from the _body_ or _nucleus_
of the sun, but from certain phosphoric and pyrophoric clouds, which
are produced and developed in its atmosphere. That this immense ocean
of light is violently agitated over its whole surface, causing those
corrugations of its disc which he has so well described,--and which
indeed, may be observed through a telescope of moderate powers, by
even an unpractised eye. When this superficial structure is broken
through and widely separated, we may discern the black veil of
subjacent solar clouds, or even the solid dark nucleus of the sun
itself. Hence Herschel accounts for the dark spots which are
frequently observed on the sun's disc, and for the shelving margins
which surround them.--Across these excavations of the phosphoric film,
bridges of luminous matter, are seen to stretch, which extending in
breadth, finally cause the dark chasm to disappear, and restore to the
sun all its original brightness. The area of one of these black spots
is often much greater than the whole surface of the terrestrial globe.
When the storm subsides in the solar atmosphere, the equilibrium of
its clouds replaces the layer of light. It is well known that these
spots, first observed by Gallileo, led to the discovery of the sun's
motion round its axis, and showed that this motion is accomplished in
twenty-five and a half days."

Had Buffon been acquainted with these great excavations of luminous
matter, he would probably have ascribed them to a projection of the
solar substance giving origin to some new planet or comet, and causing
diminution of the sun's heat proportional to the darkened portion of
its orb. But Herschel has shown, on the contrary, that the seasons in
which the solar spots are most abundant, are characterized not by
decreased light and heat to the earth, but apparently by an opposite
result. He hence infers, that these spots correspond, and are owing to
an increased activity in the vibratory motions, by which the sun
excites the ether, diffused through space.

The new improvements in optics, afford a very unexpected means of
determining whether it be true, as Herschel imagined, that the solar
light does issue from an incandescent solid or fluid. When such a
body, raised to a very high temperature, becomes luminous, the rays
which fly off in all directions, do not come from the _outer surface_
only, but also proceed, as the rays of heat do, from a multitude of
material points placed beneath or within the surface, to a certain
depth, extremely small indeed, but actually existing. Now, such of
those rays as traverse the envelope of the heated mass obliquely,
acquire and preserve a peculiar property, which can be rendered
sensible by experiment; they are _polarised_. But if the same mass,
instead of being rendered luminous by its proper temperature, be only
covered with an exterior film of flame, which is the source of its
light, the rays do _not_ then possess this property.

Science has thus been enabled to submit to this singular test, the
light which the sun sends to us. M. Arago, the author of this
beautiful experiment, has in fact discovered that the rays of the sun,
when transmitted even obliquely, _are not polarised_.

These results are _fatal_ to the _theory_ of _Buffon_. Those who
belong to his school, if any remain, can no longer contend for the
_sun_ as the eternal _furnace_ from which to make _ignited spheres_;
but on the contrary, the nucleus of that luminary may possibly enjoy a
_habitable_ planetary temperature.

In 1788 Werner published, by his lectures, _his_ famous theory of the
earth. He supposed that at some former period this globe had, for a
long time, been covered with water to a greater depth than the
original altitude of the highest mountains. That this immense body of
water was then tranquil, or nearly so, and contained in solution all
the materials of all the rocks of which the present crust of the earth
is composed. That in this state, chemical deposites, exhibiting more
or less of a crystalline structure, were first gradually made, and
invested the nucleus of the earth. That these chemical deposites
constitute the primitive rocks, including the {304} granite and trap,
and are distinguished by their crystalline form, and by the total
absence of organic remains. That during this period, most of the
highest mountains were formed; but by a gradual subsidence of the
waters the summits of these mountains were left naked, the
tranquillity of the waters was disturbed, and currents were
consequently produced. That by these currents the naked rocks were
worn and partially disintegrated; and the grains or fragments thus
produced, were diffused through the mass of water. That the rocks
formed at this period would, of course, consist partly of chemical and
partly of mechanical deposites. That they would also lie over the
primitive rocks, but in consequence of the diminished altitude of the
waters, they would appear at a lower level, often resting on the
declivities of primitive mountains. That as organic remains make their
first appearance in the rocks of this period, it is inferred that the
rocky shores which had recently emerged from the great deep, were then
passing into a habitable state. That the level of the great ocean
continuing to sink, more extensive portions of the earth were left
exposed to the increasing violence of the currents, and the solution,
which was originally chemical, now became, in a great degree, composed
of grains, or comminuted fragments, detached from the older rocks, and
that hence the minerals of this period consist of mechanical
deposites; that they lie over the two preceding classes and at a lower
level, in consequence of the greater subsidence of the waters.

That extensive portions of the globe having now become dry, new
species and genera inhabited the waters and dwelt upon the land, while
numerous vegetables adorn the shores and other parts of the earth.
Hence these rocks abound with organic remains, both animal and
vegetable.

Doctor Hutton published his theory about the year 1795; he supposed
that all the solid parts which form the crust of the present globe,
have proceeded from the disintegration and destruction of former
continents, by the gradual action of the atmosphere and water; that
the ruins of those ancient continents were transported by water, and
deposited at the bottom of ancient seas; and that these heterogeneous
materials thus deposited, were consolidated by the action of
subterraneous fires; and, by the same agents, were subsequently
elevated to form the present continents. That gneiss and other
stratified rocks were only softened, elevated, and sometimes variously
inclined; while granite and other unstratified minerals were
completely fused, and in many cases forced upwards by this powerful
agent through the incumbent strata. That as _this_ earth had _arisen
from the ruins_ of an _anterior world_, so _that_ had originated from
the ruins of a _former_ one, and so _ad infinitum_.

Each of the two last theories obtained numerous advocates; and a flame
of controversy respecting them was kindled, that for some years blazed
throughout Europe with great fury. As usual, both parties claimed the
victory; but impartial readers appear to think that while each party
may lay some claims to correctness, yet as an entire theory both are
in the wrong.

(_To be continued._)




A great mind may change its objects, but it cannot relinquish them; it
must have something to pursue: Variety is its relaxation, and
amusement its repose.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM A SISTER.

LETTER FOURTH.

Bridge of Boats at Rouen--Ancient Custom--Old Tower and Town
Clock--Church of St. Paul--Jugglers and Tumblers.


ROUEN, ----.

_Dear Jane:_--

"Another letter from Rouen!" you'll exclaim; yes, my dear sister, even
so--for papa being well pleased with our accommodations here, and
finding the town contains more curiosities than travellers are usually
aware of, we have thus prolonged our stay; but to-morrow go we _must_,
as our seats are engaged in the diligence for Paris. Since I wrote you
three days ago, we have seen divers other objects worthy of notice,
though not so interesting as those I have described to you. To-day we
saw the bridge of boats which connects the city with the suburb of
Saint Sévere; it rises and falls with the tide, and is divided into
compartments that can be easily separated for ships to pass through at
any moment. The invention of this bridge is attributed to an Augustin
monk. A handsome stone bridge is now building over another part of the
Seine.

Every evening at 9 o'clock we hear the tones of a clear sonorous bell,
sounding what is termed the "_retreat_." This is merely the
continuation of an ancient custom, practised during the Norman wars,
when it was necessary to give a signal for those persons who might be
without the city to enter, ere the gates were shut for the night. This
bell is also rung on occasions of public ceremonies, festivities, or
calamities, and is called the _silver_ bell, because according to
tradition, it was made of _money_ raised from taxes. It hangs in the
belfry of a curious old gothic tower, whose archway spans one of the
chief streets of Rouen, and on the side of which is placed the city
clock, resembling the face of a gigantic watch. This afternoon we
purpose visiting the botanical garden, and after that taking a
farewell drive in the neighborhood of the town; there are many
beautiful prospects to be seen from the surrounding hills.

Yesterday Edgar and myself walked to the terrace of St. Paul, a plain
and antique little church, built it is said on the ruins of a temple
of Adonis. From the terrace you enjoy a fine view; and near it is a
mineral spring, the second in Rouen. Here we met with a number of
ladies and gentlemen, and were much diverted at the tricks of a fellow
who mimicked the peculiarities of different nations; and when about to
show off the _English_, cried out, "Maintenant pour 'Got dam;'" he
made the most ridiculous faces you can imagine, and excited great
mirth. It was surprising what power of muscle and expression he
possessed; one moment his nose appeared turned up, his eyes squinting,
and his mouth too small to admit a _plum_; the next, you'd think he
could take in a _melon_--and his physiognomy would so completely
change, that you could scarcely believe it was the same person before
you. Sometimes to increase the effect, he put on a huge pair of
spectacles and sung a droll song, a companion playing merrily on the
violin all the while, and suiting the melody to the performance. After
this came a band of tumblers, and three children tawdrily
dressed--exhibited sundry feats on the back of a chair, and on the
head and shoulders of a man. It was painful to behold the little
creatures {305} in such jeopardy; and having contributed our sous for
their benefit, we quitted the scene. Adieu.

LEONTINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTER FIFTH.

Paris--Modes of Living--Rue de la Paix--Place Vendome--Rue
Castiglione--Garden of the Tuileries--Louvre--Italian Boulevard--Dress
of the Ladies--Soirées--Admiralty--Mademoiselle Mars.


PARIS, ----.

_Dear Jane:_--

Not a question, I pray you! about the journey from Rouen hither. I can
only tell you that we chose the lower route; that the prospects were
lovely, and the diligence rolled rapidly along the banks of the Seine;
that we stopped only to swallow our meals as quickly as possible, and
had not time to examine any thing. We entered Paris by the Porte de
Neuilly and Champs Elysées, at dusk, and witnessed the beautiful sight
the latter presents, when illuminated by its numerous lamps, which
instead of being fixed on posts, were suspended high above our heads
from ropes swung across the road. The resemblance of these lamps when
lighted, to a range of brilliant stars, occasions the gate by which we
entered to be called the "barriére de l'étoile." We found rooms ready
for us, papa having written to request Mr. Dorval to engage a suite in
the pleasantest quarter of the city.

Here there are four modes of living customary among visiters. First,
boarding in a hotel by the day, week, or month: second, boarding at a
lodging house by the week, month or year: third, hiring furnished
apartments and eating at a restaurateur's, or being supplied thence:
fourth, furnishing rooms yourself, and having your own cook. The first
of these plans, being the least troublesome, we have preferred. It is,
however, more expensive than either of the others. Our hotel is
delightfully situated, and commands a view of the Italian Boulevard
and of the Rue de la Paix, at the corner of which it stands; the
latter, one of the widest and handsomest streets in the metropolis.
From our windows we can also see the "Place Vendome," with its superb
and stately bronze column, erected by Napoleon, in imitation of that
of Trajan at Rome. It is made of the cannons taken by him at the
battle of Austerlitz; the principal events of that campaign are
represented in a _bas-relief_, which is carried spirally around the
whole shaft, the figure of the Emperor being prominent in each
compartment. His statue formerly crowned the summit of the column; but
since his downfall it has been removed, and the vacancy is now
supplied by a simple banner.[1]

[Footnote 1: The statue of Napoleon has been replaced since the last
revolution; the dress is the great coat and three cornered cocked hat
in which he is so frequently represented, and he holds in his hand a
short telescope, or rather opera glass.]

Beyond the Place Vendome is the Rue Castiglione, with its fine shops
and arcades; and at the end of this street is the garden of the
Tuileries, where we repair before breakfast every morning, to enjoy
its shades, and contemplate its statues, flowers and fountains. In
flowers it always abounds, for they are planted in pots concealed in
the ground, and as soon as one set goes out of season, it is replaced
by another in bloom.

From eleven until four o'clock we study the pictures in the
magnificent gallery of the Louvre, whose halls are open for the
benefit of strangers and students on every day of the week, except
_Monday_. On Sunday they are open to _every body_, and consequently on
Monday require the operations of the broom and brush. The halls
appropriated to sculpture are on the ground floor, and the ceilings of
several are superbly painted. It was from the window of one of these
apartments that Charles the Ninth fired upon his persecuted subjects
during the massacre of St. Bartholomews. (August 24, 1572)

Our usual evening resort is the Boulevard, where we listen to music,
and observe the motley crowds around us; and when tired, refresh
ourselves with ices or lemonade in a café.

Dear me! how tastefully the French ladies dress! What beautiful robes,
and hats, and gloves, and shoes and boots they wear! and how well each
article corresponds with another. If they have on different colors,
they take care that they shall contrast agreeably, and not be an
uncouth mixture, displeasing to the eye. In the morning their toilette
is remarkably neat and appropriate. You'll probably find them when you
call, in a simple gingham dress, with pelerine to suit, and a black
silk apron; their hair arranged in puffs, and quite unadorned. Now is
this not more rational than to be furbelowed, and curled, and richly
clad, as if they were expecting company, instead of being usefully
employed? At entertainments and in the public promenades, they display
their fine clothes. We have already received and returned the visits
of several of the French families to whom we brought letters; but much
to our regret, the venerable Count Ségur is out of town, and Baron
Hottinguer, his lady and son, are at their country seat. The Minister
of the Marine (Mr. Hyde de Neuville) and Madame his spouse, are
extremely pleasing and amiable. They still have their regular soirées,
notwithstanding the advanced season, and we intend to avail ourselves
of their polite invitation to attend them. By the by, I should tell
you (what M. Dorval told _me_,) that in Paris many persons have an
appointed evening for receiving their acquaintances, once a week,
fortnight, or month, (as suits their convenience,) and on this evening
they illuminate their rooms for the reception of their guests. The
greater number of these remain only a half hour, and then repair to
the opera, or to some other _soirée_, as such an assembly is termed.
It is usual to go to three or four on the same night. There is seldom
any refreshment offered, and the amusements are conversation and,
écarte--_sometimes_ billiards; and when the soirée is social and
small, they even introduce childish plays, such as "Colin, Maillard,"
"Le Mouchoir," "Tierce," &c. in which elderly people frequently join
with all the vivacity of youth.

Monsieur and Madame de Neuville reside in a superb mansion, that was
formerly the "Garde meuble," or royal wardrobe. It is now called the
"Admiralty," and appropriated to the use of the Minister of the Marine
and Colonies. On its roof is a telegraph, and its front is embellished
with sculpture, and columns, which support a portico as long as the
building itself.

A few nights since we were at the Theatre Francais, and saw
Mademoiselle Mars perform the part of the Duchesse de Guise in "Henri
Trois." To the {306} astonishment of every body she excels in this
character, although it is a difficult one to play, and her first
attempt at tragedy. Her talents hitherto, you know, have been devoted
to comedy. She is the most lovely and youthful looking woman of her
age I ever beheld. What do you think of her being passed fifty, and
yet not appearing as old as twenty-five? She is so graceful too! and
then her voice is melody itself! But I must cease my encomiums, or I
shall not have space to assure you that I am your affectionate sister,

LEONTINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTER SIXTH.

Palais Royal--King's Library--Hotel de Ville--Mint--Palace of
Justice--Holy Chapel--Flower Market.


PARIS, ----.

_Dear Jane:_--

What a variety of places we have visited since I despatched to you my
last letter! _Par exemple_, the Palais Royal, with its agreeable
garden and jets d'eau, surrounded by arcades, under which are splendid
shops and cafés, that are dazzling when illuminated at night; the
Royal Library, with its vast collection of manuscripts and engravings,
and its cabinets of antiquities and medals--the latter considered to
be the most complete in the world; the Hotel de Ville, on the Place de
Grève, where the guillotine sometimes plies its dreadful work; the
Exchange, with its sixty-four corinthian columns, fine hall, and
superb imitations of bas-reliefs, so admirably executed, that you can
scarcely be convinced they are the effect of the _brush_ instead of
the _chisel_. Add to these several churches and fountains, the Mint,
where we witnessed the curious process of coining, and the "Palais de
Justice." In this vast structure of antiquity, the judicial courts of
Paris hold their sittings. It was founded in the ninth century, and is
termed a palace, because it was once the abode of the French monarchs.
I remember having read in some history of the magnificent
entertainments they gave here, in a grand hall containing statues of
their race and a marble table of uncommon size, at which none but
princes of the blood were allowed to feast. In 1618 nearly the whole
edifice was burnt, and the wonderful table and statues destroyed; it
was rebuilt by Desbrosses, the architect of the Luxembourg. Besides
the court rooms and many others above them, filled with the judiciary
archives of the kingdom, there are long galleries which have on each
side rows of petty shops and stalls. Beneath these galleries are the
gloomy prisons of the conciergerie, wherein such atrocities were
committed during the revolution. Here we saw the dungeons in which
Marie Antoinette and the Princess Elizabeth were immured; the cell in
which Robespiérre was confined; and that of Louvel, who assassinated
the Duke de Berri. We were shown the prison room of the gallant Ney.
The cells that inclosed the unfortunate queen and her sister-in-law,
are now converted into a small chapel, which communicates by means of
an arch, with another of larger dimensions. In the latter, the
captives of the conciergerie are permitted to attend mass on the
Sabbath. The arch is decorated with medallions of Louis the Sixteenth
and the Princess Elizabeth, and a few lines extracted from his will
are inscribed on an altar in the smaller chapel. On the wall of this
hang three pictures in oil colors; the first represents Marie
Antoinette taking leave of her family just before she was brought to
the prison; in the second, you behold her standing wrapt in meditation
by her miserable cot-bed, after the door is barred upon her; in the
third, you see her at confession, preparatory to ascending the
scaffold. Melancholy themes, and well suited to the gloom of the
place! You approach the Palace of Justice through an enormous iron
gate remarkable for its workmanship and guilding. On the left of it
stands an ancient building, called the "Holy Chapel," from its having
been erected by Saint Louis for the reception of the sacred relics he
brought with him from Palestine, whither he went on a crusade, in
fulfilment of a vow he had made during a dangerous illness. His
oratory is still shewn, and once served as a refuge from popular fury
to the present King Charles the Tenth, in the time of the revolution.
The painted windows of the chapel are beautiful,--the colors so bright
and various. Around the interior, instead of altars and
_confessionals_, are a range of cases, containing archives and
records. By the by, among those we saw in the upper galleries of the
Palace of Justice, (which communicates with the "Sainte Chapelle,")
were the condemnation of Joan of Arc, and that of Jean Châtel, who
attempted to stab Henry the Fourth, but failed, and having been seized
was put to a dreadful death, according to the mandate which we read.
He was stretched on the rack, then drawn on a sledge to the Place de
Grève, his flesh torn with hot pincers, and his right hand cut off;
finally, his limbs were tied to four wild horses, and thus rent
asunder. When dead, his body was burnt, and his ashes scattered to the
winds! The dress he wore when he attacked the King, and a rope ladder
he used in endeavoring to escape while confined, are carefully
preserved in a box, with a scull that was found in the possession of a
famous robber, and is said to have served him as a cup, out of which
he compelled has victims to drink wine, and then swear allegiance to
him. The condemnation of Joan of Arc is replete with superstition and
abuse of that poor warrior damsel; she is pronounced a sorceress, a
blasphemer, a devil, &c. and numerous other opprobrious epithets are
given to her besides. We were likewise shewn the hand writing of
Francis the First, Louis the Eleventh, and that of several others of
the French monarchs; and to speak the truth, I don't think their
penmanship does them much credit.

Returning home, we stopped at the flower market, and were surprised at
the beauty and cheapness of the flowers. You may buy them growing in
pots, or arranged as boquets. The market is held on the Quay Dessaix,
under two rows of trees, in the midst of which a plentiful fountain
refreshes the air, and affords water for the plants. Adieu. Ever
yours,

LEONTINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTER SEVENTH.

Church of St. Roch--Pére la Chaise.


PARIS, ----.

_Dear Sister:_--

Your letter (received within a few hours) gave us all great pleasure,
and we are rejoiced to learn that _folks_ and _things_ are going on so
well at the Lodge. What a fine time you and Albert have for
_sentimentalizing_! Make the best of it; for you know October is only
a {307} few months off, and when it comes you'll perhaps find me at
your elbow oftener than you anticipate. I shall have so much to talk
about; for believe me, altho' my communications are so long and
frequent, a great deal will remain to be told when we reach "sweet
home."

Now, let me inform you of the strange sight we have just been
witnessing in the Church of St. Roch; a funeral and two weddings
solemnizing in the same place and at the same moment! To us it was
shocking, and _certes_ if _I_ had been one of the votaries of hymen on
the occasion, I should have experienced sad forebodings of evil in the
connubial state. Really, it was sometimes difficult to hear the
priests who were performing the marriage rites, their voices being
drowned in the loud requiem chanted over the dead. The coffin was
strewed with white flowers, emblematical of the youth and maidenhood
of the deceased.

We have visited Pére la Chaise, and spent nearly a whole day in
reading the inscriptions on its numerous and varied monuments,--many
of them so magnificent! many so neat and simple! The inscriptions are
generally beautiful and touching--they speak to the hearts of all; and
the lovely and odoriferous flowers that decorate the tombs, seem to
rob the grave of its sadness, and shed their balmy influence o'er the
mind of the beholder. Several tombs are also adorned with miniatures
inserted in the stone, and portraying the once animated countenances
of those who rest beneath them. This romantic burying ground spreads
itself over the side of a hill, and from the upper part you have a
noble prospect of the city and its environs. In the fourteenth century
it was the site of a splendid mansion, built by a wealthy grocer,
whose name was Regnaud. Its magnificence being incompatible with his
rank, it was soon entitled "Regnaud's Folly." The Jesuits afterwards
obtained possession of it, and gave it the name of "Mont Louis,"
because Louis the Fourteenth when a boy, witnessed from its summit the
battle in the Faubourg St. Antoine, between the Frondeurs,[2]
commanded by the Prince of Condé, and the Court Party, under Marshal
Turenne. I recollect reading in Voltaire's history of that monarch's
reign, that during this bloody skirmish, Mademoiselle d'Orleans
(Louis's cousin) sided with the Prince of Condé, and had the cannons
of the Bastile pointed against the royal troops. This ruined her
forever in the opinion of the king; and Cardinal Mazarin remarked,
knowing her desire to marry a crowned head, "_ce canon la, vient de
tuer son mari_"--"that cannon has killed her husband." But I've
digressed from my original theme, and hasten to resume it. Pére la
Chaise, one of the Jesuits, became confessor to Louis, and had entire
control of ecclesiastical affairs. The king was very fond of him, and
as a mark of his esteem, presented him with the estate of "Mont
Louis," having considerably enlarged and embellished it for his use.
On the death of the holy father, it reverted to his brethren, and was
called after him. These wily priests projected there the Revocation of
the edict of Nantes, and issued thence many a lettre de cachet,
decreeing imprisonment to their enemies. They retained possession of
the place until the abolishment of their order in 1763, when it was
sold for the benefit of their creditors, and had divers owners, until
purchased by the Prefect of the Seine, and appropriated to its present
purpose in 1804. There are three kinds of graves: first, those termed
_public_, in which the poor are gratuitously buried; but each body can
remain only five years, the time supposed to be sufficient for its
decomposition. These graves resemble immense ditches, and the coffins
are deposited one upon another, and side by side, as close as they can
lay. They are wretchedly made, and soon drop to pieces; and therefore
it is not uncommon, in burying a corpse, to see the exposed head and
limbs of another! Is'nt this horrible? Second, _temporary_ graves,
wherein the dead remain undisturbed during ten years, for the sum of
fifty francs. At the close of that period, unless the grave be
rendered of the third kind, _perpetual_, by the payment of a larger
portion of money, its ghastly tenant is removed. The oldest and most
interesting sepulchre is that of Abelard and Héloise; it is formed of
the ruins of the paraclete, and covered with antique sculpture and
ornaments. It represents a gothic chapel, in the centre of which the
bodies of the lovers are represented extended on a bier; the whole is
of gray stone. The monument of the Countess Demidoff, a Russian lady,
we considered the richest and handsomest in the collection. It is
composed of pure white marble highly polished. A part of the cemetery
is appropriated to the use of strangers, and a considerable space
allowed to the Jews. The gate is always thronged with carriages that
have brought either visiters or mourners. On each side of the entrance
are stalls, where wreaths and bunches of flowers may be purchased. I
must now conclude, and am sure you will dream of church yards and
hobgoblins, after reading this letter, from your attached

LEONTINE.

[Footnote 2: This party were termed _frondeurs_ or slingers by their
opponents, in allusion to the boys who were then in the habit of
throwing stones with slings In the street, and who ran away when any
one appeared. The _Soubriquet_, as has frequently happened, was
adopted by them as their distinctive appellation.]




ORIGINAL LITERARY NOTICES.


  _For the Southern Literary Messenger_.

AN ORATION on the Life and Character of Gilbert Motier de Lafayette,
delivered at the request of both Houses of the Congress of the United
States, before them, in the House of Representatives at Washington, on
the 31st of December, 1834, by John Quincy Adams, a Member of the
House. Washington: Gales and Seaton. 1835. pp. 94.

EULOGY on La Fayette, delivered in Fanueil Hall, at the request of the
Young Men of Boston, September 6, 1834; by Edward Everett. Boston:
Nathan Hall & Allen & Tichnor. 1834. pp. 96.

       *       *       *       *       *

"An Oration in praise of Hercules!!! And who ever thought of blaming
Hercules!"

The limits of the old world bounded the labors of Hercules. There
nature had planted imperishable landmarks; and on these the gratitude
of nations had inscribed, in imperishable characters, the name of
their benefactor. What could the breath of man add to his glory?

But the pillars of Hercules have been passed. Beyond this _ne plus
ultra_ of the ancient world, the genius of Columbus opened a way to
new regions, and extended the sway of his imperial master around the
circuit of the earth. A new hero was wanting, whose labors,
commensurate with this enlarged theatre, might compass the globe, and
convey to the new world the {308} benefits which his illustrious
prototype had conferred on the old. Such a hero the bounty of
Providence vouchsafed to man. But the spirit has returned to him who
gave it; and it is in praise of his memory, that two distinguished
orators have been required to task their acknowledged powers.

But "who ever thought of blaming La Fayette?" Who feels it necessary
to utter his praise, even in this simple question? Who feels it
necessary to answer it? Is not such silence the most expressive
praise; the silence imposed by a common sentiment, which all are
conscious is felt by all?

What can be expected from eulogy in such a case? What is there in the
breath of praise; what is there in the pomp and circumstance of
funeral pageantry, but a solemn mockery of the feelings that "bleed
deep in the silent breast?" We find a natural though sad pleasure in
telling the world of the unobtrusive merit of some good man, who in
voluntary privacy had passed and closed a virtuous and useful life. We
may have a purpose in erecting monuments to the _common great_, which,
perishable as they are, may somewhat prolong the memory of those to
whom they are dedicated. The undying strains of bards may rescue from
oblivion names which might have perished. There were heroes before
Agamemnon; but they had no Homer to record their deeds, and died
without their fame. But what need had Hercules of Homer? What need has
La Fayette that one should tell his fellow of him? Why proclaim to the
world what all the world already knows? Why tell posterity what
posterity can never forget, until man has lost the records of the
history of man?

We talk of monuments to Washington. Why is none erected? Is it for
want of reverence for his memory? For want of love? For want of
gratitude? These questions are reproachfully asked, from time to time,
by novices in politics, who, in striving to signalize their
patriotism, their enthusiasm, or their _eloquence_, do but signalize
their ignorance of the human heart. Such appeals are always answered
by silence. It is the answer dictated by the unsophisticated feelings
of our countrymen. Where would you place the monument? _In_ the
capitol? Is not the _capitol itself_ too small? But the capitol may be
considered symbolically as imbodying the free institutions of the
country which he made free. What then? Is not the _thing itself_
worthier than the symbol? Is any monument to Washington so appropriate
as that reared by his genius, his toils and his virtues,--HIS COUNTRY?
And what matters it under what part of that vast tablet, every where
emblazoned with his glory, his bones repose? The silence of the people
is the appropriate, the only _natural_ expression of those sentiments
which all can feel, though all know not how to speak them. The
unsuccessful orator who, having uttered his premeditated declamation,
goes his way, reproaching their apathy, does but expose himself to
scorn, as one who would substitute _lip service_ for the homage of the
heart. But even that scorn, (such is the influence of the
all-pervading reverence for the mighty dead,) even that is repressed,
and finds no voice.

These remarks are made because they illustrate the difficulty of the
task imposed on Messrs. Adams and Everett. It is a difficulty which
grows out of the nature of the subject. We are not sure that any man,
endued with all those qualities which enter into the composition of
the perfect orator, would not instinctively shrink from such a task.
Mr. Webster declined it; and it does not appear that it was sought by
Mr. Clay, Mr. Leigh, or Mr. Preston.

Of one thing we are sure. Whoever attempted it must have failed. All
such attempts must end in failure. The eulogies on Washington were all
failures. Those on Adams and Jefferson were failures too, but from a
different cause. When, on the 4th of July, 1826, the Declaration of
Independence was celebrated in jubilee over the continent; while the
political partizans of both those illustrious men, whose rivalship had
so long divided the people, were hyming their praises, it pleased him
whose instruments they had been, to touch them with his finger, and to
show that they were dust. Never was any people so suddenly and so
awfully reminded that it is _God alone_ who doeth his will on earth
and in the armies of heaven; and never did any people use so strenuous
an effort to shake off a salutary impression. They refused to lay to
heart the admonition of Providence. "The Lord of Hosts had called to
weeping, and to mourning, and to baldness, and to girding with
sackcloth; and behold joy and gladness; slaying oxen, and killing
sheep; eating flesh, and drinking wine." The worship of the living was
closed by the _apotheosis_ of the dead: the best talents in the land
were engaged in the solemn mockery: and the very ministers of the
living God were seen officiating in the profane ceremonial. What could
come of all this; what did come of it, but failure? We have no fear of
offending any one of the distinguished men who tasked his powers for
that occasion, by saying that his effort was a failure. Each one must
have felt that it was so; and each one will readily accept the excuse
furnished by the unfitness of the ceremony to the occasion. How many
of those who witnessed it, went home with hearts oppressed by a
consciousness of something wrong? And as the evils of man-worship have
advanced, (_as they are now advancing_,) to their fatal consummation,
how many, recalling the circumstances of that ceremonial, have heard a
voice as that of Jehovah, whispering, "Surely this iniquity shall not
be purged from you, until you die?"

We trust that the temper of these remarks will not be misapprehended.
They cannot be made in the spirit of party, for the subjects of them
were the very antipodes of conflicting parties. Whatever feelings such
thoughts awaken in our minds, the thoughts themselves are suggested by
considerations purely critical. We have but attempted to imbody and
apply two maxims that every master of the art of eloquence will own as
true. First; that, _in cases calling for the highest reach of that
art_, every attempt that _falls short_ of it is _felt_ to be a
failure. Second; that under circumstances that _offend the better
feelings of the heart_, the _highest reach of eloquence_ is
unattainable by human powers.

It may be readily believed that we have felt reluctant to sit in
judgment on the works of men so renowned as Messrs. Adams and Everett.
A decided condemnation would seem to many the height of presumption.
Even to ourselves it has so much of this appearance, that we are
desirous to have it in our power to charge the main defects of their
performances rather on the occasion than on themselves.

{309} Mr. Everett has certainly made the most of it. His delineation
of the character of La Fayette is highly graphic; the incidents of his
life are judiciously and tastefully selected, and told with spirit,
simplicity and distinctness; and the comparative summary of his claims
to the grateful admiration of the world, commands the acquiescence of
the reader. The whole is interspersed with just thoughts and natural
sentiments, which do honor to the head and heart of the speaker.

But a higher praise is due to Mr. Everett. The history of La Fayette
is the history of man, in the most portentous and eventful era of his
existence. Of the events of that era Mr. Everett so speaks as to show
that he has understood and rightly applied the lesson which they teach
to the world. _He_ does not profess to see any thing "cheering and
refreshing" in the progress or the results of the French revolution.
How should he? How should a man of "untaught feelings, with a heart of
flesh and blood beating in his bosom," find any thing cheering in
theoretical good, purchased at such an expense of actual crime and
suffering? How should a friend of liberty look, but with despondency,
on the result of a series of horrors unutterable and inconceivable,
only serving to confirm the sad truth "that men of intemperate minds
cannot be free?" Those who could "hope against hope," shut their eyes
as long as possible, and tried to forget that _rational liberty_ is
but another name for _self-government_. But they have been forced to
see that some appropriate training is necessary to qualify man for
freedom. In what that training is to consist, it is not easy to say.
Its application depends on him who rules the world. When he shall
please so to order events as to qualify men by the discipline of life,
for _self-government_, they will then be capable of freedom, and not
till then. A corollary from this important truth comes nearer home to
ourselves. _When men, thus qualified for freedom and thus made free,
become wiser than their teachers, and impatient to unlearn the lessons
taught in this school of discipline, there is danger that they may
imperceptibly lose those personal qualities on which their fitness for
the function of self-government depends._ The personal qualities of a
limited monarch, who is but the minister of the actual sovereignty,
may be of small consequence; but on the personal qualities of a free
people, the efficient sovereign, _de facto_ as well as _de jure_,
every thing depends. If these be lost in experiments on the _theory_
of government, all is lost.

We should extend our remarks too far, if we indulged in all the
reflections on this subject suggested by these two orations. By that
of Mr. Adams they are provoked by repeated allusions to it, which give
to his performance something of the character of a dissertation (not
very philosophical) on the philosophy of government. He doubtless felt
the difficulties of his situation, not the less sensibly, because he
had obviously sought it. The whole proceeding seems to have been
planned by himself, but he was probably not aware how hard a task he
had undertaken, until he set about its performance. He seems
throughout to have been at cross-purposes with himself; never decided
whether to play the statesman, the philosopher, or the orator; and not
always certain which of his two sets of political opinions had the
ascendant for the day. His digression at page four, in which he
wanders away into a statement of the titles of Louis XV and George II,
is certainly one of the strangest aberrations from the subject that we
have ever seen. It is hard to imagine his motive for it, unless he was
seeking an opportunity to record his testimony against _hereditary
monarchy_. Why he should have felt this necessary, he best knows. But
his observations on this point, after all, are superficial to very
childishness; and we can hardly help questioning his sincerity when we
see him affecting to be wholly unconscious of the true grounds on
which the statesmen of the old world place their preference of the
_hereditary_ to the _elective_ principle. Yet of these Mr. Adams could
not have been ignorant, and had no right to suppose his hearers
ignorant. What right had he then, to speak over their heads, to the
uninitiated multitude, who have not yet learned that, in the judgment
of the enlightened friends of liberty, it is not desirable that the
throne should be filled by a man of high personal endowments? Such are
the men to whom dangerous powers are conceded. Such are the men who
seize prerogatives never claimed before, and transmit them to their
successors. Even if the statesmen of England had been silent on the
subject, could we have supposed them so unobservant of the history of
their own country, as not to have remarked that _all concessions in
favor of liberty_ of which their annals bear record, have been
obtained from _weak princes_, from those who held by _doubtful
titles_, or from _minors_? Do they not know that the odious tyranny,
the folly, the weakness, and the cowardice of John gave birth to
_magna charta_? Had not this been extorted from him, could it have
been wrung from the stern grasp of the first or third Edward? During
the reign of this last, where slumbered that fierce spirit which broke
out on the accession of the minor Richard II, and slunk away rebuked,
the moment he showed that, though a boy in years, he was a man in
spirit? Can we identify the abject slaves who crouched to the will of
the bold and resolute Elizabeth, with the contumacious subjects of her
silly and imbecile Scotch successor? Could the spirit which tumbled
his son from the throne, have prepared itself for explosion during her
vigilant and energetic reign? If little was gained at the restoration,
it was because little was asked. The people had lost a sense of the
value of liberty, from experience of the abuses perpetrated in her
name. They only asked to be freed from a sour and gloomy tyranny which
invaded the privacy, and marred the comforts of the domestic circle.
They ask for nothing but leave to enjoy life. Charles opposed
irreligion to fanaticism, and they wished no more.

The revolution found them in a different mood. Appetite was gorged,
mirth had become stale, animal passion had spent its force, and men
found themselves once more requiring something to engage the nobler
faculties of the heart and mind.

Do we ask why, in this temper, they gained so little from William?
Look at the character of the man, and you have your answer. Able,
energetic, sagacious, firm and cold, he had power, even in the act of
mounting the throne, to arrest the progress of reform in mid career.

The weak princes of the house of Brunswick enjoyed an advantage of a
different sort, which supplied the place of talent to them. By
contrast with the odious pretender of the house of Stuart they were
popular; {310} and this counter-prop upheld the power of the crown
until that race became virtually extinct. So sensible of this was the
purest, the ablest, and the most resolved of the friends of liberty in
the reign of George II, (we speak of Mr. Shippen)--so sensible was he
of the advantage which freedom has in contending with a weak prince,
and an unpopular name, that he had serious thoughts of bringing in the
pretender with that view.

But the house of Stuart passed off the stage; the bugbear of a popish
succession was removed; the cant of the "great and glorious
revolution" went out of fashion; and people instead of looking back to
that, took leave to look forward to something better. Our own
revolution was the first fruit of this change in public sentiment.
That which was preparing in England was arrested by the horrors of the
premature explosion in France. But that interruption of its progress
was but temporary, and it is now finding its consummation under the
reign of one who, having passed from first to second childhood,
without ever being a man, seems fitted by Providence for the place to
which the order of succession called, and in which the order of events
required him.

Have these things been lost on Mr. Adams himself? And has not his
_own_ experience taught him the advantage which a questionable title,
or the folly of a ruler may give his subjects? Has he yet to learn
that vanity and obvious weakness may provoke a clamor for reforms,
which the man of spirit and address, who is brought in to effectuate
them, may laugh at? Does he believe that the revolution so "cheering
and refreshing" to his spirit, would have taken place, had Henri IV
occupied the throne of Louis XVI? Does he think the reform now going
on in England would have commenced under Elizabeth or her grandfather
Henry VII? Does he believe that the people of the United States would,
at this moment, address themselves to the reform of their
representation, however unequal, however corrupt, if its corruption
only produced subserviency to the will of Andrew Jackson? In short is
he to learn, at this time of day, that the power which the exigencies
of public affairs require to be lodged in the hands of the Executive
of a _great and ambitious_ nation, implies a _faculty of usurpation_?
That such power, passing from generation to generation successively,
into the hands of men of mature age, of bold spirits and commanding
minds, will increase and multiply itself without end, is certain. That
such power will be deemed necessary, so long as men give themselves up
to dreams of glory and the lust of conquest, is equally sure.

Why did our fathers hope that the experiment of free government might
succeed with us, though it had failed every where else? Was it not
because our local situation removed us far from war, and the
entanglements of foreign politics? Let any infatuation tempt us to
throw away this advantage, and seek the evil that seeks not us, and it
is not difficult to foresee the consequence. We shall soon find
ourselves, like the friends of freedom in England, reduced to inquire,
"what hope remains to us, but to regulate the succession on a
principle which may afford the people a chance of wresting from a weak
prince, the advantages gained by the ability and address of his
predecessors?" The solution of this problem was found in the device of
"blending together the principle of hereditary succession with that of
reformed protestant christianity," at which Mr. Adams sneers so
bitterly. Its inventors were the truest friends to freedom in the
world. They were our masters in the science of government. Relieved
from the necessity which drove them to this device, _we_ imbodied in
our institutions the lessons we had learned from them. Should our
folly throw away our peculiar advantages, and our vices render some
contrivance of the sort necessary to us as to them, may we be equally
fortunate in applying the maxims learned from them! If monarchy become
necessary, (and they who most feel the necessity often most deeply
lament it,) may we hit on some contrivance as well adapted to give the
people the comfortable sense of security, while the ruler is made to
feel that he holds his power only by their will. That in every stage
of our political existence we may choose wisely, let us shut our ears
to those who would disguise their well known predilections for strong
government, by _ad captandum_ sneers at any of its _particular modes_.
What end can such sneers answer at this moment, but to confirm our
people in the fatal error of supposing liberty secure because the
_forms_ of the constitution are preserved? because our monarch is
elective, not hereditary; a man and not a child?

Of a piece with this is the declaration (at page forty-three) that, in
the contemplation of the great results of the French revolution, Mr.
Adams finds something "cheering and refreshing." It is well known that
while the friends of freedom were animated with a hope, that the dark
hour of its commencement was but the forerunner of a day of light and
liberty and happiness, Mr. Adams belonged to a school which taught
that this bright hope was but illusory; that all the horrors of the
_reign of terror_ were gratuitous; and that the French people would,
in the end, return as near as might be, to the condition from which
they were struggling to escape. These bodings have been fulfilled. The
younger branch of the house of Capet has taken the place of the elder.
The unteachable folly of those who could neither learn nor forget, has
been superseded by the address, the subtlety, the energy and spirit of
Louis Philippe. By these qualities, and by what is _instar omnium_,
his private wealth, he has been able to stay the tempest of revolution
in its wildest rage, and to establish himself firmly on the throne.
The condemnation pronounced by Mr. Adams's school of politics, in the
earlier stages of the revolution, has been justified by the event, and
_he_ finds something "_quite refreshing_" in the result!

We have perhaps extended these observations too far, and left
ourselves but little room to remark on the style of these
compositions. There is certainly much to praise in Mr. Everett's, and
we would gladly adorn our pages with copious extracts from it; but it
is in every body's hands, and will be read by thousands whom our
humble pages will never reach.

It has been well said "that truth is sometimes more incredible than
fiction." The history of La Fayette is a chapter in the romance of
real life, more strange and interesting than any tale that imagination
has ever suggested. The succinct sketch of that history, which forms
the body of Mr. Everett's eulogy, must be read with great interest
even by those already familiar with the facts. It is quite
felicitously hit off.

We have already intimated the opinion, that the {311} nature of the
occasion fixed the doom of failure on the attempts of both gentlemen,
however executed. We wish we could say that no part of the fault
attached to the execution itself. The circumstances justified the
expectation that each oration should be perfect in its kind. Men
selected from among millions for the occasion, and having months for
preparation, were bound to furnish specimens of composition without
blemish. We are sorry to point out faults which would merit censure in
works of less pretension. In Mr. Everett's eulogy we mark a few.

Does he mean, at page six, to intimate that the "boldness of truth"
was ONLY "_not_ WHOLLY _uncongenial_" to the character of La Fayette?
We take this as a specimen of the faults into which men blunder, who
adopt a sort of diluted style, in which affirmative propositions are
stated by _disaffirming the negation of the affirmative_. This may be
very polite and genteel. It betokens an amiable aversion to say any
thing offensive; an eagerness to qualify and explain; and sometimes
even a readiness to take back any thing that may displease. It may be
called the _apologetic_ or _bowing_ style; for whenever we meet with
it, we presently have before us the image of the speaker, ruffled,
powdered and perfumed, and accompanying every sentence with the
appropriate gesture of a deferential bow. This is Mr. Everett's
besetting fault. But for this he might have been an orator.

At pages twelve and thirteen, we were inextricably puzzled (to say
nothing of the ungraceful introduction of the _egomet ipse_,) by the
following sentence.

"Yes, fellow-citizens, that I may repeat an exclamation, uttered ten
years ago by him who has now the honor to address you, in the presence
of an immense multitude, who welcomed 'the nation's guest' to the
academic shades of Harvard, and by them received with acclamations of
approval and tears of gratitude; when he was told by our
commissioners, 'that they did not possess the means or the credit of
procuring [credit of procuring!] a single vessel in all the ports of
France, then, exclaimed the gallant and generous youth, 'I will
provide my own.'"

The reader may unriddle this. We cannot. If the thing were possible,
the most plausible guess would be, that the words "I will provide my
own," were the words of Mr. Everett. It is the only exclamation we
hear of.

We have not often had the pleasure of hearing Mr. Everett speak, and
cannot pronounce whether he possesses that magic power of voice, and
countenance, and attitude and gesture, which _should_ have been
displayed in the utterance of his closing paragraph. Without these, it
is a school-boy declamation. We rather fear that Mr. Everett is not so
endowed. Such was our impression on hearing him, and this is confirmed
by the fact, that his power over the house of which he has long been a
member, is no way commensurate to his acknowledged talents. We subjoin
the paragraph, adding this advice--"that no man attempt to utter such
a passage who is not very sure of his own powers." He who can do it as
it should be done, may rival Cooke in Richard, or Cooper in the
ghost-scene in Hamlet. This is the paragraph.

"You have now assembled within these _renowned_ walls, to perform the
last duties of respect and love, on the birth-day of your benefactor,
beneath that roof which has resounded of old with the master voices of
American _renown_. The spirit of the departed is in _high communion_
[does this mean _high mass_?] with the spirit of the place;--the
temple worthy of the new name, which we now behold inscribed on its
walls. Listen, Americans, to the lesson, which seems borne to us on
the very air we breathe, while we perform these dutiful rites. Ye
winds, that wafted the pilgrims to the land of promise, fan in their
children's hearts, the love of freedom;--blood which our fathers shed,
cry from the ground; _echoing_ arches of this _renowned_ hall,
_whisper_ back the voices of other days;--glorious Washington, break
the long silence of that votive canvass;--speak, speak, marble lips,
teach us THE LOVE OF LIBERTY PROTECTED BY LAW."[1]

[Footnote 1: Subjoined to Mr. Everett's speech is an account of the
circumstances of the ceremonial, much in detail. From this it appears
that _by his side_, on the platform where he stood, was placed a bust
of La Fayette, on a pedestal _just high enough_ to bring the _face on
a level with the speaker's_. The taste of this we de not propose to
discuss with the committee of arrangement. It seems to have imposed on
Mr. Everett a sort of necessity to have a word to say to the figure,
and we do not know that he could have done it better than he has done.
We incline to suspect that he would gladly have escaped from that part
of his task. We are glad he got through it so well. We are glad too we
were not there. The thought of Punch and the Devil knocking their
noses together, might have made us laugh most unreasonably. Now that
the thing is over, we venture to intreat that no man of genius and
taste may be placed in a situation so perilous and so painful.]

At pages six and seven, we have a passage, which besides savoring of
transcendentalism, smacks of the school of Garrison and Tappan. We
pass it by, because it is not with a mere occasional volunteer like
Mr. Everett that we would discuss the subject there hinted at. Indeed
we would touch him with a lenient hand, for his eulogy has great
merit, and has deepened the kindly impression which his amiable
character and classic talent had already made on us. The blemishes we
have noted are but

    "Stains upon a vestal's robe,
  The worse for what the soil."

We recommend it to the perusal of all (if any there be) who have not
read it.

We had noted for animadversion some of the most faulty passages of Mr.
Adams's oration, but do not find them so much at variance with the
general character of the work as to merit particular censure. When
Secretary of State to a President, who, while minister to England,
informed his government, in an official despatch, that he "had
_enjoyed_ very bad health," he acquired by contrast the reputation of
a fine writer. He was the _cheval de battaille_ of the administration.
Afterwards, when the head of a dominant party, it pleased him to lay
claim to the first place among the writers of the day, and his
followers of course accorded it to him. A fatal claim, most fatally
acknowledged! Had he known no more of writing than his successor, he
might have been President now. As it was, he perilled the enjoyment of
power, for the sake of vaunting it, in well turned sentences about
"light-houses in the skies." His vanity tore away the veil under which
federalism had lain securely hid for years. Had he, like his
successor, unmasked a battery in doing so, he might have {312} done it
safely. This may explain some of our former remarks, when classing him
among those whose weakness afforded the people an opportunity (fatally
abused) of retrieving their rights.

Mr. Adams's style is any thing but felicitous. He has not the art of
gliding gracefully on from topic to topic. His digressions are abrupt,
untimely and rectangular; his allusions are generally of the ebony and
topaz school; his blows are never inflicted with that dexterous
sleight which engages our admiration too much to permit sympathy with
the sufferer. They never take effect but when the victim is bound hand
and foot, or on some imbecile wretch, like Jonathan Russel, who can
neither parry nor elude them. His oratory reminds us of the _fa sol
la_ of a country singing school, differing as much from the easy flow
of spontaneous eloquence, as the mellifluous stream of real music from
that harsh jangling in which each note claims its separate syllable.

To those who may be startled at this account of Mr. Adams's style, we
recommend the perusal of his oration as an exercise. We venture to
predict that by the time the sixty thousand copies ordered by Congress
have found as many readers, our judgment will be confirmed by at least
fifty-nine thousand of them. But that will never be.

To Mr. Everett's address are appended a requiem and a hymn, of which
we will say, but more emphatically, what we said of the orations. They
should have great excellence and no fault. Each should be a gem of the
first water, and without flaw. The first consists of six stanzas, of
which two or three are very fine. But what shall we say to this:

  "One pulse is echoing there."

An echoing pulse!

         "One pulse is echoing there!
  The far voiced clarion and the trump are still,
  And man's crushed spirit to the changeless will
          Bows in _rebuke_ and prayer!"

Whom or what does man rebuke? If the writer meant "_under_ rebuke," he
should have said so. Again--

          "Gather about his pall,
  And let the sacred memory of years
  That he made glorious, call back your tears,
          _Or_ LIGHT _them as they fall!_"

If the writer had an idea connected with the last line it is
incomprehensible to us.

The hymn of four short stanzas being destitute of any original
thought, has not merit enough to be chargeable with any particular
fault. There _may be_ something new, though common-place, in the last
stanza. Astronomers tell us that Venus and Mercury are morning and
evening star by turns. Our poet, if we can understand his orrery, has
a mind to make the name of La Fayette both morning and evening star at
once.


  _For the Southern Literary Messenger_.

THE BEAUTIES of the Court of Charles the Second; a series of Memoirs,
Biographical and Critical, illustrating the Diaries of Pepys, Evelyn,
Clarendon, and other contemporary writers. By Mrs. Jameson, authoress
of "The Loves of the Poets," "Lives of Female Sovereigns," "Visits and
Sketches at Home and Abroad," &c. &c. Philadelphia: E. L. Cary & A.
Hart. pp. 304. 8vo.

Few portions of history are more replete with characters illustrating
the good and evil of human nature, in both extremes, than that of the
reign and court of Charles II. The stern dominion of a sour and
superstitious bigotry had just passed away; the disgusting hypocrisy
which had disguised all vice under the mask of religion and virtue had
been exposed; and the disclosure had awakened a doubt, even in the
minds of the wise and good, whether unbounded license was not more
tolerable than the enormities practised in those hiding-places of
crime, into which the severe discipline of the Protectorate had driven
it. The public eye might impose some restraint; but when the
indulgence of harmless mirth and the enjoyment of innocent amusement
were unsafe, except in private, who could tell what unseen
abominations might be perpetrated in recesses which the world was not
permitted to look into.

Nothing is more true, than that the appetite for pleasure grows by
indulgence, and that, pushed to the verge of what is lawful, it is too
apt to pass into criminal excess. But _innocent_ pleasures men _will_
have. What security that they will be content with these? None but the
influence of public sentiment, constraining them to respect the almost
viewless boundary that divides the extreme of lawful indulgence from
the beginnings of licentiousness. The exercise of this influence is a
duty society owes to itself; but to exert it, we must bear to look
upon the scenes where its authority should be felt. If we fastidiously
turn away, and refuse to the young, the gay, the sanguine and the
thoughtless, the benefit of that aggregate judgment concerning right
and wrong, which we distinguish by the name of "public sentiment," we
incur more risk of becoming "partakers of the sins of others," than we
should by looking on with that complacent smile of benevolent
sympathy, which its objects would not willingly exchange for the frown
of merited disapprobation. In this smile and this frown are the
sanctions for that "regulated indulgence" which a wise and good man
has pronounced to be "the best security against excess."

When Charles on his accession avowed a disposition to claim for
himself, and to allow to others the unbounded license which his
foreign habits had rendered necessary to him, it was of course, that
multitudes should eagerly avail themselves of the privilege. It was
not wonderful that even the virtuous should acquiesce in this new
scheme of things, instead of endeavoring to apply correctives which
they had just seen so much abused.

The consequence was, that during that most flagitious reign, the mind
was left to put forth all its wild unpruned luxuriance. Human nature
displayed itself in all the forms of all of its varieties, each in the
most extreme dimensions. Vice walked abroad in naked deformity; and
orgies, such as the sun had never before been permitted to look on,
were perpetrated in the face of day.

But if the "poor virtues of the age lacked countenance," how
conspicuous was that virtue, which still resolutely resisted all the
allurements with which fashion invests pleasure, and in the midst of a
corrupt generation, preserved its purity inviolate. God has never left
himself without a witness. There were, even in that day, men devoted
to all their duties to him, to their fellows, and to themselves, and
their light did but shine the brighter for the darkness that
surrounded it. The pacific policy of a monarch, who is now known to
have been the pensioner of the natural enemy of his {313} country,
afforded few opportunities to acquire fame in the service of the
crown. It was chiefly in private life that virtue had to seek that
honorable distinction which it naturally covets. That distinction the
character of the age rendered more conspicuous and honorable, and it
was therefore the more eagerly sought.

We are not particularly anxious about this theory, but it helps us to
understand, not only how it was that the pure and muddy waters mingled
without blending, but how it happened that the _unexampled_ excellence
of in Ormond and an Ossory were found side by side with the unheard of
depravity of a Buckingham and a Rochester.

Of the private as well as public history of the courtiers of Charles
II, we have the most authentic records, and they are full of amusement
and instruction. It has been lamented that they have been, for the
most part, transmitted to us through channels which must soil the
reader's mind, and endanger an injury more than commensurate to the
value of the information. We have reason to rejoice therefore, that we
are at length permitted to receive them through the refining filter of
a female mind, from which they are transmitted pure and "bright as
diamond spark."

What lover ever read the history of Grammont without lamenting that it
was impossible to impart any portion of his delight to his mistress.
The difficulty is now removed; and Mrs. Jameson deserves the thanks of
her sex, for having rendered accessible to them, not only a theme of
most amusing gossip, but one of the most instructive and edifying
chapters in the history of man. We especially recommend this work to
their perusal. The witty Hamilton and the gay Grammont will still
perhaps be most read by the men, but even they will derive advantage
from looking, through the chaste eyes of a virtuous female, on the
same scenes and the same characters exhibited by this profligate pair.

Of the manner in which this work is executed, nothing need be said to
those familiar with the writings of Mrs. Jameson. It is every way
worthy of her well merited reputation. We extract a few passages,
which may serve as examples of the work. But they are not selected for
any particular merit, but merely to illustrate the foregoing remarks.
They are most attractive pictures of virtues, the exact opposite of
the vices which characterized the age; and we are not sure that they
do not as widely differ from the average standard of the human
character.

What can be more captivating than this account of _La belle Hamilton_.

"She was then just arrived at that age when the budding girl expands
into the woman: her figure was tall, rather full, but elegantly
formed; and, to borrow Lord Herbert's beautiful expression, 'varied
itself into every grace that can belong either to rest or motion.' She
had the finest neck and the loveliest hand and arm in the world: her
forehead was fair and open; her hair dark and luxuriant, always
arranged with the most exquisite taste, but with an air of natural and
picturesque simplicity, which meaner beauties in vain essayed to copy;
her complexion, at a time when the use of paint was universal, owed
nothing to art; her eyes were not large, but sparkling and full of
expression; her mouth, though not a little haughtiness is implied in
the curve of the under lip, was charming, and the contour of her face
perfect.

"The soul which heaven had lodged in this fair person was worthy of
its shrine. In those days, the very golden age of folly and
affectation, the beauties, by prescriptive right, might be divided
into two factions, whom I shall call the _languishers_ and the
_sparklers_; the languishers were those who, being dull by nature, or
at least not bright, affected an extreme softness--lounged and
lolled--simpered and sighed--lisped or drawled out their words--half
shut their eyes--and moved as if 'they were not born to carry their
own weight.' The sparklers were those who, upon the strength of bright
eyes and some natural vivacity and impertinence, set up for female
wits: in conversation they attempted to dazzle by such sallies as
would now be scarcely tolerated from the most abandoned of their sex;
they were gay, airy, fluttering, fantastical, and talkative--they
dealt in bon mots and repartees--they threw their glances right and
left, _a tort et a travers_--and piqued themselves upon taking hearts
by a _coup-de-main_. Miss Hamilton belonged to neither of these
classes: though lively by nature, she had felt perhaps the necessity
of maintaining a reserve of manner which should keep presumptuous fops
at a distance. She wore her feminine dignity as an advanced guard--her
wit as a body of reserve. She did not speak much, but what she said
was to the purpose, just what the occasion demanded and no more.
_Fiere a toute outrance_, whenever she was called upon to stand on the
defensive, she was less possessed with the idea of her own merit than
might have been supposed; and, far from thinking her consequence
increased by the number of her lovers, she was singularly fastidious
with regard to the qualifications of those whom she admitted upon the
list of aspirants."

In the family of Ormond we have a galaxy of excellence. The following
extracts make us balance the truth of history and our experience of
real life. Whom do we know like old Ormond and his wife? Whom like his
noble son and his charming countess?

Take the character of the Duchess from the lips of an enemy.

"When the Duke of Ormond withdrew to France, in 1655, he found himself
obliged to leave his wife and family behind: and soon afterwards
Cromwell caused the Earl of Ossory to be arrested upon no specific
charge and committed to the Tower. His mother waited upon the
protector to remonstrate, and to solicit his enlargement, pleading the
quiet and inoffensive life which she led with her children in London.
Cromwell told her plainly, that he had more reason to fear her than
any body else. She replied with dignity and spirit, and in the
presence of a numerous drawing-room, that 'she desired no favor at his
hands, but merely justice to her innocent son;'--and that 'she thought
it strange that she, who had never been concerned in a plot in her
life, nor opened her mouth against his person and government, should
be represented as so terrible a person.' 'No, madam!' replied
Cromwell, 'that is not the case; but your worth has gained you so
great an influence over all the commanders of our party, and we know
so well your power over your own party, that it is in your ladyship's
breast to act what you please.'"

The following descriptions of the Earl and Countess of Ossory are
delightful.

"At this time, the Earl of Ossory was about four and twenty; he was
tall, well made, and handsome; with an open expressive countenance,
and fine teeth and hair; he rode, fenced, and danced remarkably well;
played on the lute and the guitar; spoke French eloquently, and
Italian fluently; was a good historian; and seems to have had a taste
for light and elegant literature, for Sir Robert Southwell represents
him as so well read in poetry and romance, that 'in a gallery full of
pictures and hangings, he could tell the stories of all that were
there described.' These however were the {314} mere superficial graces
which enabled him to please in the drawing-room, and to these he added
all the rare and noble qualities which can distinguish a man in the
cabinet and in the field. He was wise in council, quick and decided in
action, as brave in battle as an Amadis of Gaul--gallant 'beyond the
fiction of romance'--humane, courteous, affable, temperate, generous
to profusion, and open almost to a fault. 'In a word,' says the
historian, 'his virtue was unspotted in the centre of a luxurious
court; his integrity unblemished amid all the vices of the times; his
honor untainted through the course of his whole life;' and it is most
worthy of remark, that in those days, when the spirits of men were
heated with party rage; when profligate pens were wielded by
profligate and obscure individuals, and satire 'unbated and
envenomed,' was levelled at whatever was noble, or beautiful, or good
in the land; not a single expression can any where be traced to
contradict or invalidate this universal testimony. 'No writer,' (I
quote again from history,) 'ever appeared then or since, so regardless
of truth and of his own character, as to venture one stroke of censure
on that of the Earl of Ossory.'"

"'She was, indeed,' adds the grave historian of the family, 'an
admirable economist; always cheerful, and never known to be out of
humor, so that they lived together in the most perfect harmony
imaginable. Lord Ossory never found any place or company more
agreeable than he found at home; and when he return thither from
court, they constantly met with open arms, with kind embraces, and the
most moving expressions of mutual tenderness.'

"But this picture, bright and beautiful as it is, had its shades. In
this world of ours, 'where but to think, is to be full of sorrow,'
Lady Ossory was so far most happy, that though she suffered _through_
those she loved, (as all must do who embark their happiness in their
affections,) she never suffered by them: but she lost several of her
numerous family at an early age; and the frequent absence of Lord
Ossory, whilst engaged in the highest civil and military employments,
must have doomed her to many widowed hours. The reckless valor too,
with which he exposed his life, and which was such as even to call
down a rebuke from his brave father, must have filled the gentle bosom
of his wife with a thousand fond anxieties: yet might not those
partings and meetings, those alternations of hope and fear, those
trembling terrors for his safety, those rapturous tears which greeted
his return, have assisted to keep freshly alive, through a long series
of years, all the romance of early passion? And was not this much? Did
Lady Ossory buy too dearly the proud happiness of belonging to that
man, upon whom the eyes of all Europe were fixed to gaze and to
admire; who from every new triumph brought her home a faith and love
unchanged--deposing his honors at her feet, and his cares in her
gentle arms? Let the woman who reads this question, answer it to her
own heart."

The following anecdote, with the appended note, illustrates a point of
character on which we always dwell with delight, though it is not
often found associated with prudence and wisdom.

"In 1671 occurred that extraordinary attempt on the life of the Duke
of Ormond by the ruffian Blood, of notorious memory; it is supposed at
the instigation of Buckingham. There was, in fact, something so
audacious and so theatrical in the idea of hanging the duke upon the
gallows at Tyburn, that it could only have originated with that
'Fanfaron de crimes.' Such, at least, was the general opinion at the
time. A few days after this event, Lord Ossory meeting the Duke of
Buckingham in the king's chamber, the color flushed to his temples
with passion, and his eyes sparkled with such ire, that the duke took
refuge behind the king's chair. 'My lord,' said Ossory, stepping up to
him, 'I know well that you are at the bottom of this late attempt of
Blood's upon my father, and therefore I give you fair warning, if my
father comes to a violent end by sword or pistol,--if he dies by the
hand of a ruffian, or the more secret way of poison, I shall not be at
a loss to know the first author of it; I shall consider _you_ as the
assassin; I shall treat you as such, and I shall pistol you, though
you stood beside the king's chair; and I tell it you in his majesty's
presence, that you may be sure I shall keep my word.' So saying, he
turned upon his heel, leaving the duke so completely overawed, that he
had not even spirit to utter a denial."[1]

[Footnote 1: I believe no writer has remarked the singular coincidence
between the characters and fortunes of the Duke of Ormond, and his
ancestor, the Earl of Ormond, of Elizabeth's time. Both were brave,
popular, enthusiastically loyal, and inflexibly honest; both were
accomplished courtiers, and lived to experience the ingratitude and
injustice of the princes they had served; both experienced many
changes of fortune, and lived to an extreme old age, so as to behold
their heirs in the third generation. Both were opposed to the reigning
favorites, for the enmity of the Duke of Ormond and Buckingham was at
least equal to that of the Earl of Ormond and Lord Leicester. As
Buckingham was believed to have instigated Blood in his attempt on the
Duke of Ormond, so Leicester was known to have attempted the
assassination of Ormond, by means of a hired cut-throat, who was
afterwards, like Blood, forgiven and rewarded. The following anecdote
is very characteristic:--The Earl of Ormond coming one day to court,
met Lord Leicester in the antechamber: after the usual salutations,
"My lord," said Leicester, insolently, "I dreamed of you last night!"
"Indeed!" replied Ormond, "what could your lordship dream of me?" "I
dreamed that I gave you a box on the ear." "Dreams are interpreted by
contraries," replied the high spirited Irishman, and instantly lent
him a cuff on the ear, which made the favorite stagger; for this he
was committed to the tower by Elizabeth.]

We will conclude by adding the character of a lady (the wife of Hyde
Earl of Rochester,) of whom it is praise enough to say, that she was
beautiful, rich, noble and powerful, and chose to love her husband,
nurse her children, and live in obscurity.

"It is perhaps the highest eulogium that could be pronounced on the
character and conduct of his fair, gentle-looking, and really amiable
wife, that while her husband was treading the steep and tortuous paths
of court diplomacy, rising to rank and honors, and filling the highest
offices in the state, we do not even hear of her, except in her
domestic relations. In the recent publication of the Clarendon papers,
Lady Rochester is seldom mentioned; but from the manner in which she
is alluded to, we may infer, without danger of being mistaken, that
she was the excellent and submissive wife of an impatient and despotic
husband; that she lived in the utmost harmony with her children and
her relatives; that she frequented the court but little.

"It should seem that her days flowed along in one even course of
unpretending duties and blameless pleasures: duties such as her sex
and station prescribe, pleasures such as her rank and fortune
permitted,--interrupted and clouded by such cares and infirmities as
are the common lot of mortality. This description of Lady Rochester
may appear a little insipid after the piquante adventures of a
Cleveland and a Chesterfield, and others of her more brilliant and
interesting contemporaries; yet there is in its repose and innocence
something that not only refreshes, but sweetens the imagination: as in
a garden where peonies, and pinks, and carnations, and tall lilies,

  'And canker blooms, with full as deep a die,
   As the perfumed tincture of the roses,'

flaunt to the eye and allure the sense, should we suddenly find a
jasmine, trailing its light tendrils and luxuriant foliage round a
lordly elm, with what delight should we appropriate its starry,
unsullied blossoms, and place them in our bosom!"

{315}

CALAVAR; or The Knight of the Conquest: a Romance of Mexico.
Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard. 1834.

Who reads an American book? was tauntingly asked some years since, by
the Edinburg or Quarterly Review,--we do not recollect which,--nor is
it important to know. For the present we will answer the question
somewhat in the Hibernian or Yankee style, by a remark which is not
exactly responsive; and that is, that if Sir Walter Scott himself were
living, he would have the candor and honor to acknowledge that
"Calavar" was vastly superior to some five or six of the last litter
of his own great genius, and not very far behind the very best of
those renowned performances which have thrown a classic glory over the
bleak hills and barren moors of Scotland. But whether that would have
been the award of Sir Walter or not, impartial critics on both sides
of the Atlantic, and coming generations, if "Calavar" should escape
the vortex of oblivion,--will undoubtedly render a judgment somewhat
similar. It is certainly the very best American novel, excepting
perhaps one or two of Mr. Cooper's, which we have ever read; that is,
if boldness of design, vigor of thought, copiousness and power of
language,--thrilling incident, and graphic and magnificent
description, can constitute a good novel. For the first fifty or sixty
pages, it is confessedly somewhat heavy; still the reader will
perceive that a master spirit is at work, to whose guidance he
confidingly trusts. In a short time the whole interest of the
narrative rushes upon him; he gazes in imagination upon the beautiful
and Eden-like vallies of Mexico; he throbs with pain at the spectacle
of slaughtered thousands of the brave aborigines, and he sympathises
with the tender sorrows and heroic sufferings of the only female who
figures in the story, and she too in the unwomanly garb of a page,
destined to perform the somewhat curious, and certainly very
unthankful office, of a _menial to her own lover_. Here we think the
author has decidedly failed,--we mean in the invention and arrangement
of his story. He is entirely too _unnatural_ even for romance. There
is too much improbable and miraculous agency in the various
life-preserving expedients, and extraordinary rescues which are
constantly occurring,--and which, although taken singly, do not
surpass the strange events of actual life, shock us nevertheless by
their perpetual succession, and impart to a tale founded upon
historical truth, an air of oriental fiction which is not agreeable.
The author, who is vastly superior to Cooper in dialogue, is, we fear,
equally unqualified with that writer, to depict the female character
in all its exquisite traits and attractive graces--else why not give
us more than a mere glimpse at the daughter of Montezuma, (the beloved
of the melancholy De Morla,) whose image we behold as in a "glass
darkly," and whose wretched fate we regard with the less anguish,
knowing so little as we do of the fair and unfortunate victim. Even
Jacinto is a mysterious and shadowy, though lovely being, with whom we
have not, and cannot well have much sympathy. Some few passages
indeed, illustrate the disguised princess with great force,--and
throughout there is an unaccountable anxiety felt towards her; but she
is not sufficiently presented in the foreground of the picture, to
awaken a positive and powerful interest in her behalf. Jacinto, alias
Leila, is nevertheless a most delightful vision,--seen always under
very unfavorable circumstances,--but when seen, winding around the
heart of the reader in spite of himself,--a beautiful, modest, heroic
boy,--and yet a girl,--the discovery of whose sex, though anticipated,
does not beam upon the reader until towards the latter end of the
story. By the way, there is something very strange and improbable in
the idea, that this same sweet creature should have waited upon her
own lover in the assumed character of page or servant, _and he, the
lover, not to know it_. It is altogether too marvellous, and the
author of "Calavar" ought not to have drawn such a heavy draft upon
the reader's credulity. As to Don Amador de Leste, he is in fact the
hero of the story; instead of that demented melancholy uncle whose
name gives the title to the romance, but whose agency in it is of very
little importance, and whose wild and mournful aberration of mind
attracts less of admiration than pity, sometimes mingled with a
feeling allied to disgust. The character of Botello too, half knave
and half conjurer, is, we think, somewhat of a failure; perhaps not
altogether so, for he relieves the mind from the contemplation of
spectacles of blood and misery,--and that of itself is a refreshment
for which we ought to be thankful.

Notwithstanding these strictures, which impartial justice required, we
still maintain the opinion that Calavar is the production of a man of
great capacity. If he follows up this first effort by corresponding
success in the region of historical romance, he will assuredly
outstrip all his competitors on this side of the Atlantic. The history
of the conquest of Mexico, affords an admirable field for the
novelist; and in the faithful delineation of Cortez, the extraordinary
spirit who directed the work of devastation and surmounted almost
superhuman difficulties in his triumphant career,--we think that the
author of "Calavar" has been wonderfully successful.

We forbear making quotations from the work, or entering into a more
minute analysis of the story. Our chief object is to inform our
readers that "Calavar" is an American production, which will not
shrink from competition with the very best European works of the same
character. Faults it has, and some of them obvious and censurable; but
its display of intellectual power and its various beauties are so
transcendant, that its blemishes are lost like specks upon the orb of
day.

The description of the flight of the Spaniards over the dike of
Tacuba, and of the horrors of the "Melancholy night," so called in
history, is awfully sublime. In truth the whole work abounds in
powerful delineation both of character and scenery, and it is with
pride that we hail it as at once assuming and commanding a proud rank
in the department of historical romance.




JUDGE BLACKSTONE--_A Poet_.

A correspondent in January's Messenger said, that on the death of this
great lawyer, _poems_ were unexpectedly found among his papers. The
following is the only one of them we have seen. Its smooth yet
vigorous numbers, its simply touching strain of thought and language,
the deep and just feeling it evinces, and the apt felicity of its
imagery, prove the author to have possessed a genius which, had it
been so inclined, might have rendered him as conspicuous in the
flowery paths of elegant literature, as he actually became in the
{316} sterner walks of the law. There is something strikingly
magnanimous in the _self-denial_, which could make such a mind
relinquish pursuits so congenial to its tastes and so meet for its
abilities, for a profession the most abounding of all others in dry,
ponderous, and perplexing drudgery, yet amongst the most vital to the
well-being of society. What a lesson to our _dilettanti_, who, even
after having adopted that profession, cannot bravely face and grapple
with its difficulties, but remain entranced by the Circean draughts
and Syren songs of the lightest and most frivolous of the Muses! What
should be their humiliation, when they compare their own inability to
renounce the novel, the newspaper, and the frothy magazine, with
Blackstone's generous farewell to his so far noble muse? They may rest
assured, that it is only to one capable of such a sacrifice, that Lord
Coke's parting wish is not addressed in vain: "I wish unto him the
gladsome light of Jurisprudence, the lovelinesse of temperance, the
stabilitie of fortitude, and the soliditie of justice."

THE LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE.

BY SIR WM. BLACKSTONE.


  As by some tyrant's stern command,
  A wretch forsakes his native land,
  In foreign climes condemned to roam,
  An endless exile from his home;
  Pensive he treads the destined way,
  And dreads to go, nor dares to stay;
  Till on some neighb'ring mountain's brow
  He stops, and turns his eye below;
  There, melting at the well known view,
  Drops a last tear, and bids adieu:
  So I, thus doomed from thee to part,
  Gay queen of fancy and of art,
  Reluctant move with doubtful mind,
  Oft stop, and often look behind.

  Companion of my tender age,
  Serenely gay, and sweetly sage!
  How blithesome were we wont to rove
  By verdant hill and shady grove,
  Where fervent bees with humming voice
  Around the honeyed oak rejoice,
  And aged elms, with awful bend,
  In long cathedral walks extend!
  Lulled by the lapse of gliding floods,
  Cheered by the warbling of the woods,
  How blest my days, my thoughts how free,
  In sweet society with thee!
  Then all was joyous, all was young,
  And years unheeded roll'd along:
  But now the pleasing dream is o'er,--
  These scenes must charm me now no more:
  Lost to the field, and torn from you,
  Farewell!--a long, a last adieu!

  The wrangling courts, and stubborn law,
  To smoke, and crowds, and cities draw;
  There selfish faction rules the day,
  And pride and avarice throng the way;
  Diseases taint the murky air,
  And midnight conflagrations glare;
  Loose revelry and riot bold
  In frighted streets their orgies hold;
  Or when in silence all is drowned,
  Fell murder walks her lonely round;
  No room for peace, no room for you,--
  Adieu, celestial nymph, adieu!

  Shakspeare, no more, thy sylvan son,
  Nor all the arts of Addison,
  Pope's heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller's ease,
  Nor Milton's mighty self must please.
  Instead of these a formal band
  In furs and coifs around me stand,
  With sounds uncouth, and accents dry,
  That grate the soul of harmony.
  Each pedant sage unlocks his store
  Of mystic, dark, discordant lore;
  And points with tottering hand the ways
  That lead me to the thorny maze.

  There, in a winding, close retreat,
  Is justice doom'd to fix her seat;
  There, fenced by bulwarks of the law,
  She keeps the wondering world in awe;
  And there, from vulgar sight retired,
  Like eastern queens, is much admired.

  Oh let me pierce the secret shade,
  Where dwells the venerable maid!
  There humbly mark with reverend awe,
  The guardian of Britannia's law;
  Unfold with joy her sacred page,
  (Th' united boast of many an age,
  Where mixed, though uniform, appears
  The wisdom of a thousand years.)
  In that pure spring the bottom view,
  Clear, deep, and regularly true,
  And other doctrines thence imbibe,
  Than lurk within the sordid scribe;
  Observe how parts with parts unite
  In one harmonious rule of right;
  See countless wheels distinctly tend,
  By various laws, to one great end;
  While mighty Alfred's piercing soul
  Pervades and regulates the whole.

  Then welcome business, welcome strife,
  Welcome the cares, the thorns of life,
  The visage wan, the pore-blind sight,
  The toil by day, the lamp by night,
  The tedious forms, the solemn prate,
  The pert dispute, the dull debate,
  The drowsy bench, the babbling hall,
  For thee, fair justice, welcome all!

  Thus, though my noon of life be past,
  Yet let my setting sun at last
  Find out the still, the rural cell
  Where sage retirement loves to dwell!
  There let me taste the home-felt bliss
  Of innocence and inward peace;
  Untainted by the guilty bribe,
  Uncursed amid the harpy tribe;
  No orphan's cry to wound my ear;
  My honor and my conscience clear;
  Thus may I calmly meet my end,
  Thus to the grave in peace descend!




There are moments of despondency, when Shakspeare thought himself no
poet and Raphael no painter; when the greatest wits have doubted the
excellence of their happiest efforts.


{317}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

I do not know that the author of the following lines designed or
wished them to appear in print; but I am sure that the readers of the
Messenger, and especially that portion who saw the parody of "Roy's
Wife," in the last number, will be obliged to the publisher for their
insertion. The author is one, as far as I can judge, who, like
Garrick, between the muses of tragedy and comedy, has his attachments
to poetry and music so nicely balanced, that neither can be said to
have won his superior regard. Such a one was peculiarly qualified to
pour out a tribute to the memory of the orator and poet, and at the
same time to adapt his words to that truly beautiful air which was
first imbodied in language by Burns, and afterwards by the lamented
Davis with scarcely less success.

H. E. J.

LINES.

Written as a tribute to the memory of the Hon. Warren R. Davis;
suggested by his inimitable verses to "Johnston's Wife of Louisiana."


_Air_--"Roy's Wife."

      He's gone to join his sainted "Anna,"
      He's gone to join his sainted "Anna."
      Extinguished is the brightest beam,
      That lighted up the "gay savannah."
  The wit--the poet--patriot--sleeps!
    But long his country's brilliant story,
  Will glitter through the tear she weeps,
    O'er one so blended with her glory.
                He's gone, &c.

  The "Inca's" radiant mantle fell,
    Its splendor round his form revealing;--
  His glowing heart proclaimed the spell,
    And overflowed with generous feeling.
                He's gone, &c.

  When flushed with hope and manhood's prime,
    One form controlled his heart's emotion;--
  Love triumphed o'er the power of time,
    And sanctified his last devotion.
                He's gone, &c.

  His harp is broken--hushed the breath
    Which won the free and chained the wise;
  But "Time shall hurl a dart at Death,"
    Before another DAVIS dies.
                He's gone, &c.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE EXILE.


  I go from the land where my forefathers dwelt;
    I go from the land of my home and my birth:
  The dark doom of exile has rung in my ear,
    And I go, a lone wand'rer, abroad through the earth.

  No more shall I bend o'er the grave of my sire,
    And dream that his spirit is hov'ring around!
  I never shall mingle my ashes with his--
    I never shall rest in that dear hallow'd ground!

  And is there a feeling more desolate still?
    More dreary and heart-breaking even than this?
  Oh, yes! there is one--'tis the thought that my cheek
    Has felt for the last time, a lov'd mother's kiss.




We select the following exquisite little gem from the "_New York
Spirit of the Times_." The "Times," by the way, is a weekly paper
devoted to the Literary, Fashionable and Sporting world, and is one of
the most lively, spirited and interesting papers of the kind in the
whole country. It is edited by William T. Porter.

       *       *       *       *       *

The annexed little poem was written many years ago, and has travelled
all over the world. It has been translated in the French, Spanish,
Italian, and German languages, and several times set to music in
Europe. It has been the rounds of the American press a number of times
credited to the English journals. Its great popularity was the cause
of its being claimed by our worthy contemporary of the Mirror, who
published it originally without his signature in that superb
repository of American belles-lettres. Like most of the productions of
that gentleman, it contains point, piquancy, and quiet humor. We found
it again the other day snugly ensconced in the poet's corner of the
Evening Star,--let the Major alone for finding out a good thing,
wherewith to delight his readers.

THE MINIATURE.

BY GEO. P. MORRIS.


  William was holding in his hand
    The likeness of his wife--
  Fresh, as if touched by fairy wand,
    With beauty, grace, and life.
  He almost thought it spoke:
    He gazed upon the treasure still,
  Absorbed, delighted, and amazed,
    To view the artist's skill.

  "This picture is yourself, dear Jane,
    'Tis drawn to nature true:
  I've kissed it o'er and o'er again,
    It is so much like you."
  "And has it kissed you back, my dear?"
    "Why--no--my love," said he.
  "Then, William, it is very clear,
    It is not all _like me_!"




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EPIGRAM.

THE MISTAKE CORRECTED.


  Anne, my foolish fancy's o'er,
  And I cannot love you more--
  Nay, sweet girl, why knit your brow?
  Cannot love you more--_than now_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE SPIDER.

The Spider taketh hold with her hands and is in Kings'
palaces.--_Proverbs of Solomon_ 30:28.--


  What dost thou there, unlucky wight,
      Upon that cornice fair,
  Midst things so beautiful and bright?
  Thy many eyes might sure have sight
  To see that it would not be right
      To do thy spinning there!

  These things, I own are wondrous fine
      And beautiful and bright;
  And eyes, accustomed less than mine
  To things that so resplendent shine,
  No doubt to wonder would incline
      And gaze at such a sight; {318}

  But I've been used to splendid things--
      Familiar long at Courts;
  In all the palaces of Kings,
  My beauteous five-twined net-work swings,--
  Of this a sacred poet sings
      And History reports.

  The wisest of the sons of men--
      (And glorious too was he)
  With graphic and historic pen
  Describes the blessed era, when
  Amidst his court--in glory then--
      He gave a place to me.

  Since then, each Queenly drawing-room
      Hath own'd me for a guest,
  And where the eternal roses bloom,
  In Tapestry, from the Gobelin's loom,
  To hang my own, I dare presume--
      Finer--by all confest.

  Tapestry in needle-work is seen
      In stately Hardwicke Hall;
  Done by the famous Scottish Queen
  When captive there,--her thoughts to wean
  From chequered past, or gloomier scene
      That might her steps enthral.

  My skill with her I used to try,
      When she was sad and lone,
  And oft amused her languid eye
  By spinning down so merrily;
  And now her handiwork close by
      Is proudly hung my own.

  Poor Coligni's untimely doom,
      When Medicis was Queen,
  Was pictured in the Gobelin's loom;--
  Colors of light o'er thought of gloom,
  Like sun-shine on an unblest tomb--
      Portray'd the historic scene.

  The broach and reed I saw them ply,
      And work the wondrous loom;
  Nor broach nor loom nor silk had I,
  But spun my web and wove it by,--
  They watch'd me with invidious eye
      And swept me from the room!

  The wise may triumph o'er the proud:
      Their work of skill complete
  Adorn'd the palace of St. Cloud,--
  And there, amidst the courtier crowd,
  Where weaver Gobelin never bowed,
      I took my honored seat.

  'Twere long, my life and works to trace
      Through lines of Kings renown'd--
  How mirrors proud my net-works grace
  Where daily shines a princely face
  And hang--most worthy of the place--
      Corregio's pictures round.

  None _my prerogative_ disown,
      Nor is it ought to me
  What Dynasties the nations own;--
  Whether _Legitimates_ alone
  Or "_Citizens_" usurp the throne
      _To make the people free_.

ELIZA.

_Maine_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

DIALOUGE,

From the Italian of Francisco da Lemene.

BY R. H. WILDE, _of Georgia_.


TIRSIS. PHILLIS.

_Phillis_. I'd love you Tirsis, but ...

_Tirsis_.                      Speak out!--but what?

_Phillis_. I must not tell you that--

_Tirsis_.                          Dearest! why not?

_Phillis_. Perhaps you'd laugh at me?

_Tirsis_.                           Indeed I sha'nt.

_Phillis_. You wo'nt?--I'll tell you then--O no! I ca'nt!--

_Tirsis_.  Tell me at once, you plague! do'nt teaze me so!--

_Phillis_. Well then--I'd love you Tirsis--but I know ...

_Tirsis_.  Know what?

_Phillis_. You're vowed to CHLORIS--a'nt it true?

_Tirsis_.  And what of that? I'll vow myself to you.

_Phillis_. What! two at once! D'ye take me for a fool?

_Tirsis_.  "Love those that love you"--is not that the rule?

_Both_.   |Then we must love each other!--yes, we must!
          |Swear to love those that love you!--a'nt it just?

NEWPORT, R. I. August 29, 1834.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

  UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA,
  _January 20, 1835_.

MR. WHITE,--I enclose you the following lines for insertion in the
Messenger. They are copied from the note book of a dear departed
parent, whose affectionate tenderness, and sincere and ardent
piety,--are portrayed in every line, and breathe from each word, of
these simple and touching verses. I am unable, at this moment, to say
whether they are, or are not, original; but be this as it may, they
cannot fail I think to interest your readers.

FROM THE NOTE BOOK OF MY MOTHER.


  When morning, from the damps of night,
  Beams on the eye with rosy light,
  And calls thee forth with smile benign--
  Then think whose heart responds to thine,
  And still, with sympathy divine,
                              "Remember me."
  When gentle twilight, pure and calm,
  Comes leaning on reflection's arm,
  When o'er the throngs of cares and woes,
  Her veil of sober tints she throws
  And woos the spirit to repose,
                              "Remember me."
  When the first star, with crescent bright,
  Beams lonely from the arch of night,
  The moon sends forth her cheering glance,
  Then--gazing on the blue expanse,
                              "Remember me."
  When mournful sighs the hollow wind,
  And pensive thoughts enwrap the mind,
  If e'er thy heart, in sorrow's tone,
  Should sigh, because it feels alone,--
                              "Remember me." {319}
  When passing to thy silent bower,--
  Devotion claims the sacred hour,--
  When bending o'er the holy page,
  Whose spirit calms affliction's rage,
  Directs our youth and cheers our age,
                              "Remember me."
  Oh! yet indulge the ardent claim,
  While friendship's heart the wish can frame,
  For, oh! but transient is my lay--
  And, mingling soon with kindred clay,
  My silent lip no more shall say
                              "Remember me."
  And when in deep oblivion's shade,
  My cold and mouldering form is laid,
  If near that bed thy steps should rove,
  With one short prayer, by feeling wove,
  One glance of faith, or tear of love,
                              "Remember me."




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THOUGHTS ON SEEING THE EVENING STAR.


  Mild star of the soul! in the vesper glow
    Of the lingering daylight beaming--
  There's a priceless balm to the bosom of woe
    In the light from thy coronet streaming.

  From the placid arch of the evening sky,
    And the waveless ether sleeping--
  Thy spell descends to the dewy eye,
    And our woes dissolve in weeping.

  On the lightning wings of memory borne,
    We retrace the paths of our gladness,--
  And the bounding bliss of our vernal morn
    Brings smiles to lighten our sadness.

  With the airy step and the bird-like song
    Of our youth on the star-lit mountain,
  We dance to the streamlet's tuneful tongue,
    Or lave in the gelid fountain.

  We renew the joys of the wild-rose bower
    Where the burning vow was plighted;
  And again in the calm of the genial hour
    We drink the warm kiss delighted.

  In the smiles of a _Mother's_ love we stand,
    The tears of joy repressing,
  And we thrill at the touch of a _Father's_ hand,
    As we kneel to ask his blessing.

  These--these are the thoughts that thy talisman ray,
    Calls up from the years departed;
  And these are the joys that in hope's decay,
    Yield a balm to the broken-hearted.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

JEU DE MOTS.--ON A NAME.


  Says Hal, "This Miss A----'s a charming young _belle_,
  But has she a _beau_, my dear Will, can you tell?"
  "Indeed," replied Will, "it is more than I know;
  But an _archer_, I think, must of course have a _bow_."

A. Z.




MISS MARTINEAU.


Our city has lately been favored with a short visit from this
celebrated lady, who has distinguished herself so much by her
Illustrations of Political Economy, and other popular writings. She
excited, of course, no small sensation in the _monde_ here, in which
she appeared like a "star shot" _brightly_, (we cannot say "_madly_")
"from its sphere;" and she has certainly left a very favorable
impression of herself behind her. We had the pleasure ourselves to be
in her company for a short time, and have set her down in our
_souvenir_ as a woman of fine understanding; a ready talker; easy,
affable, and unaffected in her manners; and altogether more feminine
and pleasing than we had expected to find her.

We understand that Miss M. is making a sort of moral and political
_reconnoissance_ of our country, for the purpose of giving the British
public a more accurate account of our institutions, and the state of
things amongst us, than any one has yet done. In some points, we
think, she is admirably qualified for such a work; but in others, we
should apprehend, she may be a little deficient. She has good sense,
certainly; and, we suppose, a good disposition to do us justice; but
we doubt whether she will have the best opportunities for obtaining
full information upon some subjects; and, in many cases, her very sex
must shut her out from the most proper sources of intelligence. Still
she will, no doubt, give us something rather better than the scandal
of Mrs. Trollope, or the blunders of Basil Hall. So we shall look out
for her book with interest; and not the less for having seen and
chatted with her for a few moments, whilst she was here.

       *       *       *       *       *

Miss M. we believe, is not at all poetical; but, it seems, she has
inspired a friend of ours, who is also a friend of the Muses, to write
the following tribute to her merit, which, with his permission, we
append.

LINES.

ON MISS MARTINEAU.


  When Martineau came, I was curious to see
  What sort of a body the damsel might be:
  A writer of sensible stories, I knew,
  On labor and wages; but was she _a blue_?
  Was she grave as a judge? Did she talk like a book?
  (A sort of man-woman,) and how did she look?
  So I waited upon her, and, venturing near,
  I whispered some words in her ivory ear;
  When she broke forth at once in her voluble chat,
  And talked away freely of this and of that,
  With such feminine ease, and such masculine sense,
  Without any portion of pride or pretence;
  (_Illustrating_ all that she said with a smile,
  That showed she could charm if she thought it worth while;)
  That I dub her, you see, "an agreeable dame,
  And worthy of Hymen, as well as of Fame."

_Richmond, Feb. 28_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EPITAPH.

ON A YOUNG LADY.


  Where this bending willow weeps,
  All alone, Myrtilla sleeps:
  Softly scatter nard and myrrh,
  Lest ye should awaken her.


{320}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EPIGRAM.

ON A WALTZING GIRL.


  There's a charming young girl that I know,
  And I've thought that, if I were a beau,
  I should like to engage her in chat,
  To feast on her smiles, and all that,
  And drink her sweet words as they flowed
  From her musical mouth, like an ode;
  But there's one thing that shocks me, I own,
  And drives me to let her alone:
  She has one of the worst of all faults--
  _She is fond of this new-fangled waltz_.

Q.


ANOTHER.--ON THE SAME.


  She is pretty, I agree;
  But she waltzes, sir, you see;
  And I would not give a fig
  For a _dancing whirligig_.

Q.




For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES.

  Oh! to forget her!--_Young_.


  Oh! give me that oblivious draught
    That comes from Lethe's silent shore!
  And when the charming cup is quaff'd,
    I may forget--and love no more.

  Forget? Forget? And can it be?
    And is there aught beneath the sun
  Can wean my constant heart from thee,
    Thou lovely and beloved one?

  Ah no! Remembrance cannot choose
    But hold thy precious image fast;
  And Time, whatever else I lose,
    Shall spare me that--till all is past.

  Long nights of sorrow may elapse
    When all the stars of joy are set;
  This heart may bend--may break perhaps--
    But never, never can forget.

MONOS.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE TRUE FOUNDATION.

  Quisquis volet perennem
    Cautus ponere sedem, &c.
              _Boet. Lib, II, Met. 4_.


  Say, wouldst thou build a lasting seat,
    Secure from Fortune's rage;
  A quiet and a safe retreat,
    To rest thy weary age?

  Set not thy house upon the sand,
    By ocean's sounding shore;
  Vain Pleasure's palace cannot stand
    When tempests rise and roar.

  Nor yet upon the mountain's side
    Command thy tower to rise:
  How oft the airy hall of Pride
    Calls lightning from the skies!

  But build upon the solid rock,
    In that sweet vale of green
  Where the Good Shepherd feeds his flock,
    And wait life's closing scene.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD.


        There's a tuneful river
          In Erin's Isle,
        Where the sunbeams quiver
          In silvery smile;
        Where the leaves that fall
          'Neath the autumn sky,
        Grow gem-like all,
          And never die:
  And such is the stream, by truth enlightened,
  That leaves the breast by wisdom brightened,
  Where even the joys that the storms dissever,
  Are turned to gems that glow forever.

        There's a darkling tide
          In the Indian clime,
        By whose herbless side
          There's a sulphury slime--
        To the flower that it touches,
          A scorching wave,--
        To the bird that approaches,
          A weltering grave:--
  And such are the waters of bitterness rising
  In the desart bosom of dark disguising;
  And the birds of joy, and the flowers of feeling,
  Must perish, wherever that wave is stealing.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES

TO MISS H---- M----

On her talking against slavery.


  You're a foe to all slavery, Harriet, you say;
  Then why do you talk in so charming a way?
  For I too have surely a right to be free,
  And yet you are fastening your chains upon me!

_Richmond, February 28_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TRUST NOT.

BY A. L. B. M.D.

            "Ay they that find
  Affection's perfect trust on aught of earth,
  Have many a dream to start from."


  Trust not to aught of earthly mould;
    O! trust not woman's love--
  The warmest heart will soon grow cold,
    The purest faithless prove.

  Put not thy trust in glowing smiles,
    Or lips of rosy hue;
  O! fly thee far from woman's wiles,
    Her heart cannot be true.

  O! never trust the sunny beam
    In maidens sparkling eye,
  How bright soever it may seem,
    It glistens but to die.

  The lips that once could speak of love,
    Can breathe another strain;
  And, O! the warmest breast may prove
    The seat of proud disdain.

  Then leave the hall of love and song,
    Cast off the gaudy chain,
  Nor worship with the craven throng,
    Where truth must sue in vain.


{321}


VARIETY.


The subjoined advertisement, which appeared, we believe, in the
Lynchburg Virginian some time since, escaped our notice until
recently. We are gratified that the opinion expressed by a
correspondent of the "Messenger," in respect to the stanzas referred
to, is sustained in so _substantial_ a manner. We feel authorized to
say that the name of the author can be communicated by us if desired.

"The author of the piece which appeared in the Southern Literary
Messenger, recently, commencing--

  'I'd offer thee this heart of mine
   If I could love the less,' &c. &c.

will receive a Gold Medal, by writing to 'W. B. T.' Lynchburg,
Virginia, and giving his name, which the writer of this notice wishes
to have engraved upon it."

       *       *       *       *       *

  From Littel's Museum of Foreign Literature.

_Byron and Brougham_. It may not be generally known that the late Lord
Chancellor Brougham is the real author of the famous article in the
Edinburgh Review, on Byron's juvenile production "Hours of Idleness,"
for which Jeffrey was so severely taken to task in the satire "English
Bards and Scottish Reviewers." We have this fact from an authority on
which we can place the utmost reliance.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Scraps from the "Spirit of the Times."

A SIGNIFICANT QUESTION. Stuart once asked a painter, who had met with
a painter's difficulties, "how he got on in the world?" "Oh," said the
other, "so, so! hard work--but I shall get through." "Did you ever
hear of any body that did not?" was the rejoinder.

       *       *       *       *       *

CLERICAL ERROR. An ignorant priest celebrating mass, finding in the
rubric, "_salta per tria_," meaning "_skip three_" (that is, three
pages,) took three leaps in front of the altar, to the astonishment of
the congregation.

       *       *       *       *       *

LADY'S REPLY TO AN IMPERTINENT.

  "Louisa, you've the brightest eyes,
    They look me _through_, just like a dart."
  "Do they, Sir Fop?" Louisa cries;
    "If so, I'm sure _they see no heart_."

       *       *       *       *       *

A scrap from a conversation between too "literary and fashionable
characters," in the immediate vicinity of Thorburn's garden.

"Hist now and I'll sing you a _solo_."

"Well, sing it _so low_, then, that nobody can hear it."

       *       *       *       *       *

A wag of the first water closed an amusing and spirited article in the
last Knickerbocker with the following "brace" of clever items. I have
been sick of poetry since I saw the Vermont editor's quotation from
Shakspeare. Speaking of the free negroes in New York, and their
depredation on society, he says, that during the fervors of a summer's
solstice, they come,

  --------"from the sweet South,
  _Stealing and giving odor_."

But more especially, since a friend of mine travestied a noble line of
Byron's by applying it--while riding along a road which commanded a
view of Weathersfield, Connecticut--to that place of onions, tears and
pretty maidens:

  "Niobe of nations--there she stands!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The following epigram from the North American Magazine, is a "Bonne
bouche."

  I'm sorry dear M----, there is a damp to your joy,
    Nor think my old strain of mythology stupid,
  When I say that your wife had a _right_ to a boy,
    For Venus is nothing without a young Cupid.

  But since Fate the boon that you wished for refuses,
    By granting three girls to your happy embraces,
  She meant, while _you_ wandered _abroad_ with the _Muses_,
    Your _wife_ should be circled at _home_ by the _Graces_.




EDITORIAL REMARKS.


We have placed the whole of the letter of our correspondent in
Shepherdstown, (_See Letters from Correspondents_,) before our
readers, and we do it the more readily, as it contains some gentle
thrusts at ourselves, which we receive in very good part.

We take leave also to offer one or two words of explanation. The
writer is totally mistaken in supposing that in order to obtain
admission into the columns of the "Messenger," it is necessary that
its contributors should be personally known to the Publisher, or his
Editorial Auxiliaries, or that the contributors themselves should be
individually known to fame. The great design of the Messenger, from
its commencement to the present moment, has been much misconceived, if
such an inference has been deemed in the slightest degree warrantable.
Its principal aim has been, to foster and encourage native genius--no
matter how obscure or humble, and without inquiring whether the writer
be a friend and acquaintance, or a stranger. Its columns are open to
the fair claims of him who inhabits the lowly cottage, as well as of
the proud tenant of a wealthier mansion. That some articles have met
with a kind reception which did not deserve it, is extremely probable;
and it is not less probable, that some have been excluded, or hitherto
suspended, for lack of proper discrimination in our council of
criticism. We will endeavor to make amends however, by sharpening our
optics a little in future; and, if we cannot please all, we will
strive to give offence to none. Our correspondent we think, however,
is a little harsh in his criticisms. It is easy to select particular
words or passages from any production, and by showing partial defects,
involve the whole in ridicule or censure.

  "A perfect judge will read each work of wit,
   With the same spirit that its author writ;
   Survey the whole, nor seek slight faults to find
   Where nature moves, and rapture warms the mind."

We make this quotation from Pope, for the special benefit of our
Shepherdstown friend. Does he see no beauty, no merit, no poetry, in
the "Song of the Seasons?" We grant there are defects, and we
endeavored gently to point them out; but we still contend that the
writer (we have reason to believe him a very young man,) is endowed
with talents of no mean order. Who has written more quaintly and
obscurely than Ben Johnson or Cowley; or to come nearer to our own
time, than Wordsworth or Coleridge? And yet who will deny to either of
these bards the possession of genius. The remarks of our correspondent
upon "The Passage of the Beresina," are, we think, also couched in too
much severity. He seems to think there can be no good poetry without
exact metrical {322} arrangement and harmony; but there are numerous
examples to the contrary. We do not say indeed that all his
observations are unjust, but some at least strike us as hypercritical.
We take pleasure in concurring with him however, in the high praise
which he bestows upon the two little poems which appeared in the last
number, to wit: "Beauty without Loveliness," and the lines to
"Ianthe."

We hope that no one whose eye may light upon the fourth number of the
_Tripoline Sketches_, will forego the pleasure of reading it. The
energy and enterprise of our brave countryman, General Eaton, were
worthy to be recorded by such a pen. Note: We have to call the
reader's attention to a typographical transposition of _two_ words in
the fourth number of the "_Sketches_." In the first column of page
261, eleven lines from bottom, instead of "_Mourad, joined the Turks,
others sided with the French_," read "Mourad, joined the French,
others sided with the Turks."

Impartial justice would have required the insertion of the answer to a
_Note to Blackstone's Commentaries_, even if it had not been demanded
by higher considerations. The author has won many a trophy on the
field of logic and eloquence; and even an adversary who should contend
that his weapons were pointless, would not deny that they were highly
polished, and dexterously wielded.

We are mistaken if the "_Romance of Real Life_" be not highly
commended.

We particularly invite the reader's attention to the fourth number of
the "_Letters from New England, by a Virginian_." It is replete with
interesting facts and reflections, presented in the writer's
peculiarly happy and forcible style.

The "_Extracts from my Mexican Journal_," are from a gentleman every
way qualified from his opportunities for accurate observation, to
present vivid pictures of the city of Montezuma and its environs. We
hope he will feel no reluctance to furnish us with further glances at
his journal.

Mr. Garnett's _Address before the Institute of Education at Hampden
Sidney College_, never before published, needs no commendation from
us. His ability as a writer, and his ardent zeal in the cause of
education, are well known to the public. To the graver portion of our
readers, especially such as have thought deeply upon the necessity of
wise and extended systems of instruction, and their intimate connexion
with the preservation of sound morals and rational liberty, this paper
will be particularly acceptable.

The "_Contrast_," by a lady, whose pen has heretofore charmed our
readers, will be read with interest. It is a touching illustration of
the consequences which await the love of pleasure and a life of
imprudence, as well as of the solid benefits which attend a contrary
course.

The second number of "_Hints to Students of Geology_," is a learned
epitome of the various theories with which geologists have puzzled
themselves and mankind. That absurd views have been entertained
concerning this science, does no more detract from its
importance,--than that because of the vain and visionary speculations
which were once indulged respecting astronomy, the now certain truths
of that sublime branch of knowledge should be discredited.

The "_Letters from a Sister_," which have reached their seventh in the
present number, increase in attraction. They will amply repay the
reader.

We cannot say that we coincide in every particular with the able and
eloquent author of the Review of the Orations of Messrs. Adams and
Everett on the death of La Fayette. Some of his criticisms are
undoubtedly just, but some perhaps have more _piquancy_ than the
subject deserved. We cannot concur in the sentiment that the fame of
La Fayette, or even of Washington, has placed either of those great
men superior to eulogy. The most sublime events and the most heroic
actions have generally found some poet or historian of sufficient
qualifications to record them with dignity and effect. Even the most
exalted truths which have ever dawned upon mankind,--the facts and
doctrines of revelation,--have lost none of their grandeur in the
simple narratives of plain and unlettered men. We somewhat fear too
that a few of the passages in the review may be supposed rather too
_political_ for a literary journal. We hope however that in this
respect our apprehensions are unfounded.

To the same vigorous pen however, we award all the praise which is due
for the judicious and discriminating notice of Mrs. Jameson's Book,
which appears in the present number.

We can fearlessly recommend the _poetry_ in this number,--if not
faultless, as at least superior to the carpings of illiberal and
puerile criticism. There are some little great men in the world, who
have the vanity to conceive that their taste and judgment (if they
have any) is the standard for all mankind--and if all do not exactly
conform to it, they snap and bark like the curs which infest our
streets, and annoy the by-ways. True criticism is the sentence of a
liberal and enlightened judgment, which delights as much in approving
what is worthy of praise, as in condemning what deserves censure. By
such an arbiter, and by such alone, let the specimens of native genius
which we now present to our readers be tried. Reluctant as we are to
discriminate, we cannot forbear to express the hope that the author of
"_Truth and Falsehood_," and another piece in the present
number,--will, from time to time, unfold his "Port Folio" for our
special use--and that he will delight others with some of those dulcet
strains with which he has beguiled his own toilsome and victorious
march in the severer paths of science.

The lines commencing "Oh! give me that oblivious draught," are
beautiful.




EXTRACTS FROM THE LETTERS OF CORRESPONDENTS.


FROM PENNSYLVANIA.

_Philadelphia, Feb. 17, 1835_.

I enclose five dollars for my subscription to the "Southern
Messenger." Allow me to take the occasion to express my particular
gratification in the perusal of the "Letters from New England."
Although their merit as literary compositions, as bright and graphical
descriptions of the condition and manners of an interesting people,
much misunderstood, is of a high order, they have, in my estimation, a
still higher value. They tend to remove prejudices excited by vulgar
anecdotes and the practices of vulgar men; to bring the members of the
American family better acquainted with each other; to cultivate a
fraternal feeling and mutual respect among them; and to show that
there is no important difference {323} of character, education or
habits, between gentlemen of the same grade in the South and North.
Each have some local peculiarities in their modes of life, but none of
them affect the substantial ingredients of their personal and national
character.

If your Journal should do nothing more than promote this good feeling
throughout our great Republic, it will entitle itself to the patronage
and thanks of every sound American. With great respect,

JOSEPH HOPKINSON.

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM WASHINGTON CITY.

I am happy to tell you, that I hear your Messenger spoken well of in
many high quarters. A young lady here, who, in talent, education and
taste, has not, I think, her equal among the ladies of America,
yesterday told me that it contained better original poetry than any
other periodical she had ever seen.

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM THE UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA.

I cannot let this occasion pass, without expressing my high sense of
the merits of your most excellent periodical, the "Southern Literary
Messenger." It is read here with universal applause. As a Virginian, I
have used and shall continue to use my best efforts to promote its
success here.

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM GEORGIA.

Permit me to compliment you, sir, on your undertaking; and deem it no
flattery when I express myself delighted with the numbers of your work
which have been thus far published. The sincere good wishes of every
man interested in the cause of "southern literature," are with you;
and if these wishes do but dictate, as I have no doubt they will do,
_sincere exertions_, success will crown your efforts, and triumph
attend your periodical. Your "Messenger" shall not depend upon the
"Old Dominion" alone for encouragement in its pioneering pilgrimage.
From the land of the palmetto and the orange-grove, shall tributes to
your budget flow. _Macte virtute_.

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM ALABAMA.

I have received four numbers of the Southern Literary Messenger, and
am well pleased with the work. I have no doubt but it will be more
extensively circulated than any literary work in the United States.
There is something in every number interesting and instructive to the
youth, the middle, and the aged.

       *       *       *       *       *

Your numbers of the "Literary Messenger" were received by the last
evening's mail. My anticipations relative to its merit, though of the
most exalted nature, were more than fully gratified. That you may be
amply compensated, both in honor and lucre, for so laborious and
magnanimous an undertaking, is my most ardent wish.

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM OHIO.

Permit me to add here, that I am heartily glad that the _experiment_
(for such it is,) of publishing a literary paper in the south, is
likely to succeed. I do hope that the southerners, and especially the
_young men_, have _pride_ and _patriotism_ sufficient to sustain the
Messenger, both by their funds and talent. As a native of the south I
feel an interest in its permanent success.

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM TENNESSEE.

I am much pleased with the Messenger, particularly the third and
fourth numbers, and hope you will continue as you have begun, and not
let it degenerate and become filled up with the light stuff that is
generally found in the columns of the periodicals of the day.

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM WESTERN VIRGINIA.

The opinion entertained of the Messenger, is, perhaps, more clearly
manifested by becoming subscribers, than in any other way; you will
therefore know that it is very favorably received in this section when
I give you the following list of five subscribers.




TO CORRESPONDENTS, CONTRIBUTORS, &c.


We have given the communication of "_Spectator_" the disposition which
he suggested, in case of its exclusion from our columns. It is due to
the writer to state, that we lament with him, the innovations upon the
ancient simplicity of Virginia manners, which are daily becoming more
popular and fashionable. We remember well the time, when an attempt to
introduce public _waltzing_ between the two sexes, would have been
sternly rebuked, by those who now not only tolerate, but encourage it.
We think, however, that his satire is too severe and pointed; and
might, possibly, do more mischief than good. We are aware that satire
is almost the only weapon by which customs violating propriety, can be
driven from society,--and especially from that circle which, _par
excellence_, is called the _first_; but then, to be effective, the
arrow must be keen and elegant; and neither barbed nor tipped with
venom. We are not sure either, that "_Spectator_" strikes at the root
of the mischief. Why should he level all his wit at the poor girls,
and suffer their fathers, and mothers, and brothers, who aid and abet
the custom complained of, to escape censure? Young females, just
entering into society, are liable to receive the strongest
impressions, from those who are most likely to share their confidence.
It is one of the privileges of the sex too, to be won by assiduous
attentions; and, if their heads are sometimes made a little giddy by
adulation, it is less imputable to them as a fault, than to those
flippant flatterers who pour the "leperous distilment" into their
ears,--and as often laugh at the fruits of their own folly and
insincerity.

We beg leave to say to our worthy young friend, and frequent
correspondent, who resides somewhere in a nearly due north line from
the Metropolis, that we had pledged our pages to an answer from
another quarter to the "_Note to Blackstone's Commentaries_"--before
the receipt of his essay on the same subject. With respect to his
_poetical effusions_, we hope he will not take the remark amiss, that,
whilst we should like to gratify him, by their insertion--we fear that
he has not bestowed sufficient care upon most of them--to authorise
the belief, that our readers would also be gratified. We ask him
candidly, to say, whether he does not think that the following stanza,
in the "_Lines to Lillia_," might be considerably _improved_.

  "Take the verse and oh if joy,
   Blooms to print one votary there
   Bear the strain with thee and brightly
   Thou shalt in its joys share."

We confess that we cannot very readily perceive its claim to the rank
of poetry, nor indeed penetrate its real meaning--though it is
probable, that, owing to the peculiar character of the hand writing,
the language of the writer may not be truly represented.

We have a number of favors on hand which we shall attend to as
speedily as possible. Among those whose exclusion from the present
number we particularly regret, is the article on the _fine arts_.

We have received the poetical communications of a writer who chooses,
for some reason or other, to sign himself "_Fra Diavolo_;" but too
late for our present number. We shall publish them in our next,
according to his wish, "as poetry" (and very fine poetry it is,) but
with some small omissions which we _must_ make, not so much for the
sake of our "orthodoxy," as for that of common decency, which the
lines excluded would, in {324} our judgment, grossly offend. Such
things indeed, may be only "dramatic," and quite in character for a
"Lover Fiend;" but we do not choose, for our part, to deal with one of
his cloth, in any form or shape whatever. We have, in fact, no sort of
taste for German "_diablerie_," which, in our judgment, sins against
good taste, as well as against good morals. In saying this, however,
we must not be understood to insinuate any thing against the character
of our "unknown" correspondent himself, who, for aught we know, may be
the very pink of virtue and decorum. We only speak of his pieces "as
poetry," and not as articles of his creed, which we should be sorry to
suppose them. Indeed it is sufficiently apparent to us that, in the
worst parts of his verses, he is only affecting something that is
foreign to himself, but which he happens to think very fine; and we
regret that he should thus fancy to imitate such vicious models as
Byron, Shelly, and other gentlemen of "the Satanic school," as it has
been called, who, we think, have had their day. It is a pity, in
truth, that he should do so; for he has evidently a fine vein of his
own, and, we are confident, would do better if he would only dare to
be a little more original. Let him reform his poetry, then, (we do not
say himself,) and we will give him "a fair page," at any time, for the
effusions of his genius, which, we can truly assure him, we shall
always be happy to receive, and to display.

We thank our correspondent D. for the Parody of the Lines on the Death
of Sir John Moore, which he has so obligingly sent us; and which, we
think, is worthy of all the praise he gives it--for the _poetry_. We
believe, however, that we have seen it in print more than once
already; and we must reserve our columns, as far as possible, for
original matter. We are of opinion, moreover, (though in this we may
be singular,) that it would not be exactly right, or in good taste, to
_profane_, as it were, one of the very finest odes in our language, by
associating it in our remembrance, with a burlesque imitation of it,
which might rather injure its beauty in our minds. Indeed we hate all
parodies; or, at least, all such as cast an air of ridicule over their
originals; because they give us a lower and baser pleasure, for one of
a higher and purer strain. So we hope our friend D. will excuse us for
shutting his article out, (good as it is in its way,) and send us
something better for it, from his own pen.

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM SHEPHERDSTOWN, JEFFERSON COUNTY, VA.

As you do not _know_ me, I take it for granted that this communication
will not be honored with a place in the "Messenger;" for I have
discovered by your "editorial remarks," that the authors of almost all
the pieces which adorn the columns of that work, are persons _already_
distinguished in the literary world, (as, for instance, "Death among
the Trees," "the production of a distinguished female writer already
known to fame,") or else they are individuals with whom you have a
personal acquaintance,--as the author of "Lines on the billet of an
early friend," whom you "know as a gentleman of fine taste and varied
endowments," &c. &c. Now all this is very well, and no one can object
to it, so long as the productions of those persons are really worthy
of your notice, or of a place in the Messenger. And as the pieces
which I have just quoted are very beautiful, I can make no objections
to _them_. But how the authors of some of the poetical effusions which
grace the columns of your fifth number, have managed to get into your
good graces, is to me a mystery, unless it was through a personal
acquaintance with yourself, and your reluctance to wound their
feelings by refusing to publish their pieces, for I know that you have
too much taste to have published them through choice. I do not pretend
to say that the poetical contributions for the Messenger are,
generally speaking, indifferent; on the contrary, I believe it
contains more truly excellent original poetry, than any periodical I
have ever seen. Even the fifth number is not entirely destitute of
beauty in this line. It contains several very talented and beautiful
pieces of original poetry; among which, the piece headed "Beauty
without Loveliness," stands pre-eminent. I have seldom met with a more
chaste and beautiful piece of composition than that. In my opinion, it
is surpassed by nothing that has ever appeared in the Messenger,
unless it be the piece to "Ianthe," in the fourth number,
beginning--"Think of me," &c. and signed "Fergus." You have not
thought either of those pieces worth noticing in your "_remarks_;" but
I am confident that if you will read them again, you will agree with
me in thinking that they are surpassed by nothing that the Messenger
has ever contained.

But while I admire these and many other beautiful _gems_, I cannot but
marvel why you should crowd your columns with such trash as most of
the pieces contained in your fifth number. For example, the "Song of
the Seasons," by "_Zarry Zyle_," the "youth of _unquestionable
talent_, perception," &c. He certainly must be a youth of _great
perception_, and judges every one by himself, or else he never would
have inflicted upon the public the _study_ of his "_song_." I
perfectly agree with you in thinking it advisable for him to change
his _style_, and write less obscurely; for as we are not all youths of
_his perception_, it is quite difficult for us

  "To comprehend, the mystery of what he means."

If, instead of talking about "amethystine beams," "bugle-bees," (a new
species I presume, as I never heard of them before; perhaps Zarry
meant "bumble" bee,) "old summer's _conck_," robins with _golden_
breasts, (they _used_ to be _red_,) and _gauze_ wings, and "_soughing_
blasts," &c. &c. he would give us a little more _common sense_ and a
little better measure in his next, we will like it better. But if Mr.
Zyle's song were the only objectionable piece contained in the fifth
number,--or if it were the _worst_ that it contained, we might "grin
and bear it." But there are many others even more dull and common than
this. I will name but one more--"The Passage of the Beresina." Now I
appeal to you as a man of candor and good taste, to know if there is
any thing in this effusion which should entitle it to a place in the
Messenger? Has it one single attribute of true poetry? If it has I
beseech you to point it out in your next number, for I confess _I_
cannot discover _one_. No, it has not even _measure_. I beg you to
take the trouble to read it over again, for I am certain you never
gave it a very careful perusal, or you never would have printed it;
your taste is too good. Read it once more, and if you can discover any
thing like _poetry_, or even like common sense in the following lines,
I hope you will let us know what it is in your next:

  "Thousands lie here; kindred and aliens in race,
   They are rigid and fix'd in _death's cold embrace_;
   They _clench_ and they _cling_ in the last dying grasp,
   And the living, the dead, reluctantly clasp:
   Or, fearing a friend in his last cold embrace,
   They spurn him beneath to his dark dreary place."

Now I say if you can discover any thing like _poetry_ in these lines,
or can tell us how _thousands_ who are "rigid and fixed in _death's_
cold embrace," can "_clench_ and _cling_," or "_spurn_" a friend to
his "dark dreary place," you will very much oblige more than one of
your subscribers. I could make you many other quotations from the same
piece, equally as obscure as the above. As--

  "With unearthliest cries, grim phantasied shapes
   Brood o'er the senses ere the spirit escapes;
   On the wings of the _wind_ how swift speeds the blast,
   With pinions all viewless it fleets as the past;--
   Oh say, does it bear the spirits that have fled,
   In the last bitter _strife_, ere the _dying_ be _dead_?"

I should presume not, as it would be rather a difficult matter for the
spirit to _have fled before_ the "dying be dead." Now the idea of the
"_blast's_ speeding on the _wings_ of the _wind_," is certainly
_original_; but not satisfied with _this_, the author has also hoisted
death upon the same wings. I wonder what the _wind_ did in the
meantime? Took it _a-foot_, I s'pose; or perhaps it borrowed death's
wings for a few moments.

The two last lines of this piece would be very pretty, if it did not
unfortunately happen to be impossible for the "smile of Hope" to
linger upon the "face of the dead" _before_ "the spirit be fled."
Dead, fled, and dread, seem to be favorite rhymes with this author.

Your correspondent from "Eastern Virginia," has given you some
excellent advice: I hope you will follow it _next time_.

You say, those who dislike the contents of the Messenger, should write
better pieces themselves. I do not exactly agree with you. We pay for
reading the paper, and are entitled to the _best_ pieces that _are_
written for it, and not merely those of your personal friends and
acquaintances. I am one of your subscribers, and most sincere well
wisher.


{325}


SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. I.]  RICHMOND, MARCH 1835.  [NO. 7.

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




The _Publisher_ regrets that the learned and interesting discourse of
Professor Tucker on the "Progress of Philosophy," delivered before the
Virginia Historical and Philosophical Society at its last meeting,
could not appear in the present number without dividing it. It shall
certainly appear in the April number _entire_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY

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

No. V.


On the arrival of Commodore Barron in the Mediterranean, he as senior
captain, superseded Preble in the command of the American forces in
that sea. The determined manner in which the war had been prosecuted
by the latter officer, and the many acts of gallantry which had
distinguished the period of his direction, caused his withdrawal to be
universally regretted; and the more so, as Barron was at that time
laboring under a disease of the liver, which disqualified him for
exertions, and indeed soon after obliged him to retire from active
duty. Preble returned to the United States, where he was received with
every mark of respect by the government and by his fellow-citizens in
general; leaving under Barron's command, six frigates, four brigs, two
schooners, a sloop of war and eight gunboats, which mounted in all
three hundred and twenty-six guns. The season was however too far
advanced to admit of farther operations against Tripoli; ships were
stationed off the harbor sufficient to maintain a blockade, the others
passed the winter in cruising or lying at Malta and the Sicilian
ports.

It has been stated that Mr. Cathcart was appointed to succeed Eaton as
Consul of the United States at Tunis, with instructions to obtain a
peace with Tripoli, even on condition of paying for it, should it be
otherwise impossible; but he was soon after removed, his place as
Consul being supplied by George Davis. The power to negotiate was
given to Tobias Lear, a gentleman who had been private secretary to
President Washington, and afterwards an agent of the American
Government in Saint Domingo, and who was sent in 1803 to reside at
Algiers, as Consul General for the Barbary States. Mr. Lear was
instructed to join Commodore Barron, in order to treat for peace with
Tripoli, which it was hoped "might be effected without any price or
pecuniary compensation whatever; but should adverse circumstances, of
which he could best judge, and which were not foreseen, render the
campaign abortive, and a pecuniary sacrifice preferable to a
protraction of the war," he was authorised, _in the last instance and
in that only_, "to agree to the payment of twenty thousand dollars
immediately, and of an annual tribute of eight or ten thousand more,
for peace." "For the ransom of the prisoners, _if ransom should be
unavoidable_, he might stipulate a sum not exceeding five hundred
dollars for each man, including officers," the Tripoline prisoners
being however exchanged for an equal number of Americans; but "this
rate of ransom was not to be yielded, without such a change in
affairs, by accident to the squadron, or by other powers joining
against the United States, as was very unlikely to happen;" and it was
to be borne in mind, that this sum, "connected with terms otherwise
favorable, was the voluntary offer of the Pasha[1] to Captain Preble
in January, 1804." The Commodore was at liberty to avail himself of
Hamet's co-operation, "if he should judge that it might prove useful;
to engage which, as well as to render it the more effectual, he had
discretionary authority to grant him pecuniary or other subsidies, not
exceeding twenty thousand dollars; but the less reliance was placed
upon his aid, as the force under the orders of the Commodore was
deemed sufficient for any exercise of coercion, which the obstinacy of
the Pasha might demand." The power to negotiate was confided to Mr.
Lear in the first instance, as Commissioner of the United States for
that purpose; in case of accident, it was to devolve upon the acting
Commodore of the squadron.

[Footnote 1: A mistake; no such proposition was made by the Pasha; of
this there are many proofs; it is sufficient however to quote Preble's
own words in his despatch of September 18th, 1804, in which, speaking
of the Pasha's offer of the 10th of August, to terminate the war on
payment by the Americans of five hundred dollars for each prisoner, he
says that "it was 350,000 dollars less than was demanded previous to
the bombardment of the 3d of the same month."]

These instructions bear the stamp of that extreme cautiousness and
uncertainty with regard to the employment of decisive measures, which
characterized the government of the United States at that period. A
force is sent, deemed adequate for any exercise of coercion which may
be required, without recourse to a Pretender from whose alliance, a
considerable accession of moral influence might have been fairly
expected; yet in anticipation of adverse events, or of circumstances
not then foreseen, a civil agent is vested with authority to purchase
a humiliating peace. It is doubtless proper in all cases, to provide
for possible mishaps, particularly where the scene of action is far
distant; but in this instance, it is difficult to conceive that any
occurrences should render necessary a total abandonment by the United
States, of principles, for the support of which so large an armament
had been prepared; and there were the less grounds for such
anticipations, as it was believed, though erroneously, that the Pasha
had already offered terms much more favorable than those to which the
agent was authorised in the end to agree. It must be observed however,
that these instructions were issued on the 6th of June, 1804, at which
period Preble's spirited attacks had not been made, and the
proceedings of the American forces in the Mediterranean had, with one
or two exceptions, been remarkable only for their inefficiency or
their disastrous results.

Having received these orders, Mr. Lear quitted {326} Algiers, and
joined Barron off Tripoli; they both soon after retired to Malta,
which they considered the most convenient place, either for carrying
on negotiations with Tripoli, or for directing the operations of the
ships. On the 28th of December, 1804, a letter reached them from Don
G. J. de Sousa, Spanish Consul at Tripoli, in which he stated, that at
a late audience the Pasha had expressed his willingness to make peace
with the Americans, provided they would come forward on proper
grounds, but had added, "that their proposals had hitherto been
extravagant and inadmissible, not only from the trifling amount of
money offered, but also from their having sought to compel their
acceptance by force of arms, a method by which they would never
succeed." The Consul then suggested, that Mr. Lear should himself
appear before the city with a flag of truce, and treat directly with
the Pasha, "whom means would be found _sub rosa_, to dispose for a
peace on terms appropriate and suitable for both parties." He
concluded by tendering his own good offices in the affair, requesting
however, that for the present, the utmost secrecy might be observed
with regard to this communication.

Notwithstanding the last injunction, many circumstances conspired to
induce a belief that the letter had been written under Yusuf's
directions, in order to discover the temper and disposition of the
Americans. In truth, the general character of the Spanish Consul was
by no means respectable; he was known to be closely connected with the
Pasha, and it had even been suspected, that to his influence or agency
the war with the United States was chiefly to be attributed. In
addition to this, no communications had been received from Yusuf since
his last proposition to Preble, after the bombardment in August; nor
indeed was any thing known respecting his strength, or the effects
which had been produced by the attacks made during the preceding
summer. It was therefore difficult to judge what "would be appropriate
and suitable for both parties;" and the Spanish Consul's _sub rosa_
means of disposing the Pasha to such terms, were very naturally
mistrusted. For these reasons, and from an expectation that more
direct offers would soon be made, it was determined that no answer
should be given to the letter immediately.

Of Eaton, no news was received by the Commodore from the period of his
departure for Egypt, until the return of the Argus from Alexandria, on
the 10th of March, 1805. She brought despatches from him, containing
information of the means pursued to communicate with Hamet, of their
successful issue, of the Convention about to be made with the Prince,
and of their projected expedition to Derne, in aid of which he
intreated that supplies of money, provisions and ammunition might be
sent to Bomba, and if possible, a detachment of one hundred marines.
In the brig came also Mahumed Mezaluna, an old Moor, who had been
Hamet's secretary, and who now appeared as his accredited agent to
solicit assistance.

Barron had however, by this time become very doubtful as to the
propriety of acting in concert with the exile, and he moreover feared,
that he had already exceeded his own authority, in the instructions
which he had given to Eaton on parting. The information conveyed by
the despatches, particularly as regarded the Convention, increased his
uneasiness, as he was led to apprehend that Eaton had acted even
beyond the limits of those instructions, and had entered into
engagements "incompatable with the ideas and intentions of their
government, or with the authority vested in himself." Indeed,
independently of the evident disinclination of the government to act
in concert with Hamet, and the smallness of the sum allowed for the
purpose, absolute engagements to place him on the throne of Tripoli,
might have produced the most serious consequences to the Americans.
The enterprise, in order to be effective, would have been necessarily
attended with a great expenditure of funds, for which indemnification
could not have been reasonably expected, in whatever way or however
pointedly it may have been stipulated: by its failure the insolence of
the Barbary States would have been increased, and additional
encouragement have been given to the exactions of their Sovereigns;
and even if completely successful, the advantages to be derived by the
United States were by no means evident. The ruler of every country,
however unrestrained his authority may be, must in his policy take
into consideration, the habits and the prejudices of his people; few
have succeeded by acting without reference to both, and fewer still
have lived to witness any important change wrought in either through
their own efforts. The Tripolines were bigoted Mahometans, and piracy
was among them an ancient and most honorable calling; the
establishment of Hamet by the aid of Christians, and his engagement to
remain at peace with them, without immediate compensation or the
promise of tribute, would certainly render him unpopular with his own
subjects, and excite against him the enmity of the other Barbary
powers. To overcome such difficulties, the Prince would have neither
the courage nor the means; and it could hardly be anticipated, that
when once on the throne of Tripoli he would risk its possession, by
pursuing a course at variance with the wishes of his people, and the
requisitions of the adjoining Sovereigns, merely from gratitude to the
Americans, or from respect for engagements made to them in the days of
his adversity.

The probability of obtaining beneficial results through Hamet's
co-operation, or indeed from any offensive measures against Tripoli,
had always been doubted by Bainbridge; and his opinion certainly
merited attention, for although imprisoned, yet he had sufficient
intercourse with the foreign consuls and other residents of the town,
to enable him to judge of the Pasha's strength and of the dispositions
of the inhabitants with regard to the two brothers. By letters
received from him, about the time of the arrival of the Argus, he
repeated his conviction that the establishment of the exiled Prince in
Tripoli, was not possible, from the weakness of his character the
contempt in which he was held by the people, his want of resources and
the force which Yusuf was capable of employing against him; and that
if the liberation of the American prisoners were made to depend upon
that measure, it would be better to leave them to their fate, than to
squander lives and treasure in so futile an attempt. He acknowledged
that he had been mistaken in the ideas he had entertained of the
Pasha's strength, and of the effects to be produced on the place by
naval operations only; that the damage {327} occasioned by Preble's
attacks, had been slight as the houses were miserably built and almost
destitute of furniture; and that although the blockade had occasioned
embarrassments to the mercantile class and somewhat straitened Yusuf's
means, yet he would be able to hold out a long time, and be disposed
to suffer any extremity rather than surrender his prisoners without
ransom.

The situation in which those prisoners might be placed by Hamet's
marching against Tripoli, was also to be considered. Although the
utmost precaution was adopted to conceal the object of Eaton's mission
to Egypt, it was soon made known to Yusuf, by an Italian who was his
agent at Malta. It gave him much alarm, but with his usual energy he
prepared to meet the consequences, by sending such troops as he could
spare to reinforce those under the Beys of his frontier provinces. He
likewise despatched an agent to Alexandria, to intreat the Viceroy not
to allow his brother to quit the country; but Eaton had been already
joined by the Prince, and had so completely secured the favor of the
Turkish authorities, that this attempt to defeat the plan proved
fruitless. Yusuf had however, a strong security for his throne, at
least so far as regarded any danger from the forces of the Americans;
for he held in his power three hundred and seven of their
fellow-citizens, whose lives he well knew would be considered
infinitely more valuable than any advantages which could be derived
from his expulsion. With this view, he declared that he should
consider them as hostages for the conduct of their government, and
that any attempts made in favor of his brother, might prove fatal to
them. Information of his intentions was conveyed to Barron in January,
by a letter from Bainbridge, which he concludes by saying: "The Pasha
is very attentive to your transactions with his brother at Alexandria;
a force is going against Derne. Give me leave to tell you, I have
found your plan with the Pasha's brother very vast, and that _you
sacrifice the lives of the prisoners here in case of success_." Other
notices of the same purport were received; and the determined violence
of Yusuf's disposition was too well known, to leave a doubt that in
the last extremity, he might be inclined thus to wreak his vengeance
on the unfortunate captives. Until such extremity however, no fears
were to be entertained with regard to them, as their existence was
evidently most important to the Pasha.

Considerations of this nature made a deep impression upon Barron, and
induced him to view the cause in which Eaton had embarked, in a most
unfavorable light; honor and policy, however, forbade the immediate
abandonment of Hamet. The Argus and Hornet were therefore laden with
ammunition and stores for the supply of the expedition, and despatched
to Bomba, where their opportune arrival and the assistance rendered by
them at Derne have been already noticed. A letter was also carried by
the Argus from Barron to Eaton, in which after applauding his courage
and perseverance, he represents to him "that their Government in
consenting to act in concert with Hamet, did not contemplate the
measure as leading necessarily and absolutely to his establishment in
Tripoli, but as a means which, provided there existed energy in the
exiled Prince, and attachment to his person on the parts of his former
subjects, might be employed to the common furtherance and advantage of
his claims and the American cause; that if he possessed these
qualities, and had sufficient interest with the people, he might after
getting possession of Derne and Bengazi, move on with firm steps, and
conduct his followers to the gates of the capital, in aid of which,
operations would be prosecuted with vigor by the squadron, as soon as
the season would permit." He declared, however, that "he must withhold
his sanction from any convention or engagement, tending to impress
upon Hamet, the idea that the Americans had bound themselves to place
him on the throne," such engagements being unauthorized and
inexpedient, particularly taking into view, the situation in which
Bainbridge and their other captive countrymen might be placed by this
co-operation: that he should not suffer any convention with the
Prince, to interfere with that "perfect and uncontrolled power of
choice and action, in concluding a pacification with the Pasha, which
it was important under such circumstances to preserve;" and "that
honorable and advantageous terms being once offered, and accepted by
the representative of government appointed to treat for peace, all
support to Hamet must necessarily cease." The request for a detachment
of marines could not be complied with, "as the services of all would
be required on board their respective ships." The confused and indeed
contradictory injunctions contained in this letter, mark the utmost
indecision in the mind of the writer, and were calculated only to
puzzle the person to whom they were directed. He is discouraged from
prosecuting the enterprise in which he had engaged, while he is at the
same time assured, that the utmost assistance will be afforded to its
advancement by the squadron. A few days after the sailing of the Argus
and Hornet, the Nautilus was also sent to Derne, with additional
supplies and some cannon, which proved serviceable in the attacks on
that place.

About the same time a small vessel being sent to Tripoli by the
Commodore with clothing and other necessaries for the prisoners, Mr.
Lear wrote to the Spanish Consul thanking him politely for his
communication and his offers, but assuring him at the same time, that
as the Pasha had rejected several propositions for terminating the
war, no others would be made on the part of the United States; and
that the armed force, which was then considerable, would be employed
with vigor against Tripoli as soon as the season would permit; in the
mean while however, any proposition from the Pasha, tending to the
establishment of peace on honorable terms, would receive due
consideration. The vessel on its return, (April 21,) brought a second
letter from the Spanish Consul conveying a direct proposition from
Yusuf, to terminate the war and surrender the prisoners, on condition
that the Americans should pay him two hundred thousand dollars and
restore the Tripolines who had fallen into their hands, with all their
property. The Consul added, that he considered this offer as only
intended to form the basis of a negotiation, for which he again urged
Mr. Lear to come to Tripoli, assuring him that he would be received
with respect and remain in safety. This proposition was considered
inadmissible; it was however important, as giving evidence of the
Pasha's disposition, and the American negotiators, under the
persuasion that it would soon be followed by others of a more
acceptable nature, very prudently remained silent.

{328} Other letters giving assurances of the Pasha's desire to make
peace, were received at the same time, from persons, whose characters
and situations gave the utmost weight to their opinions. Bainbridge
and his unfortunate companions had borne their fate with so much manly
fortitude, as to interest in their behalf, not only several of the
most respectable foreign residents in Tripoli, but also the minister
of foreign affairs Mahomet D'Ghies, who has been previously mentioned,
as a worthy and intelligent person. This minister being himself
engaged in extensive mercantile transactions, was naturally anxious
for the termination of a war by which the commerce of the place was
almost destroyed; but independently of this consideration, the
accounts of Bainbridge and of all who have subsequently known him,
warrant the belief that he was actuated by motives of real benevolence
in his endeavors to procure peace, and in the steps taken by him to
mitigate the severity which his dark-souled master was disposed to
exercise towards the captive Americans. He had already made several
attempts to communicate with Preble, in order to induce him to treat
with the Pasha, on condition of paying ransom for the prisoners; but
the difficulties of transmission and the precautions which he was
obliged to adopt to prevent discovery, had caused them all to fail.
The state of his health had become such, as to require his absence
from Tripoli during the ensuing summer, and he was most anxious that
peace might be made before that time, as he was well aware of the
force of the Americans, and of the advantages which Hamet would have
from their assistance; he may have also entertained fears that the
desperate determination of Yusuf might lead him to the accomplishment
of his fatal threats against the prisoners. He therefore resolved to
make another effort, and knowing the views and inclinations of the
Pasha with regard to peace, he conferred with Bainbridge on the
subject, as also with Mr. Nissen the Danish Consul, a man of the
highest respectability who had been uniformly the friend of the
Americans. In consequence of arrangements between them, Mr. Nissen
wrote to the Commodore on the 18th of March, in the name of Mahomet
D'Ghies; recommending him to take measures for treating with the
Pasha, and proposing to that effect, that he should send some one duly
authorized and instructed to Tripoli, for whose perfect inviolability
during his stay the strongest guaranties would be given; he considered
this plan as much more likely to lead to a speedy and satisfactory
conclusion, than a negotiation carried on by correspondence, or
through a Tripoline agent on board the squadron. This letter was
accompanied by others from Bainbridge urging an immediate acquiescence
in the plan proposed, the result of which he believed would be as
favorable to the Americans, as they could expect; he had no doubt that
the ransom of the prisoners might be effected for a hundred and twenty
thousand dollars, and that their liberation could never be obtained
without paying for it, unless large land forces were employed;
concluding by an assurance, that no Tripoline would ever consider a
farthing, as paid for the Pasha's friendship, after what had been
already experienced from the Americans.

These communications were not received until late in April; they were
then accompanied by another of more recent date from Bainbridge,
enclosing a copy of one which had been sent him by Mahomet D'Ghies; in
the latter, the minister states that the Pasha had just heard of his
brother's being _with_ the American squadron, (a report probably
occasioned by the arrival of Hamet's agent at Malta) and had in
consequence manifested the strongest resentment; saying that "as long
as the war was a war of interest, it might easily be brought to a
conclusion by some sacrifice on one side or the other; but that it was
now directed against himself and for his dethronement, and he would
act in a manner, by which the feelings of the United States, should be
hurt in the most tender point which he had the means of reaching." The
minister concluded by intreating, that the Commodore might be made
fully aware of the difficulties attending any negotiation, while he
was at all in relations with Hamet. The French Consul also confirmed
the account of the Pasha's irritation, and of the danger in which the
captives were placed. The letters were all forwarded by Captain
Rodgers, who commanded the ships blockading the harbor of Tripoli;
this officer being acquainted with their contents, wrote at the same
time to Mr. Lear, (April 18) strongly dissuading him from meeting the
advances of the Pasha, "until he had been rendered more sensible of
the force of the Americans, and of their capacity to use it," and
insisting that if an attack were made within six weeks, under proper
regulations, peace might be concluded on terms perfectly honorable and
advantageous to the United States.

On the 11th of May, the Hornet arrived from Derne, bringing accounts
from Eaton of the capture of that place, and of all the occurrences
since leaving Egypt, with a reply at length to Barron's letter of
March 22d. He represented that the measures had been eminently
successful; Hamet was in possession of the most valuable province of
Tripoli, his enemies were retreating, and the supply of some funds
with a few regular troops to give effect to operations requiring
energy, would enable him without doubt soon to appear at the gates of
the City. He had however been much discouraged by the Commodore's
declaration, that all support to the Prince must cease, if the terms
which the Pasha might offer, should be accepted; he was convinced that
terms would be offered as soon as Yusuf entertained serious
apprehensions for his safety, but he considered it incumbent on the
United States, in case they were accepted, and it should be determined
to withdraw all aid from Hamet, to place him in a situation at least
as good as that from which he had been drawn, and out of the reach of
his vindictive brother. He expressed his opinion that Derne should not
be abandoned, nor peace made precipitately, as the navy might thus be
crushed and the national honor receive a heavy blow.

The result of all these communications, was a determination on the
parts of the Commander of the forces, and the Consul General, to
abandon the co-operation with Hamet and to enter into a negotiation
with Yusuf. Barron considered the moment the most favorable for
concluding peace, on advantageous terms, as the capture of Derne must
doubtless have produced a powerful effect on the Pasha's mind; and
although discarding the idea of yielding any point of national honor
or advantage, to obtain the liberation of the prisoners, he yet
contended that "the lives of so many valuable and estimable Americans
should not be sacrificed to abstract points of honor." Mr. Lear in
reply, conceived it his {329} duty, "to open and bring to a happy
issue, a negotiation for peace consistent with the tenor of their
instructions, whenever the Commander of the American naval forces in
the Mediterranean should judge the occasion proper and favorable;" he
would therefore at once proceed to Tripoli for the purpose; he _could
not however believe that any impression favorable to the United States
had been made on Yusuf, by the measures in concert with his brother,
unless the bravery and perseverance of the Americans at Derne, had
given him a proof of what might be done against him without extraneous
aid_.

Preparations were instantly made to carry both these resolutions into
effect. The Hornet was sent back to Derne with despatches notifying
Eaton of the projected negotiation, directing him at the same time
explicitly to inform Hamet, that all supplies of arms and money were
at an end, and he must trust entirely to his own resources and
exertions; that as he was now "_in possession of the most valuable
province of Tripoli_," and at the post from which he was driven when
he first solicited the assistance of the United States, all had been
done for him which he had a right to expect; but that endeavors would
be made to stipulate some conditions in his favor, provided they could
be obtained "without any considerable sacrifice of national
advantage." Eaton and his companions were not indeed directly ordered
to retire from Hamet's service, but the expressions of the letter
conveyed a hint that they were expected to do so which could not be
mistaken; in addition to which, Captain Hull, who commanded the ships
at Derne, was required to proceed with them immediately to Tripoli.

The necessary arrangements being also made for carrying Mr. Lear to
Tripoli, he sailed in the Essex frigate for that place, off which he
arrived on the 26th of May. He bore with him a letter from Barron to
Rodgers, resigning to the latter the command of the American forces in
the Mediterranean, a station which, as he said, "the languor of
sickness, and consequent mental as well as bodily inactivity,
prevented him from filling any longer, with approbation to himself, or
with advantage to the service." Some remarks are here necessary.

Commodore Barron had arrived in the Mediterranean, affected with a
disease which universally weakens the mental powers of those who are
subject to it; in his case we have the evidence of his officers, that
during the whole winter and spring, he had been "disqualified from
transacting any business, his mind being so mach impaired, that he
scarcely recollected what transpired from one day to another; and on
applications being made to him for instructions, he would lose the
recollection of what passed in the course of conversation." It was
also generally believed by the officers in the Mediterranean, "that
Mr. Lear had a great ascendancy over the Commodore in all his measures
relative to the squadron." For merely exercising such an ascendancy,
Mr. Lear cannot certainly be blamed; nor can it be imputed as a fault
to Barron, that in his situation it should have existed; he had been
intrusted with an important command, which he wished to retain,
particularly as he was much better acquainted with the views and
wishes of his government, than the officer who would succeed him in
case of his resignation could possibly have been. Under these
circumstances it was natural, that being himself aware of his
debilitated state, he should have looked for counsel and assistance to
one in whom their government had manifested such implicit confidence.
Respecting the course to be pursued with Tripoli, Mr. Lear in all his
despatches and recorded conversations, had advocated the propriety of
strong measures, for which he considered the forces of the United
States alone as perfectly adequate. To the plan of co-operation with
Hamet, he had been from the first opposed, pronouncing it visionary
and impracticable; he insisted that Yusuf might be compelled to accede
to honorable terms without any extraneous assistance whatever, and
"that more reliance might be placed on a peace with him if well beaten
into it, than with his brother, if placed on the throne by the aid of
the Americans." When the accounts arrived of Eaton's junction with
Hamet, and their projected expedition from Egypt, he declared his
conviction openly that it would prove fruitless, and "that they with
their adherents, would be sacrificed before reaching Derne." For these
opinions there were certainly strong grounds; but knowing as he did,
that Yusuf had manifested the utmost uneasiness ever since he had been
informed of his brother's intended expedition, how could Mr. Lear have
supposed that no impression favorable to the United States had been
made on him, by the capture of Derne and the defeat of his army? We
have certainly a right here to suspect the existence of prejudice or
of personal feeling, or of too great a disinclination to acknowledge
the erroneousness of previous assertions. That "a deep impression had
in reality been made on the Pasha by the heroic bravery of the few
Americans at Derne, and by the idea that the United States had a large
force and immense supplies at that place," he indeed afterwards
admitted, and endeavored from thence to make an arrangement favorable
to Hamet. From the terms of Rodgers's letter already quoted, it
appears that he was by no means desirous to negotiate until the Pasha
should have been humbled; and he declares in another letter, that he
never had entertained any apprehensions for the lives of the
prisoners. It is therefore possible, that had not Barron before his
relinquishment, taken such decided steps with regard to the
abandonment of Hamet's cause, and (at least apparently) induced Mr.
Lear to enter upon the negotiation with Yusuf, those measures might
have met with some opposition from Rodgers, which delicacy under the
actual circumstances forbade.

The Spanish Consul boarded the Essex immediately on her arrival off
Tripoli; Mr. Lear informed him that he had come at the Pasha's request
to treat for peace, but that the terms which had been already proposed
through him were inadmissible, and that unless they were put aside
entirely, no progress could be made in the affair. The Consul returned
to Tripoli, and came on board again on the 29th, bringing a commission
from the Pasha to treat on the principal points of accommodation;
Yusuf relinquished all demands of payment for peace, and offered to
restore the prisoners for a hundred and thirty thousand dollars, the
Tripolines in the hands of the Americans being given up gratis. Mr.
Lear replied by other propositions, which were--that the prisoners
should be restored on both sides, the Americans immediately, the
Tripolines as soon as they could be brought from America and Sicily
where they then were; that as the Americans exceeded the Tripolines in
number by about two hundred, the {330} sum of sixty thousand dollars
would be paid as ransom for the balance in favor of the Pasha; and
that a treaty of peace should then be made on mutually honorable and
beneficial terms. After some difficulties, Yusuf agreed to these
propositions, except that he refused to give up his prisoners until
the Tripolines were ready to be delivered to him in return for them.

This was probably only a pretence to gain time. Indeed, within the
preceding year, the question between the United States and Tripoli had
been materially changed. The Americans had appeared in such force in
the Mediterranean, that they could no longer be regarded as
supplicants for peace, and the great object was to obtain the
liberation of their captive fellow-citizens; on the other hand, the
Pasha had suffered so much from the blockade and the expenses of the
war, that he was desirous to have it terminated on as good terms as he
could obtain. Hamet's success at Derne had much increased his anxiety,
and knowing that it was entirely due to the assistance of the
Americans, he was determined not to give up the advantages he
possessed by means of the prisoners, without securing in return the
withdrawal of this important aid from his brother's cause; for this
reason he wished to have the treaty of peace made before the execution
of any other measures. As to the restoration of his own subjects who
were in the hands of the Americans, he was entirely indifferent; often
declaring when exchange was proposed, "that he would not give an
orange apiece for them."

On the 1st of June, Bainbridge came on board, under guaranty of
Mahomet D'Ghies and the Danish Consul. He assured Mr. Lear that Yusuf
would not consent to surrender the prisoners, until a treaty of peace
were made. As the objects of the Americans were to obtain the
liberation of their countrymen and security for their commerce and
navigation in future, it was not worth while to oppose this, and
Bainbridge was directed to inform the Pasha, that if the terms
proposed were accepted, a negotiation would be immediately entered
into for a treaty, with any proper person duly authorized by him, but
that no farther communication would be held with the Spanish Consul.
Yusuf upon this accordingly commissioned Mr. Nissen to confer with Mr.
Lear on the terms of the treaty; instructing him specially to have an
article inserted, stipulating that the American forces should be
withdrawn from Derne, and that efforts would be used to persuade Hamet
to leave the Tripoline dominions. This stipulation was agreed to by
Mr. Lear, who, however insisted that the Prince's family, who still
remained in the Pasha's hands, should be restored to him. Yusuf
objected and the negotiation was almost at a stand; at this crisis the
Nautilus arrived from Malta, bringing notices of Eaton's farther
successes at Derne, and also information of the arrival of additional
forces from the United States. Rodgers here expressed his anxiety to
try the effect of farther offensive operations against him; but Mr.
Lear "would not suffer the business to be broken off and leave his
countrymen longer in slavery," and therefore consented that _time
should be allowed for the delivery of Hamet's family_. The
difficulties between him and the Pasha were then removed and the
preliminaries were assented to by both parties. Mr. Lear landed
directly after, and on the 4th of June 1805, corresponding with the
6th of the first month of Rabbia of the year of the Hegira 1220, a
_Treaty of Peace and Amity between the United States of America and
the Pasha, Bey and subjects of Tripoline Barbary_, was signed at
Tripoli.

By this treaty, firm and inviolable peace and sincere friendship was
to exist between the two nations; the prisoners were to be returned on
each side, sixty thousand dollars being paid by the Americans for the
difference in number against them; the forces of the United States, in
hostility against the Pasha at Derne or elsewhere in his dominions,
were to be withdrawn, and no supplies to be given by the Americans
during the continuance of the peace, to any of his subjects who may be
in rebellion against him; the Americans were to use all means in their
power to persuade Hamet to retire from the Tripoline territory, but
they were to use no force or improper means to that effect, and in
case he should thus retire, the Pasha was to deliver up to him his
wife and children. The stipulations respecting commerce and
navigation, the rights of citizens and of consuls of either party in
the territories of the other, the assistance to be given to stranded
vessels, the protection to be afforded to vessels pursued by an enemy,
&c. were placed on the most equal footing; and it was moreover
declared, that in case a war should hereafter break out between the
two parties, the prisoners taken on either side should not be made
slaves, but should be returned at a stated ransom. This provision was
at least harmless, and it held out inducements to humane conduct.

The American prisoners were sent on board the squadron, immediately
after the signing of the treaty, and the Constitution frigate was sent
to Malta and Syracuse for the money to be paid as ransom and the
Tripolines. The American flag was again hoisted in the town, a Consul
was installed, and the inhabitants testified their pleasure on the
termination of a war by which they had so severely suffered.

This pacification has proved most advantageous for the Americans; no
tribute has been since paid by them to Tripoli, nor has any infraction
of the treaty been made either by the government, or the subjects of
that regency, without full indemnification having been promptly
obtained for it. The Pasha has indeed always appeared ready to do or
to submit to any thing, rather than have another war with the United
States. There is however every reason to suppose that the peace might
have been made on terms more honorable to the Americans; and it is
difficult to conceive what proper motives could have induced their
commissioner, to offer a sum of money as ransom for the prisoners,
with so strong a force at his disposal, and with the finest province
of the Tripoline dominions actually in the hands of his countrymen.
The proposition must certainly have surprised Yusuf, who had up to
that moment received from him nothing but expressions of a fixed
determination to seek peace only at the cannon's mouth.

Although it was expected that the information conveyed by the Hornet
would have induced Eaton and the other Americans to evacuate Derne,
still it was thought proper to despatch the frigate Constellation to
that place, with accounts of the peace which had been concluded; it
carried also one of Yusuf's officers, who was empowered to proclaim a
general amnesty, {331} and her captain was instructed to receive Hamet
and his immediate followers on board, should they choose to accompany
him.

The communications previously received by the Hornet had prepared
Eaton for these results; and he had instantly made known to Hamet the
critical state in which his affairs were placed; the poor Prince very
naturally exclaimed, that "to abandon him then, was to co-operate not
with him, but with his brother"--and seeing that it would be
impossible for him to prosecute the war, after the withdrawal of the
American forces, he prepared to leave Derne with them whenever they
should go. Eaton, however, could not bear "to strike the flag of his
country in presence of an enemy, who had not merited the triumph, and
to see the unbounded confidence placed by the inhabitants in the
American character, sink into contempt and eternal hatred;" he had,
therefore, resolved not to give up the advantages already obtained at
Derne, and carefully concealing his apprehensions, continued to pursue
the measures best calculated to advance the success of the enterprise.
In this determination he seems to have been seconded by Captain Hull,
and the other officers of the ships on the station, who had been
induced by the declarations of Commodore Barron and Mr. Lear, to
expect that an opportunity would have been afforded them in the
approaching season to chastise the insolence of the Pasha, and fully
establish the reputation of the Americans in the Mediterranean.

The Constellation arrived off Derne on the 11th of June, and it being
at once supposed that she brought supplies and troops in aid of Hamet,
the hopes of his partizans were excited to the highest pitch, while
the Tripolines were so much dismayed, that they broke up their camp in
haste, and retreated to the distance of fifteen miles from the town.
When Eaton had examined the despatches brought by her, he saw at once
that it would be a nice and difficult task to embark the Christians
with Hamet and his followers in safety, as the inhabitants would place
but little confidence in the Pasha's amnesty, and might be disposed to
sacrifice their lives in revenge for this apparent desertion. He
therefore took measures to conceal the real state of affairs; he
ordered the troops to be inspected, distributed ammunition and
rations, and sent off spies as if in anticipation of an attack. At
night, patroles were placed to cut off all communication between the
battery near the sea, which was occupied by the Christians and the
town; the Constellation's boats came to the wharf, and the Christians,
to their great astonishment, were all embarked and rowed off to the
frigate, except the Americans. A message was then sent to Hamet,
requesting an interview; he understood what was meant and instantly
came with his retinue; they entered the boats, which had by that time
returned, the Americans followed, and last of all went Eaton, just in
time to escape the soldiery and inhabitants, who learning what was
going on, rushed in distraction to the beach. Finding themselves
deserted by those who had led them to take up arms against their
tyrannical master, their rage burst forth in execrations against Hamet
and his infidel friends. In the morning, the Tripoline agent landed
and proclaimed amnesty to those who would return to their allegiance;
but the place was already nearly deserted; the Arabs had plundered it
of all that could be carried away and retreated to the mountains,
accompanied by many of the inhabitants; those who remained rejected
the terms of pardon offered them, and prepared to defend themselves to
the last from the tops of their houses. What was their fate we have
been unable to learn. At noon, on the 13th of June, Eaton writes, "In
a few minutes, we shall lose sight of this deserted city, which has
experienced as strange a reverse in as short a time, as ever recorded
in the disasters of war." The Constellation arrived in a few days at
Syracuse, where the men who had served with Eaton at Derne were paid
off. The whole expenses of the expedition amounted to about forty
thousand dollars.

A few words will suffice to trace the subsequent history of Hamet. It
has been stated that provision was made in the treaty of June 4th, for
the restoration of his family; but when he demanded them, his brother
refused to comply or to give him any assistance whatever. He had been
aided by Eaton, and by the orders of the Commodore of the squadron, he
received two hundred dollars per month for the support of himself, and
fifteen or twenty dependants in Syracuse. Two thousand four hundred
dollars were afterwards appropriated by Congress, for his "immediate
and temporary relief." The American Consul at Tripoli was also
instructed to require the delivery of his family; he did so, but in
reply a paper was exhibited, which proved to be a secret article
signed in due form by Mr. Lear, on the day after the conclusion of the
treaty, by which it was stipulated, that Yusuf should not be required
to give up his brother's wife and children, until the expiration of
four years, during which, Hamet was to evince his peaceful
disposition, and his determination not to disturb the tranquillity of
the Tripoline dominions. Of this article, no copy, and indeed no
notice whatever, had been transmitted by Mr. Lear to his Government;
whether from miscarriage or from other causes is not ascertained. The
Consul was however ordered to urge the delivery of the family by the
Pasha, and to endeavor to obtain some arrangements for their support
and that of Hamet. This was at length effected through the aid of
Mahomet D'Ghies; and on the 25th of October, 1807, his wife and
children arrived at Syracuse in an American sloop of war, with the
exception of one of the daughters, who had married the Bey Mahomet,
Yusuf's eldest son; an offer was also made by the Pasha, to settle a
handsome allowance on his brother, provided he would establish his
residence in Morocco. This Hamet positively refused, demanding at
least the restoration of his former governments of Derne and Bengazi;
after some difficulties Yusuf consented to his demand, and he went to
Derne in 1809, where he passed the remainder of his life in quiet, as
Bey of the two Eastern Provinces. Eaton immediately resigned his
situation as navy agent, and returned to the United States, where he
was universally received with interest and attention; but never
recovered his equanimity; he had been as he conceived, disappointed in
the opportunity of distinguishing himself, and moreover unjustly
robbed of his share in the credit of reducing the Pasha to terms. His
natural irritability was increased, and he was on many occasions
tempted to assert his claims, in a manner which savored of
boastfulness. His own peaceful {332} country offered no field for the
display of his peculiar talents; he had no taste for the quiet
occupations of the farm, or for the petty intrigues and wordy war of
politics; he tried both and failed. He became involved in pecuniary
embarrassments, his spirits deserted him, and he sought for
consolation in the bowl. Those who knew him only at this period,
represent him as an intemperate disagreeable vain-glorious man, and
the few friends who followed him to the grave in June 1811, had reason
to regret that he had not died earlier.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ANECDOTES OF PATRICK HENRY.

_From the Manuscripts of the late David Meade Randolph_.


The birth of party spirit has been variously conjectured: the result
of the Richmond Convention for the adoption of the Federal
Constitution, was one of its imputed parents. In the evening of the
day of the final vote, General Meade and Mr. Cabell assembled the
_discontents_ in the old Senate Chamber; and after a partial
organization of the party, a deputation was sent to Patrick Henry
inviting him to take the chair. The venerated patriot accepted.
Understanding that it was their purpose to concert a plan of
resistance to the operations of the Federal Government, he addressed
the meeting with his accustomed animation upon important occasions;
observing, "he had done his duty strenuously, in opposing the
Constitution, in the _proper place_,--and with all the powers he
possessed. The question had been fully discussed and settled, and,
that as true and faithful republicans, they had all better go home!
They should cherish it, and give it fair play--support it too, in
order that the federal administration might be left to the
untrammelled and free exercise of its functions:" reproving, moreover,
the half suppressed factious spirit which he perceived had well nigh
broken out. The impressive arguments of Mr. Henry produced the
gratifying effect he had hoped for.

       *       *       *       *       *

The purity of Henry's republicanism was such, as when dining with his
brother Col. John Syme, at the Rocky Mills, during a May session of
the Circuit Court held by Judge Iredell in Richmond, the company,
composed of very respectable characters of both parties--'THE PEOPLE'
as the first toast, upon removing the cloth, was pronounced very
audibly by the host. Mr. Henry pushing his old black wig aside, as was
his custom when much excited;--and, with _elbows akimbo!_ exclaimed,
"What--brother, not drink GENERAL WASHINGTON? as we used to do!--for
shame brother, for shame;"--and filled up his glass with a bumper of
Thomson's Madeira, announcing the name of WASHINGTON.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

YOUNG ROSALIE LEE.


    I love to forget Ambition
  And Hope, in the mingled thought
  Of valley and wood and meadow,
  Where whilome my spirit caught
  Affection's holiest breathings;
  Where, under the skies, with me
  Young Rosalie roved--aye drinking
  From Joy's bright Castaly.

    I think of the valley and river,
  The old wood bright with blossoms;
  Of the pure and chastened gladness
  Upspringing in our bosoms;
  I think of the lonely turtle
  So tongued with melancholy;
  And the hue of the drooping moonlight,
  And the starlight pure and holy!

    Of the beat of a heart most tender;
  The sigh of a shell-tinct lip,
  As soft as the land tones, wandering
  Far leagues, over ocean deep;
  Of a step, as light in its falling,
  On the breast of the beaded lea,
  As the fall of the fairy moonlight,
  On the leaf of yon tulip tree.

    I think of these and the murmur
  Of bird and katadyd,
  Whose home is the grave yard cypress,
  Whose goblet the honey-reed;
  And then I weep! for Rosalie
  Has gone to her early rest;
  And the green-lipped reed and the daisy,
  Suck sweets from her maiden breast.

L. L.

_Winchester, Va._




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

STRAY LEAVES.


      See'st thou yon withered tree,
      Which stretches towards the sea,
      Its long and ghastly arms--
      Does it not say to thee,
      How speedily shall flee,
      Thy now so envied charms.

      That forehead high
      In the dust shall lie,
      And that soft dark eye
      Shall be shrivelled and dry;
      And those pearly teeth,
      Shall be trodden beneath,
      The foot of the idle passer-by.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Change the subject, change the measure,
  Sing not of death--let life and pleasure
  Be the theme of Poet's lay;
  Our earth contains full many a treasure--
  Let us seek them while we may.

  Fill the glass with yellow juice,
  Of Rhine's old banks, the rich produce;
  Or let the ruby claret flow,
  Or Portugal's dark streams unloose--
  They all bring joy and banish woe.

    Let not woman enter here,
    Woman brings but pain and care,
    Woman smiles but to deceive,
    In woman's tears let none believe.

    Love is folly--fill the glass,
    In mirth and glee, the hours we'll pass.
    The smiling vine alone is true,
    The grape's pure tears none ever rue.


{333}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

BERENICE--A TALE.

BY EDGAR A. POE.


Misery is manifold. The wretchedness of earth is multiform.
Overreaching the wide horizon like the rainbow, its hues are as
various as the hues of that arch, as distinct too, yet as intimately
blended. Overreaching the wide horizon like the rainbow! How is it
that from Beauty I have derived a type of unloveliness?--from the
covenant of Peace a simile of sorrow? But thus is it. And as, in
ethics, Evil is a consequence of Good, so, in fact, out of Joy is
sorrow born. Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of to-day,
or the agonies which _are_, have their origin in the ecstasies which
_might have been_. I have a tale to tell in its own essence rife with
horror--I would suppress it were it not a record more of feelings than
of facts.

My baptismal name is Egæus--that of my family I will not mention. Yet
there are no towers in the land more time-honored than my gloomy,
grey, hereditary halls. Our line has been called a race of
visionaries: and in many striking particulars--in the character of the
family mansion--in the frescos of the chief saloon--in the tapestries
of the dormitories--in the chiseling of some buttresses in the
armory--but more especially in the gallery of antique paintings--in
the fashion of the library chamber--and, lastly, in the very peculiar
nature of the library's contents, there is more than sufficient
evidence to warrant the belief.

The recollections of my earliest years are connected with that
chamber, and with its volumes--of which latter I will say no more.
Here died my mother. Herein was I born. But it is mere idleness to say
that I had not lived before--that the soul has no previous existence.
You deny it. Let us not argue the matter. Convinced myself I seek not
to convince. There is, however, a remembrance of ærial forms--of
spiritual and meaning eyes--of sounds musical yet sad--a remembrance
which will not be excluded: a memory like a shadow, vague, variable,
indefinite, unsteady--and like a shadow too, in the impossibility of
my getting rid of it, while the sunlight of my reason shall exist.

In that chamber was I born. Thus awaking, as it were, from the long
night of what seemed, but was not, nonentity at once into the very
regions of fairy land--into a palace of imagination--into the wild
dominions of monastic thought and erudition--it is not singular that I
gazed around me with a startled and ardent eye--that I loitered away
my boyhood in books, and dissipated my youth in reverie--but it _is_
singular that as years rolled away, and the noon of manhood found me
still in the mansion of my fathers--it is wonderful what stagnation
there fell upon the springs of my life--wonderful how total an
inversion took place in the character of my common thoughts. The
realities of the world affected me as visions, and as visions only,
while the wild ideas of the land of dreams became, in turn,--not the
material of my every-day existence--but in very deed that existence
utterly and solely in itself.

       *       *       *       *       *

Berenice and I were cousins, and we grew up together in my paternal
halls--Yet differently we grew. I ill of health and buried in
gloom--she agile, graceful, and overflowing with energy. Hers the
ramble on the hill side--mine the studies of the cloister. I living
within my own heart, and addicted body and soul to the most intense
and painful meditation--she roaming carelessly through life with no
thought of the shadows in her path, or the silent flight of the
raven-winged hours. Berenice!--I call upon her name--Berenice!--and
from the grey ruins of memory a thousand tumultuous recollections are
startled at the sound! Ah! vividly is her image before me now, as in
the early days of her light-heartedness and joy! Oh! gorgeous yet
fantastic beauty! Oh! Sylph amid the shrubberies of Arnheim!--Oh!
Naiad among her fountains!--and then--then all is mystery and terror,
and a tale which should not be told. Disease--a fatal disease--fell
like the Simoom upon her frame, and, even while I gazed upon her, the
spirit of change swept over her, pervading her mind, her habits, and
her character, and, in a manner the most subtle and terrible,
disturbing even the very identity of her person! Alas! the destroyer
came and went, and the victim--where was she? I knew her not--or knew
her no longer as Berenice.

Among the numerous train of maladies, superinduced by that fatal and
primary one which effected a revolution of so horrible a kind in the
moral and physical being of my cousin, may be mentioned as the most
distressing and obstinate in its nature, a species of epilepsy not
unfrequently terminating in _trance_ itself--trance very nearly
resembling positive dissolution, and from which her manner of recovery
was, in most instances, startingly abrupt. In the meantime my own
disease--for I have been told that I should call it by no other
appellation--my own disease, then, grew rapidly upon me, and,
aggravated in its symptoms by the immoderate use of opium, assumed
finally a monomaniac character of a novel and extraordinary
form--hourly and momentarily gaining vigor--and at length obtaining
over me the most singular and incomprehensible ascendancy. This
monomania--if I must so term it--consisted in a morbid irritability of
the nerves immediately affecting those properties of the mind, in
metaphysical science termed the _attentive_. It is more than probable
that I am not understood--but I fear that it is indeed in no manner
possible to convey to the mind of the merely general reader, an
adequate idea of that nervous _intensity of interest_ with which, in
my case, the powers of meditation (not to speak technically) busied,
and, as it were, buried themselves in the contemplation of even the
most common objects of the universe.

To muse for long unwearied hours with my attention rivetted to some
frivolous device upon the margin, or in the typography of a book--to
become absorbed for the better part of a summer's day in a quaint
shadow falling aslant upon the tapestry, or upon the floor--to lose
myself for an entire night in watching the steady flame of a lamp, or
the embers of a fire--to dream away whole days over the perfume of a
flower--to repeat monotonously some common word, until the sound, by
dint of frequent repetition, ceased to convey any idea whatever to the
mind--to lose all sense of motion or physical existence in a state of
absolute bodily quiescence long and obstinately persevered in--Such
were a few of the most common and least pernicious vagaries induced by
a condition of the mental faculties, not, indeed, altogether
unparalleled, but certainly bidding defiance to any thing like
analysis or explanation.

{334} Yet let me not be misapprehended. The undue, intense, and morbid
attention thus excited by objects in their own nature frivolous, must
not be confounded in character with that ruminating propensity common
to all mankind, and more especially indulged in by persons of ardent
imagination. By no means. It was not even, as might be at first
supposed, an extreme condition, or exaggeration of such propensity,
but primarily and essentially distinct and different. In the one
instance the dreamer, or enthusiast, being interested by an object
usually _not_ frivolous, imperceptibly loses sight of this object in a
wilderness of deductions and suggestions issuing therefrom, until, at
the conclusion of a day-dream _often replete with luxury_, he finds
the _incitamentum_ or first cause of his musings utterly vanished and
forgotten. In my case the primary object was _invariably frivolous_,
although assuming, through the medium of my distempered vision, a
refracted and unreal importance. Few deductions--if any--were made;
and those few pertinaciously returning in, so to speak, upon the
original object as a centre. The meditations were _never_ pleasurable;
and, at the termination of the reverie, the first cause, so far from
being out of sight, had attained that supernaturally exaggerated
interest which was the prevailing feature of the disease. In a word,
the powers of mind more particularly exercised were, with me, as I
have said before, the _attentive_, and are, with the day-dreamer, the
_speculative_.

My books, at this epoch, if they did not actually serve to irritate
the disorder, partook, it will be perceived, largely, in their
imaginative, and inconsequential nature, of the characteristic
qualities of the disorder itself. I well remember, among others, the
treatise of the noble Italian Coelius Secundus Curio "_de amplitudine
beati regni Dei_"--St. Austin's great work the "City of God"--and
Tertullian "_de Carne Christi_," in which the unintelligible sentence
"_Mortuus est Dei filius; credibile est quia ineptum est: et sepultus
resurrexit; certum est quia impossibile est_" occupied my undivided
time, for many weeks of laborious and fruitless investigation.

Thus it will appear that, shaken from its balance only by trivial
things, my reason bore resemblance to that ocean-crag spoken of by
Ptolemy Hephestion, which steadily resisting the attacks of human
violence, and the fiercer fury of the waters and the winds, trembled
only to the touch of the flower called Asphodel. And although, to a
careless thinker, it might appear a matter beyond doubt, that the
fearful alteration produced by her unhappy malady, in the _moral_
condition of Berenice, would afford me many objects for the exercise
of that intense and morbid meditation whose nature I have been at some
trouble in explaining, yet such was not by any means the case. In the
lucid intervals of my infirmity, her calamity indeed gave me pain,
and, taking deeply to heart that total wreck of her fair and gentle
life, I did not fail to ponder frequently and bitterly upon the
wonder-working means by which so strange a revolution had been so
suddenly brought to pass. But these reflections partook not of the
idiosyncrasy of my disease, and were such as would have occurred,
under similar circumstances, to the ordinary mass of mankind. True to
its own character, my disorder revelled in the less important but more
startling changes wrought in the _physical_ frame of Berenice, and in
the singular and most appalling distortion of her personal identity.

During the brightest days of her unparalleled beauty, most surely I
had never loved her. In the strange anomaly of my existence, feelings,
with me, _had never been_ of the heart, and my passions _always were_
of the mind. Through the grey of the early morning--among the
trellissed shadows of the forest at noon-day--and in the silence of my
library at night, she had flitted by my eyes, and I had seen her--not
as the living and breathing Berenice, but as the Berenice of a
dream--not as a being of the earth--earthly--but as the abstraction of
such a being--not as a thing to admire, but to analyze--not as an
object of love, but as the theme of the most abstruse although
desultory speculation. And _now_--now I shuddered in her presence, and
grew pale at her approach; yet, bitterly lamenting her fallen and
desolate condition, I knew that she had loved me long, and, in an evil
moment, I spoke to her of marriage.

And at length the period of our nuptials was approaching, when, upon
an afternoon in the winter of the year, one of those unseasonably
warm, calm, and misty days which are the nurse of the beautiful
Halcyon,[1] I sat, and sat, as I thought alone, in the inner apartment
of the library. But uplifting my eyes Berenice stood before me.

[Footnote 1: For as Jove, during the winter season, gives twice seven
days of warmth, men have called this clement and temperate time the
nurse of the beautiful Halcyon.--_Simonides_.]

Was it my own excited imagination--or the misty influence of the
atmosphere--or the uncertain twilight of the chamber--or the grey
draperies which fell around her figure--that caused it to loom up in
so unnatural a degree? I could not tell. Perhaps she had grown taller
since her malady. She spoke, however, no word, and I--not for worlds
could I have uttered a syllable. An icy chill ran through my frame; a
sense of insufferable anxiety oppressed me; a consuming curiosity
pervaded my soul; and, sinking back upon the chair, I remained for
some time breathless, and motionless, and with my eyes rivetted upon
her person. Alas! its emaciation was excessive, and not one vestige of
the former being lurked in any single line of the contour. My burning
glances at length fell upon her face.

The forehead was high, and very pale, and singularly placid; and the
once golden hair fell partially over it, and overshadowed the hollow
temples with ringlets now black as the raven's ring, and jarring
discordantly, in their fantastic character, with the reigning
melancholy of the countenance. The eyes were lifeless, and lustreless,
and I shrunk involuntarily from their glassy stare to the
contemplation of the thin and shrunken lips. They parted: and, in a
smile of peculiar meaning, the teeth of the changed Berenice disclosed
themselves slowly to my view. Would to God that I had never beheld
them, or that, having done so, I had died!

       *       *       *       *       *

The shutting of a door disturbed me, and, looking up, I found my
cousin had departed from the chamber. But from the disordered chamber
of my brain, had not, alas! departed, and would not be driven away,
the white and ghastly _spectrum_ of the teeth. Not a speck upon their
surface--not a shade on their enamel--not a line in their
configuration--not an indenture in their {335} edges--but what that
brief period of her smile had sufficed to brand in upon my memory. I
saw them _now_ even more unequivocally than I beheld them _then_. The
teeth!--the teeth!--they were here, and there, and every where, and
visibly, and palpably before me, long, narrow, and excessively white,
with the pale lips writhing about them, as in the very moment of their
first terrible development. Then came the full fury of my _monomania_,
and I struggled in vain against its strange and irresistible
influence. In the multiplied objects of the external world I had no
thoughts but for the teeth. All other matters and all different
interests became absorbed in their single contemplation. They--they
alone were present to the mental eye, and they, in their sole
individuality, became the essence of my mental life. I held them in
every light--I turned them in every attitude. I surveyed their
characteristics--I dwelt upon their peculiarities--I pondered upon
their conformation--I mused upon the alteration in their nature--and
shuddered as I assigned to them in imagination a sensitive and
sentient power, and even when unassisted by the lips, a capability of
moral expression. Of Mad'selle Sallé it has been said, "_que tous ses
pas etaient des sentiments_," and of Berenice I more seriously
believed _que tous ses dents etaient des idées_.

And the evening closed in upon me thus--and then the darkness came,
and tarried, and went--and the day again dawned--and the mists of a
second night were now gathering around--and still I sat motionless in
that solitary room, and still I sat buried in meditation, and still
the _phantasma_ of the teeth maintained its terrible ascendancy as,
with the most vivid and hideous distinctness, it floated about amid
the changing lights and shadows of the chamber. At length there broke
forcibly in upon my dreams a wild cry as of horror and dismay; and
thereunto, after a pause, succeeded the sound of troubled voices
intermingled with many low moanings of sorrow, or of pain. I arose
hurriedly from my seat, and, throwing open one of the doors of the
library, there stood out in the antechamber a servant maiden, all in
tears, and she told me that Berenice was--no more. Seized with an
epileptic fit she had fallen dead in the early morning, and now, at
the closing in of the night, the grave was ready for its tenant, and
all the preparations for the burial were completed.

With a heart full of grief, yet reluctantly, and oppressed with awe, I
made my way to the bed-chamber of the departed. The room was large,
and very dark, and at every step within its gloomy precincts I
encountered the paraphernalia of the grave. The coffin, so a menial
told me, lay surrounded by the curtains of yonder bed, and in that
coffin, he whisperingly assured me, was all that remained of Berenice.
Who was it asked me would I not look upon the corpse? I had seen the
lips of no one move, yet the question had been demanded, and the echo
of the syllables still lingered in the room. It was impossible to
refuse; and with a sense of suffocation I dragged myself to the side
of the bed. Gently I uplifted the sable draperies of the curtains.

As I let them fall they descended upon my shoulders, and shutting me
thus out from the living, enclosed me in the strictest communion with
the deceased.

The very atmosphere was redolent of death. The peculiar smell of the
coffin sickened me; and I fancied a deleterious odor was already
exhaling from the body. I would have given worlds to escape--to fly
from the pernicious influence of mortality--to breathe once again the
pure air of the eternal heavens. But I had no longer the power to
move--my knees tottered beneath me--and I remained rooted to the spot,
and gazing upon the frightful length of the rigid body as it lay
outstretched in the dark coffin without a lid.

God of heaven!--is it possible? Is it my brain that reels--or was it
indeed the finger of the enshrouded dead that stirred in the white
cerement that bound it? Frozen with unutterable awe I slowly raised my
eyes to the countenance of the corpse. There had been a band around
the jaws, but, I know not how, it was broken asunder. The livid lips
were wreathed into a species of smile, and, through the enveloping
gloom, once again there glared upon me in too palpable reality, the
white and glistening, and ghastly teeth of Berenice. I sprang
convulsively from the bed, and, uttering no word, rushed forth a
maniac from that apartment of triple horror, and mystery, and death.

       *       *       *       *       *

I found myself again sitting in the library, and again sitting there
alone. It seemed that I had newly awakened from a confused and
exciting dream. I knew that it was now midnight, and I was well aware
that since the setting of the sun Berenice had been interred. But of
that dreary period which had intervened I had no positive, at least no
definite comprehension. Yet its memory was rife with horror--horror
more horrible from being vague, and terror more terrible from
ambiguity. It was a fearful page in the record of my existence,
written all over with dim, and hideous, and unintelligible
recollections. I strived to decypher them, but in vain--while ever and
anon, like the spirit of a departed sound, the shrill and piercing
shriek of a female voice seemed to be ringing in my ears. I had done a
deed--what was it? And the echoes of the chamber answered me "what was
it?"

On the table beside me burned a lamp, and near it lay a little box of
ebony. It was a box of no remarkable character, and I had seen it
frequently before, it being the property of the family physician; but
how came it _there_ upon my table, and why did I shudder in regarding
it? These were things in no manner to be accounted for, and my eyes at
length dropped to the open pages of a book, and to a sentence
underscored therein. The words were the singular, but simple words of
the poet Ebn Zaiat. "_Dicebant mihi sodales si sepulchrum amicæ
visitarem curas meas aliquantulum fore levatas._"[2] Why then, as I
perused them, did the hairs of my head erect themselves on end, and
the blood of my body congeal within my veins?

[Footnote 2: My companions told me I might find some little
alleviation of my misery, in visiting the grave of my beloved.]

There came a light tap at the library door, and, pale as the tenant of
a tomb, a menial entered upon tiptoe. His looks were wild with terror,
and he spoke to me in a voice tremulous, husky, and very low. What
said he?--some broken sentences I heard. He told of a wild cry heard
in the silence of the night--of the gathering together of the
household--of a search in the direction of the sound--and then his
tones grew thrillingly distinct as he whispered me of a violated {336}
grave--of a disfigured body discovered upon its margin--a body
enshrouded, yet still breathing, still palpitating, still alive!

He pointed to my garments--they were muddy and clotted with gore. I
spoke not, and he took me gently by the hand--but it was indented with
the impress of human nails. He directed my attention to some object
against the wall--I looked at it for some minutes--it was a spade.
With a shriek I bounded to the table, and grasped the ebony box that
lay upon it. But I could not force it open, and in my tremor it
slipped from out my hands, and fell heavily, and burst into pieces,
and from it, with a rattling sound, there rolled out some instruments
of dental surgery, intermingled with many white and glistening
substances that were scattered to and fro about the floor.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXTRACT

From the Reminiscences of a Western Traveller.


"I presume," said I, "that having so long resided in Kentucky, you
must have had some acquaintance with Indian warfare."

"I had no occasion," he replied, "to come to Kentucky to learn that. I
may say, that I have had something to do with it all my life, and it
had to do with me before I was born."

The speaker was a tall, handsome man, uncommonly stout, with an
appearance of great strength, perfect health, and a quiet good humor,
which disposed him to be communicative, merely by way of obliging.
Though by no means garrulous, I had discovered that he was ready to
tell whatever another might be desirous of hearing. He spoke with that
strong accent, and deliberate tone, which characterize the Scotch
Irish race, and which always, to my ear, conveys a promise that what
is said will be said distinctly and clearly.

Here then was the very man I wanted. I had left the peaceful scenes of
the Atlantic coast, expecting, not indeed to "roam through anters vast
and deserts wild," in my western tour, (for my maps and gazetteer had
taught me better,) but to find some traces of the scenes, which but a
few years before, had made it dangerous for a white man to set his
foot where we now rode along securely. My eye had eagerly scanned
every object which afforded promise of food to my young and eager
imagination; but as yet I had found none. The soft beauty and
exuberant fertility of the country, need only the touch of
civilization to take from it every appearance of wildness, and I could
hardly bring myself to believe that it had been so lately the haunt of
the prowling savage. My enthusiasm was consequently much damped; but
it was not extinguished, and these last words of my companion blew it
into a flame. A well directed question soon drew him out.

"I was born," said he, "among the mountains of Virginia. I never saw
my father. He was killed at the battle of Point Pleasant, just before
I came into the world. That is the reason why I said that Indian
fighting had to do with me before I was born. But that was not all;
many years before that, the Indians made a break on our settlement,
and carried off my oldest brother, and kept him."

"Did you never see him again?"

"I suppose I have, but I did not know it at the time." As he said
this, a gloom came over his countenance, which checked my
inquisitiveness, and he rode on, perhaps a mile, in moody silence. At
length his brow cleared, and he again spoke, but in a somewhat
saddened tone.

"It is something strange; I am not superstitious, and yet it seems to
me, as if at times, when people are in great distress of mind, they
are apt to say things that turn out almost like a prophecy. It was a
great grief to my mother, the loss of her child, and the longer she
lived the more she mourned after him. He was quite small when they
took him; and they carried him away over the lakes, so far, that they
never heard where he was, until he was almost grown up, a perfect wild
man. My mother was a religious woman; and the thought of his being
brought up among savages, where the word of God could never reach him,
went to her heart. She said, it was always borne upon her mind that he
was not dead, and that he would grow up among those vile wretches, to
be the death of his own father, and perhaps to die at last by the hand
of one of his own brothers. When they raised a party to follow the
Indians, she _would_ go with them, and all the way, she said, she
looked and looked, in hopes to see where they had dashed out her poor
child's brains against a tree. It was the only comfort she hoped for,
and that was denied her.

"As I told you, they never heard of him till he was near or quite a
man; and that was just before Dunmore's war. There was no chance to do
any thing towards getting him home at that time, for it was dangerous
to go near the Ohio. Indeed, all they knew was, that there was a white
man of about his age among the Indians, who answered to his name. It
was not until after the peace that we knew certainly all about him.

"Well! he was at the battle of the Point, fighting among the
Shawanees; and there my father was killed. When my mother heard that
he had been there, you may be sure her own words came back to her. No
body knew who killed my father. But why not he as well as another?
Flesh and blood could not have made her believe that it was not he.

"Just after that I was born, and then again my mother took it into her
head that I had come into the world to revenge my father's death.
There was no great comfort in that thought, you may be sure; so as
soon as the war was over, they tried all they could to get my brother
back. He was {337} told that my father was dead, and had left a good
estate; and that he was the heir at law; (for you know that my father
died under the old law,) but it all would not do. He was a complete
Indian, and had an Indian wife and children that he would not leave.
But he had kind feelings for us all, and sent us word to take the
estate; for he wanted nothing but his rifle.

"Well! my mother died; and I and a brother a little older than me,
sold out and went to Kentucky. Where we settled was a dangerous
frontier near the Ohio, and the Indians once or twice every year,
would come over and strike at us. Then we would raise a party, and
follow them away almost to the lakes; and after we got strong enough,
we commonly kept a smart company ranging about on that side of the
river. Sometimes we volunteered; sometimes we were drafted; sometimes
one went; sometimes another. One year my brother went, and had a fight
with the Indians. Afterwards we heard that our wild brother was in
that fight, and was badly wounded. The next year I went out, and we
had a fight, and my poor brother was there again, and _he was
killed_."

He ceased speaking, and again sunk into a gloomy silence, which none
of us were disposed to interrupt. At length he said, in a softened
voice, "Thank God! I was spared one thing. I never think of it, that
it does not make the cold chills run over me. It was the night before
the battle. We had been following hard upon the trail all day, and
just before night we came up with them. But we did not let them see
us, and lay back till they had camped for the night. We knew we could
find them in the dark by their fires. Sure enough we soon saw the
light, and crawled towards it. The word was to attack at day light. In
the meantime every man was to keep his eye skinned, and his gun in his
hand, and not to fire on any account till the word was given. But in
this sort of business every man fights, more or less, on his own hook;
and if a fellow only kills an Indian, they never blame him. There they
were, all dead asleep, around their fire; and we standing looking at
them, almost near enough to hear them snore. You may be sure we did
not breathe loud. Well! while I was standing off on one flank,
watching them with all my eyes, up gets one, and stands right between
me and the light. Up came my rifle to my face. It was against orders,
but I never had shot at an Indian, and how could I stand it? My hand
was on the trigger, when the figure turned, and I saw the breasts of a
woman. You may be sure I did not shoot. It was my brother's daughter,
as I afterwards learned."

This story required no comment. It admitted of none. The ideas it
suggested was such as reason could neither condemn nor justify. We
could only muse on it in silence. At length, the other stranger, who,
like myself, had listened attentively, said, "I too was once within an
ace of shooting a woman."

I started at this, and turned to reconsider the speaker. I had already
scrutinized him pretty closely, and had formed a judgment concerning
him, which these words quite unsettled. The idea that he had been
familiar with scenes, where every man must make his hand guard his
head, had never entered my mind. He was indeed formidably armed,
carrying a brace of pistols in his belt, and another in his holsters.
The handle of a dirk peeped through the ruffle of his shirt, and a
rifle on his shoulder completed his armament. I had been of course
struck with an equipment so warlike, but attributed it to excess of
caution. The mildness and elegance of his manners had fixed him in my
mind, as one bred up in the scenes of peaceful and polished life,
where, in youth, he had heard so much of the perils of the country he
was now traversing, as to suppose it unsafe to visit it without this
load of weapons. I certainly had never seen a man of more courteous
and gentlemanlike demeanor; and though his countenance gave no token
of one "acquainted with cold fear," I had nevertheless, emphatically
marked him as a man of peace. He was the oldest man in company, but
deferential to all, accommodating, obliging, and, on all occasions,
modestly postponing himself, even to such a boy as I was. He seemed
now to have spoken from a wish to divert the painful thoughts of our
companion, and, in answer to an inquiring look from me, went on with
his story.

"It was nearly thirty years ago," said he, "I was travelling from
Virginia through the wilderness of Kentucky, then much infested by
Indians. I had one companion, an active, spirited young man, and we
were both well mounted and well armed. Vigilance alone was necessary
to our safety, and as we had both served a regular apprenticeship to
Indian warfare, we were not deficient in that. We soon overtook a
company of moving families, who had united for safety. The convenience
of the axes of the men, in making fires, and of the women in cooking,
determined us to join them. We camped together every night; and as we
derived great advantage from the association, we tried to requite it
by our activity and diligence as scouts and flankers. We commonly rode
some distance ahead, so as to give them time to prepare in case of
attack; depending on our own diligence and skill to guard against
surprise.

"Riding thus one day, a mile or two in advance, we were suddenly
startled by an outcry from behind, which was not to be mistaken. We
immediately drew up, and presently saw our party hurrying towards us,
in great confusion and alarm, whipping up their teams, and only
stopping long enough to say that they were pursued. The rear was
therefore now our post, and, waiting till they {338} had all passed,
we dismounted,--hid our horses, took trees, and awaited the enemy. I
did not wait long, until I saw the head and shoulders of a figure
above the undergrowth, rushing at full speed towards me. My rifle was
at my cheek, and a steady aim at the advancing figure made me sure of
my mark, when an opening in the brushwood showed me the dress of a
female. She was the wife of one of the wretches who had just passed
us, completely spent and sinking with fatigue. Had there been Indians
she must have perished. As it was, her appearance showed the alarm to
be false; so I took her up behind me, and we went quietly on, in
pursuit of her dastard husband, to whose _protection_ I restored her."

In speaking these last words, the face of the speaker underwent, for a
moment, a change, which told more than his story. The tone of scornful
irony too, which accompanied the word _protection_, gave a new face to
his character. As I marked the slight flush of his pale and somewhat
withered cheek, the flash of his light blue eye, the curl of his lip,
and a peculiar clashing of his eye-teeth as he spoke; I thought I had
rarely seen a man, with whom it might not be as safe to trifle.

The day was now far spent; and as the sun descended, we had the
satisfaction to observe that he sank behind a grove, that marked the
course of a small branch of the Wabash, on the bank of which stood the
house where we expected to find food and rest.

None but a western traveller can understand the entire satisfaction
with which the daintiest child of luxury learns to look forward to the
rude bed and homely fare, which await him, at the end of a hard day's
ride, in the infant settlements. There is commonly a cabin of rough
unhewn logs, containing one large room, where all the culinary
operations of the family are performed, at the huge chimney around
which the guests are ranged. The fastidious, who never wait to be
hungry, may turn up their noses at the thought of being, for an hour
before hand, regaled with the steam of their future meal. But to the
weary and sharp set, there is something highly refreshing to the
spirits and stimulating to the appetite. The dutch oven, well filled
with biscuit, is no sooner discharged of them, than their place is
occupied by sundry slices of bacon, which are immediately followed by
eggs, broken into the hissing lard. In the mean time, a pot of strong
coffee is boiling on a corner of the hearth; the table is covered with
a coarse clean cloth; the butter and cream and honey are on it; and
supper is ready.

  "Then horn for horn they stretch and strive."

It makes me hungry now to think of it; and I am tempted to take back
my word and eat something, having just told my wife I wanted no
supper. But it will not do. I have not rode fifty miles to-day, and my
table is so trim and my room so snug that I have no appetite.

But it is only in the first stage of a settlement, that these things
are found. By and by, mine host, having opened a larger farm, builds
him a house, of frame-work or brick, the masonry and carpentry of
which show the rude handy-work of himself and his sons. He now employs
several hands, and the leavings of their dinner will do for the supper
of any chance travellers in the evening. A round deep earthen dish, in
which a bit of fat pork or lean salt beef, crowns a small mound of
cold greens or turnips, with loaf bread baked a month ago, and a tin
can of skimmed milk now form the travellers supper. It is vain to
expostulate. Our host has no fear of competition. He has now located
the whole point of wood land crossed by the road, and no one can come
nearer to him, on either hand, than ten miles. Besides, he is now the
"squire" of the neighborhood, with "eyes severe," and "fair round
belly with _fat bacon_ lined;" and why should not the daily food of a
man of his consequence be good enough for a hungry traveller?

It was to a house of this latter description that we now came. No one
came out to receive us. Why should they? We took off our own baggage,
and found our way into the house as we might.

On entering, I was struck with the appearance of the party, as their
figures glimmered through the mingled lights of a dull window and a
dim fire. Each individual, though seated, (and no man moved or bad us
welcome) wore his hat, of shadowy dimensions; a sort of family
resemblance, both in cut and color, ran through the dresses of all;
and a like resemblance in complexion and cast of countenance marked
all but one. This one, as we afterwards found, was the master of the
mansion, a man of massive frame, and fat withal, but whose full
cheeks, instead of the ruddy glow of health, were overcast with an
ashy, dusky, money-loving hue. In the appearance of all the rest there
was something ascetic and mortified. But landlord and guest wore all
one common expression of ostentatious humility and ill-disguised
self-complacency, which so often characterizes those new sects, that
think they have just made some important discoveries in religion. Mine
host was, as it proved, the Gaius of such a church, and his guests
were preachers of the same denomination. I have forgotten the name;
but they were not Quakers. I have been since reminded of them, on
reading the description of the company Julian Peveril found at
Bridgnorth's.

When we entered, our landlord was talking in a dull, plodding strain,
and in a sort of solemn protecting tone, to his respectfully attentive
guests. Our appearance made no interruption in his discourse; and he
went on, addressing himself mainly to a raw looking youth, whose
wrists and {339} ankles seemed to have grown out of his sleeves and
pantaloons since they were made. Where the light, which this young man
was now thought worthy to diffuse, had broken in upon his own mind, I
did not learn, but I presently discovered that he came from "a little
east of sunrise," and had a curiosity as lively as my own, concerning
the legends of the country.

"I guess brother P----," said he, "you have been so long in these
parts, that it must have been right scary times when you first came
here."

"Well! I cannot say," replied the other, "that there has been much
danger in this country, since I came here. But if there was, it was
nothing new to me. I was used to all that in Old Kentuck, thirty years
ago."

"I should like," said the youth, "to hear something of your early
adventures. I marvel that we should find any satisfaction in turning
from the contemplation of God's peace, to listen to tales of blood and
slaughter. But so it is. The old Adam will have a hankering after the
things of this world."

"Well!" replied our host, "I have nothing very particular to tell. The
scalping of three Indians, is all I have to brag of. And as to danger;
except having the bark knocked off of my tree into my eyes, by a
bullet, I do not know that I was ever in any mighty danger, but once."

"And when was that?"

"Well! It was when we were moving out along the wilderness road. You
see it was mighty ticklish times; so a dozen families of us started
together, and we had regular guards, and scouts, and flankers, just
like an army. The second day after we left Cumberland river, a couple
of young fellows joined us, one by the name of Jones, and I do not
remember the other's name. I suppose they had been living somewhere in
Old Virginia, where they had plenty of slaves to wait on them; and it
went hard with them to make their own fires, and cook their own
victuals; so they were glad enough to fall in with us, and have us and
our women to work and cook for them. But a man was a cash article
there; and they both had fine horses and good guns; and, to hear them
talk, (especially that fellow Jones,) you would have thought, two or
three Indians before breakfast, would not have been a mouthful to
them. We did not think much of them, but we told them, if they would
take their turn in scouting and guarding, they were welcome to join
us."

At this moment, our landlady, who was busy in a sort of shed, which
adjoined the room we sat in, and served as a kitchen, entered, and
stopping for a moment, heard what was passing. She was a good-looking
woman, of about forty-five, with a meek subdued and broken hearted
cast of countenance. I saw her look at her husband, and as she
listened, her face assumed an expression of timid expostulation, mixed
with that sort of wonderment, with which we regard a thing utterly
unaccountable, but which use has rendered familiar.

Her lord and master caught the look, and bending his shaggy brow,
said, "I guess the men will want their supper, by the time they get
it."

She understood the hint, and stole away rebuked; uttering
unconsciously, in a loud sigh, the long hoarded breath which she had
held all the time she listened. Her manner was not intended to attract
notice; but there was something in it, which disposed me to receive
her husband's tale with some grains of allowance. He went on thus:

"The day we expected to get to the crab-orchard, it was their turn to
bring up the rear. By good rights, they ought to have been a quarter
of a mile or so behind us; and I suppose they were; when, all of a
sudden, we heard the crack of a rifle, and here they come, right
through us, and away they went. I looked round for my woman and I
could not see her. The poor creature was a little behind, and thought
there was no danger, because we all depended on them two fire eaters
in the rear, to take care of stragglers. But when they ran off, you
see, there was nobody between her and the Indians; and the first thing
I saw, was her, running for dear life, and they after her. I set my
triggers, and fixed myself to stop one of them; and just then, her
foot caught in a grape vine, and down she came. I let drive at the
foremost, and dropped him; but the other one ran right on. My gun was
empty; and I had no chance but to put in, and try the butt of it. But
I was not quite fast enough. He was upon her, and had his hand in her
hair; and it was a mercy of God, he did not tomahawk her at once. He
had plenty of time for that;--but he was too keen after the scalp;
and, just as he was getting hold of his knife, I fetched him a clip
that settled him. Just then, I heard a crack or two, and a ball
whistled mighty near me; but, by this time, some of our party had
rallied, and took trees; and that brought the Indians to a stand. So I
put my wife behind a tree, and got one more crack at them; and then
they broke and run. That was the only time I ever thought myself in
any _real_ danger, and that was all along of that Jones and the other
fellow. But they made tracks for the settlement."

"Have you never seen Jones since?" said the mild voice of the
courteous gentleman I have mentioned.

"No; I never have; and it's well for him; though, bless the Lord! I
hope I could find in my heart _now_ to forgive him. But if I had ever
come across him, before I met with you, brother B----;" (addressing a
grave senior of the party who received the compliment with
impenetrable gravity;) "I guess it would not have been so well for
him."

"Do you think you would know him again, if you were to see him?" said
my companion.

{340} "It's a long time ago," said he, "but I think I should. He was a
mighty fierce little fellow, and had a monstrous blustering way of
talking."

"Was he any thing like me?" said the stranger, in a low but hissing
tone.

The man started, and so did we all, and gazed on the querist. In my
life, I never saw such a change in any human face. The pale cheek was
flushed, the calm eye glowed with intolerable fierceness, and every
feature worked with loathing. But he commanded his voice, though the
curl of his lip disclosed the full length of one eye tooth, and he
again said, "look at me. Am not I the man?"

"I do not know that you are," replied the other doggedly, and trying
in vain to lift his eye to that which glared upon him. "I do not know
that you are?" muttered he.

"Where is he? where is he," screamed a female voice; "let _me_ see
him. _I'll_ know him, bless his heart! _I'll_ know him any where in
the world."

Saying this, our landlady rushed into the circle, and stood among us,
while we all rose to our feet. She looked eagerly around. Her eye
rested a moment on the stranger's face; and in the next instant her
arms were about his neck, and her head on his bosom, where she shed a
torrent of tears.

I need not add, that the subject of the Landlord's tale, was the very
incident which my companion had related on the road. He soon made his
escape, cowed and chop-fallen; and the poor woman bustled about, to
give us the best the house afforded, occasionally wiping her eyes, or
stopping for a moment to gaze mutely and sadly on the generous
stranger, who had protected her when deserted by him who lay in her
bosom.

The grave brethren looked, as became them, quite scandalized, at this
strange scene. It was therefore promptly explained to them; but the
explanation dissipated nothing of the gloom of their countenances.
Their manner to the poor woman was still cold and displeased, and they
seemed to forget her husband's fault, in their horror at having seen
her throw herself into the arms of a stranger. For my part, I thought
the case of the good Samaritan in point, and could not help believing,
that he who had decided that, would pronounce that her grateful
affection had been bestowed where it was due.




We are permitted by RICHARD RANDOLPH, ESQ. to publish the following
extract, from a Journal kept by his father, the late _David Meade
Randolph_, when a Student at _William & Mary College_ in 1779 under
the patronage of PROFESSOR ANDREWS. It is a curious anecdote and will
be read with interest.

WASHINGTON'S BIRTH NIGHT.


On the 22d February, 1779, the students of William & Mary College, and
most of the respectable inhabitants of Williamsburg, prepared a
subscription paper for celebrating Washington's birth night; and the
pleasure of presenting it, was confided to _certain students_
immediately under the patronage of Professor Andrews.

Governor Henry was first waited on, and offered the paper: he refused
his signature! "_He_ could not think of any kind of rejoicing at a
time when our country was engaged in war, with such gloomy prospects."
Dudley Digges, and Bolling Starke, members of the Council, were both
waited on by the same persons, and received less courteous denials,
and similar excuses.

The ball, nevertheless, was given at the Raleigh. Colonel Innis, more
prominent than any other member of the association, directed its
proceedings. It was thought proper to enliven the occasion by
discharges of cannon. There were two pieces at the shop of Mr. Moody
that had lately been mounted. There was a Captain commanding a company
of soldiers, under the orders of Governor Henry; but the cannon were
under no other care or authority at the time, than that of Mr. Moody
the mechanic. Colonel Innis, with a party seconded by Colonel Finnie,
brought the two pieces before the door of the Raleigh. On the way from
the shop to the Raleigh, not two hundred yards, Colonel Innis saw
Captain Digges passing up the street. Whilst the party concerned were
collecting powder, and preparing for firing. Lieutenant Vaughan
appeared before the Raleigh with a platoon, demanding possession of
the cannon. He was carried in; took some punch; and said that he was
ordered by Captain Digges to take away the pieces, by force, if they
were not surrendered peaceably. This was refused. Vaughan repeated his
orders: He was prevailed upon to return to his quarters, and report to
Capt. Digges. Captain Digges waited on the Governor, and reported the
state of things; and soliciting instructions how to proceed. The
Governor referred Captain Digges to his own judgment. Captain Digges
went immediately to the _Arena_, where, in the pride of his power,
with sixty men, he drew up in form; and demanded the cannon at the
point of his bayonets! Innis stept up to Captain Digges, and shaking
his cane at him, swore that he would _cane him_, if he did not depart
instantly with his men! This enraging Digges,--he said that if the
pieces were not surrendered, he _would fire upon the party_. Innis
_repeating_ his _threat_,--ordered Finnie to charge the cannon with
_brick bats_: the mob in the street, and the gentlemen of the ball,
re-echoing the order. The pieces were soon charged with brick bats:
Innis all the while firmly standing by the Captain at the head of his
men, _daring him to fire!_ After some delay, the Captain retreated
with his men; and the evening closed with great joy.

Next day, Innis was arraigned before the Hustings Court, for Riot!
confronted by the valiant Captain Digges. During the proceedings, when
Innis replied to the charge, Digges in the body of the Court, and
Innis in the Bar--among other particulars characteristic of the
Colonel's temper and genius, he swore "it made no odds whether Captain
Digges wore a red coat, or a black coat, he would _cane him!_" The
case was attended with no farther particulars. Innis facing the Court,
and repeating his threats; till at length he was dismissed, and
triumphantly walked out of Court, attended by most of his friends, who
had shared the honors of the preceding night.


{341}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

FROM THE DIARY OF A REVOLUTIONARY OFFICER.

MR. WHITE,--I embrace the opportunity afforded, by the transmission of
my subscription for the "_Messenger_," to furnish you with a small
contribution to the pages of that excellent periodical. Neither
leisure nor ability, at present, allows me to present any original
composition; but I feel confident that nothing I have to offer, could
be more interesting and acceptable to your readers, than the following
extract from the "_Manuscript Diary of a Revolutionary Officer_" which
has recently been placed in my hands. It is expected that the whole
will be transcribed in a _fac simile_ as to style, and so on, and
presented to the Historical Society at an early period.

The writer was, I believe, a lieutenant in the Southern army. He was a
native and resident of Powhatan county, Virginia, where his
descendants still reside. He was a captain at the taking of
Charleston, South Carolina, and composed the Diary referred to, while
confined by the British as a prisoner of war. The Diary commences with
a statement of the events which led to the surrender of the American
army, and exhibits at length the official correspondence of General
Lincoln and Sir Henry Clinton on the occasion.

We may admire the devotion and bravery of our forefathers, recount in
terms of poetical exaggeration their heroic achievements, and dwell
with fond recollection on their memories, but we can never form an
accurate idea of their feelings, any correct conception of their
sufferings, or properly estimate our debt of gratitude, until we can
enter more fully into the _minutiæ_ of those events which general
history relates. So long therefore, as it is praiseworthy (and long
may it be so,) to set before our eyes the examples and characters of
revolutionary patriots, will it be interesting to examine such records
as the following.

Yours, truly.

*** ***

_Union Seminary, Pr. Ed. Va. 1835_.


SURRENDER OF CHARLESTON.

[The correspondence and articles of capitulation are omitted.]


MAY 12th, 1780. One company of British and one company of Hessian
grenadiers marched in and took possession of the town work. At one
o'clock our garrison were paraded, and at two were marched out with
their drums beating, but we were not allowed to beat a British
march.... after which two regiments of British grenadiers and light
infantry marched in town. The commissary of prisoners, Major Stewart
of the sixty-third regiment, came and got a list of the officers' and
soldiers' names. He then asked for our second line. We told him that
every soldier of our garrison fit for duty, he then saw paraded in
that line. He said "that it was impossible for such a small army to
defend the town and themselves, from ten thousand British troops: you
certainly have more than these." Our answer was, we have not.--Thus an
army of not more than _three thousand troops_, composed of regular
soldiers, militia, sailors and marines, defended our post thirty-one
days, closely besieged _by ten thousand_ British soldiers. The _want
of provisions_ and proper rest, at last obliged us to fall into the
hands of our enemies. Our soldiers were marched into the barrack's
yard, where was a British guard waiting to receive them. The men were
permitted to go out, as many as would ask leave. The officers had
leave to go to their old quarters that evening; accordingly I went to
my bomb proof, and pulled off my clothes. This was the first night for
the space of fifty-five days past, I pulled off my clothes to go in
bed. I went to bed, but could not rest for reflecting on my present
condition of life.[1]

[Footnote 1: As we do not value our forefathers of the revolution for
their literature end refinement, I transcribe the Diary as I find it,
making only those corrections as to punctuation, which are necessary
to perspicuity.]

13th. We removed to a house in town, and are allowed to walk the
streets. We are much in want of provisions; almost in a starving
condition.

15th. We are yet continued in our quarters without one morsel _of
provision allowed us_ since we capitulated. This afternoon we were in
some measure relieved from hunger, by means of a poor sheep a Hessian
was driving by our quarters, that ran round the house and went in our
cellar, and was immediately concealed by some of our waiters. The
Hessian hunted some time for his poor sheep but could not find it, and
we soon made some good hot soup [from the poor sheep].

16th. I was invited to breakfast with Mr. Elliot in town.

17th. [Parole to Haddrel's Point.] "I do hereby acknowledge myself to
be a prisoner of war upon my parole to his Excellency Sir Henry
Clinton, and that I am hereby engaged, until I shall be exchanged or
otherwise released therefrom, to remain at the barracks at Haddrel's
Point, or within six miles thereof, without crossing any river, creek,
or arm of the sea. And that in the mean time, I shall not do, or cause
any thing to be done prejudicial to the success of his Majesty's arms,
or have intercourse with his enemies; and that upon a summons from His
Excellency, or other person having authority, I shall surrender myself
to them, at such time and place as I shall hereafter be required.
Witness my hand."

18th. We have continued here four days without receiving any supply of
provision, except what we caught from the water.

JUNE 22d. A flag arrived from North Carolina, for permission to send
supplies to their troops in captivity, which was granted.

{342}

CELEBRATION OF JULY 4, 1780.

[With all their discouragements, these unfortunate men were not too
much depressed to celebrate this day. I do not recollect to have seen
any notice of its celebration at a period earlier than this. It is
interesting to see how it was regarded by those who suffered in the
cause it commemorates.]

JULY 4th. This day was appointed for a general meeting of the officers
at Haddrel's Point, to celebrate the Independency of the Thirteen
United States of America. The following TOASTS were drank on the
occasion:

  1st. The Free and Sovereign Independent States of America.

  2d.  The Honorable the Continental Congress.

  3d.  His Most Christian Majesty the King of France.

  4th. His Most Catholic Majesty the King of Spain.

  5th. May impartial justice guide the other powers of Europe.

  6th. Stability and firmness to the Alliance between France and
       America.

  7th. Gen. Washington and the American Army.

  8th. The American Navy.

  9th. The American Ministry at Foreign Courts.

  10th. _May the States of America be always found a sure refuge and
        an asylum against despotism and oppression._

  11th. May the sword never be drawn but in the cause of justice.

  12th. The immortal memory of those patriots and warriors who have
        fallen in the present war, in defence of the rights of
        mankind.

  13th. Our brethren in captivity, suffering in the glorious cause of
        liberty.

From each toast there followed a discharge of _thirteen pistols_ and
three cheers. That night the barracks were illuminated.

July 5th. The enemy was much exasperated from our yesterday's
transactions. Capt. Roberts of the sixty-third regiment, who commanded
at Fort Arbuthnot, wrote to General Patterson, who commanded in
Charleston, informing him "the rebel officers on Haddrel's Point could
not be satisfied with celebrating _their supposed day_ of independency
by illuminating the barracks, but must fire small arms," which he
thought too great "an indulgence for rebel prisoners," and that we had
been guilty of a breach of our paroles.

6th. General Patterson wrote to General Moultrie and enclosed Captain
Roberts' letter, ordering a return of the names of the officers who
were at the head of the affair on the 4th instant. Likewise ordering
every pistol in our possession to be sent to Fort Arbuthnot. [After
considerable difficulty, it appears the pistols were given up, but no
names accompanied them. The prisoners were threatened with close
confinement for such behaviour in future. How differently are we
situated!]




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

_Copy of a Manuscript written but not published at the period of the
Missouri Question, 1821_.

JONATHAN BULL AND MARY BULL.


Jonathan Bull and Mary Bull who were descendants of Old John Bull, the
head of the family, had inherited contiguous estates in large tracts
of land. As they grew up and became well acquainted, a partiality was
mutually felt, and advances on several occasions made towards a
matrimonial connection. This was particularly recommended by the
advantage of putting their two estates under a common superintendance.
Old Bull however as guardian of both, and having been allowed certain
valuable privileges within the estates, with which he was not long
content, had always found the means of breaking off the match, which
he regarded as a fatal obstacle to his secret design of getting the
whole property into his own hands.

At a moment favorable as he thought for the attempt, he brought suit
against both, but with a view of carrying it on in a way that would
make the process bear on the parties in such different modes, times
and degrees, as might create a jealousy and discord between them.
Jonathan and Mary had too much sagacity to be duped. They understood
well Old Bull's character and situation. They knew that he was deeply
versed in all the subtleties of the law, that he was of a stubborn and
persevering temper, and that he had moreover a very long purse. They
were sensible therefore that the more he endeavored to divide their
interests, and their defence of the suit, the more they ought to make
a common cause, and proceed in a concert of measures. As this could
best be done by giving effect to the feelings long entertained for
each other, an intermarriage was determined on and solemnized, with a
deed of settlement as usual in such opulent matches, duly executed;
and no event certainly of the sort was ever celebrated by a greater
fervor or variety of rejoicings among the respective tenants of the
parties. They had a great horror of falling into the hands of Old
Bull; and regarded the marriage of their proprietors under whom they
held their freeholds, as the surest mode of warding off the danger.
They were not disappointed. United purses, and good advocates
compelled Old Bull, after a hard struggle, to withdraw the suit, and
relinquish forever, not only the new pretensions he had set up, but
the old privileges he had been allowed.

The marriage of Jonathan and Mary was not a barren one. On the
contrary every year or two added a new member to the family; and on
such occasions the practice was to set off a portion of land
sufficient for a good farm to be put under the authority of the child
on its attaining the age of manhood; and these lands were settled very
rapidly by tenants going as the case might be from the {343} estates,
sometimes of Jonathan, sometimes of Mary, and sometimes partly from
one and partly from the other.

It happened that at the expiration of the nonage of the 10th or 11th
fruit of the marriage, some difficulties were started concerning the
rules and conditions, of declaring the young party of age, and of
giving him as a member of the family, the management of his patrimony.
Jonathan became possessed with a notion that an arrangement ought to
be made that would prevent the new farm from being settled and
cultivated, as in all the latter instances, indiscriminately by
persons removing from his and Mary's estate, and confine this
privilege to those going from his own; and in the perverse humor which
had seized him, he listened moreover to suggestions that Mary had some
undue advantage from the selections of the head stewards which
happened to have been made much oftener out of her tenants than his.

Now the prejudice suddenly taken up by Jonathan against the equal
right of Mary's tenants to remove with their property to new farms,
was connected with a peculiarity in Mary's person not as yet noticed.
Strange as it may appear, the circumstance is not the less true, that
Mary when a child, had unfortunately received from a certain African
dye, a stain on her left arm which had made it perfectly black, and
withal somewhat weaker than the other arm. The misfortune arose from
her being prevailed on to let a ship from Africa, loaded with the
article, enter a river running through her estate, and dispose of a
part of the noxious cargo. The fact was well known to Jonathan at the
time of their marriage; and if felt as an objection, it was in a
manner reduced to nothing by the comely form and pleasing features of
Mary in every other respect; by her good sense and amiable manners;
and in part perhaps by the large and valuable estate she brought with
her.

In the unlucky fit however which was upon him, he looked at the black
arm, and forgot all the rest. To such a pitch of feeling was he
wrought up, that he broke out into the grossest taunts on Mary for her
misfortune; not omitting at the same time to remind her of his long
forbearance, to exert his superior voice in the appointment of the
head steward. He had now, he said, got his eyes fully opened, he saw
every thing in a new light, and was resolved to act accordingly. As to
the head steward, he would let her see that the appointment was
virtually in his power; and she might take her leave of all chance of
ever having another of her tenants advance to that station. And as to
the black arm, she should, if the color could not be taken out, either
tear off the skin from the flesh, or cut off the limb: For it was his
fixed determination, that one or the other should be done, or he would
sue out a divorce, and there should be an end of all connection
between them and their estates. I have, he said, examined well the
marriage settlement, and flaws have been pointed out to me, that never
occurred before, by which I shall be able to set the whole aside.
White as I am all over, I can no longer consort with one marked with
such a deformity as the blot on your person.

Mary was so stunned with the language she heard that it was sometime
before she could speak at all; and as the surprise abated, she was
almost choked with the anger and indignation swelling in her bosom.
Generous and placable as her temper was, she had a proud sensibility
to what she thought an unjust and degrading treatment, which did not
permit her to suppress the violence of her first emotions. Her
language accordingly for a moment was such as these emotions prompted.
But her good sense, and her regard for Jonathan, whose qualities as a
good husband she had long experienced, soon gained an ascendancy, and
changed her tone to that of sober reasoning and affectionate
expostulation. Well, my dear husband, you see what a passion you had
put me into. But it is over now, and I will endeavor to express my
thoughts with the calmness and good feelings which become the relation
of wife and husband.

As to the case of providing for our child just coming of age, I shall
say but little. We both have such a tender regard for him and such a
desire to see him on a level with his brethren as to the chance of
making his fortune in the world, that I am sure the difficulties which
have occurred will in some way or other be got over.

But I cannot pass so lightly over the reproaches you cast on the color
of my left arm; and on the more frequent appointment of my tenants
than of yours, to the head stewardship of our joint estates.

Now as to the first point; you seem to have forgotten, my worthy
partner, that this infirmity was fully known to you before our
marriage, and is proved to be so by the deed of settlement itself. At
that time you made no objection whatever to our union; and indeed how
could you urge such an objection, when you were conscious that you
yourself was not entirely free from a like stain on your person. The
fatal African dye, as you well know, had found its way into your abode
as well as mine; and at the time of our marriage, had spots and specks
scattered over your body as black as the skin on my arm. And although
you have by certain abrasions and other applications, taken them in
some measure out, there are visible remains which ought to soften at
least your language when reflecting on my situation. You ought surely,
when you have so slowly and imperfectly relieved yourself from the
mortifying stain, although the task was comparatively so easy, to have
some forbearance and sympathy with me who have a task so much more
difficult {344} to perform. Instead of that you abuse me as if I had
brought the misfortune on myself, and could remove it at will; or as
if you had pointed out a ready way to do it, and I had slighted your
advice. Yet so far is this from being the case, that you know as well
as I do, that I am not to be blamed for the origin of the sad mishap;
that I am as anxious as you can be to get rid of it; that you are as
unable as I am to find out a safe and feasible plan for the purpose;
and moreover, that I have done every thing I could in the mean time,
to mitigate an evil that cannot as yet be removed. When you talk of
tearing off the skin or cutting off the unfortunate limb, must I
remind you of what you cannot be ignorant, that the most skilful
surgeons have given their opinions that if so cruel an operation were
to be tried, it could hardly fail to be followed by a mortification or
a bleeding to death. Let me ask too, whether, should neither of the
fatal effects ensue, you would like me better in my mangled or
mutilated condition, than you do now? And when you threaten a divorce
and an annulment of the marriage settlement, may I not ask whether
your estate would not suffer as much as mine by dissolving the
partnership between them? I am far from denying that I feel the
advantage of having the pledge of your arm, your stronger arm if you
please, for the protection of me and mine; and that my interests in
general have been, and must continue to be the better for your aid and
counsel in the management of them. But on the other hand you must be
equally sensible that the aid of my purse will have its value, in case
Old Bull or any other rich litigious fellow should put us to the
expense of another tedious law suit. And now that we are on the
subject of loss and gain, you will not be offended if I take notice of
a report that you sometimes insinuate, that my estate, according to
the rates of assessment, does not pay its due share into the common
purse. I think, my dear Jonathan, that if you ever entertained this
opinion you must have been led into it, by a very wrong view of the
subject. As to the direct income from rents, there can be no
deficiency on my part; the rule of apportionment being clear and
founded on a calculation by numbers. And as to what is raised from the
articles bought and used by my tenants, it is difficult to conceive
that my tenants buy or use less than yours, considering that they
carry a greater amount of crops to market, the whole of which, it is
well known, they lay out in articles from the use of which the bailiff
regularly collects the sum due. It would seem then that my tenants
selling more, buy more; buying more, use more; and using more, pay
more. Meaning, however, not to put you in the wrong, but myself in the
right, I do not push the argument to that length, because I readily
agree that in paying for articles bought and used, you have beyond the
fruits of the soil on which I depend, ways and means which I have not.
You draw chiefly the interest we jointly pay for the funds we were
obliged to borrow for the fees and costs the suit Old Bull put us to.
Your tenants also turn their hands so ingeniously to a variety of
handicraft and other mechanical productions, that they make not a
little money from that source. Besides all this, you gain much by the
fish you catch and carry to market; by the use of your teams and boats
in transporting and trading on the crops of my tenants; and indeed in
doing that sort of business for strangers also. This is a fair
statement on your side of the account, with the drawback however, that
as your tenants are supplied with a greater proportion of articles,
made by themselves, than is the case with mine, the use of which
articles does not contribute to the common purse, they avoid in the
same proportion, the payments collected from my tenants. If I were to
look still further into this matter and refer you to every advantage
you draw from the union of our persons and property, I might remark,
that the profits you make from your teams and boats, and which enable
you to pay your quota, are in great part drawn from the preference
they have in conveying and disposing of the products of my soil; a
business that might fall into other hands, in the event of our
separation. I mention this, as I have already said, not by way of
complaint, for I am well satisfied that your gain is not altogether my
loss in this more than in many other instances; and that what profits
you immediately may profit me also in the long run. But I will not
dwell on these calculations and comparisons of interest, which you
ought to weigh as well as myself, as reasons against the measure to
which you threaten a resort. For when I consult my own heart, and call
to mind all the endearing proofs you have given of yours being in
sympathy with it, I must needs hope that there are other ties than
mere interest, to prevent us from ever suffering a transient
resentment on either side, with or without cause, to bring on both,
all the consequences of a divorce; consequences too which would be a
sad inheritance indeed for our numerous and beloved offspring.

As to the other point relative to the head stewards, I must own, my
worthy husband, that I am altogether at a loss for any cause of
dissatisfaction on your part or blame on mine. It is true, as you say,
that they have been oftener taken from among my tenants than yours;
but under other circumstances the reverse might as well have happened.
If the individuals appointed, had made their way to the important
trust, by corrupt or fallacious means; if they had been preferred
merely because they dwelt on my estate, or had succeeded by any
interposition of {345} mine contrary to your inclination; or finally,
if they had administered the trust unfaithfully, sacrificing your
interests to mine, or the interests of both to selfish or unworthy
purposes, in either of these cases, you would have ground for your
complaints. But I know Jonathan that you are too just and too candid
not to admit that no such ground exists. The head stewards in question
could not have been appointed without your own participation as well
as mine. They were recommended to our joint choice by the reputed
fairness of their characters, by their tried fidelity and competency
in previous trusts, and by their exemption from all charges of impure
and grasping designs; and so far were they from being partial to my
interest at the expense of yours, that they were rather considered by
my tenants as leaning to a management more favorable to yours than to
mine. I need not say that I allude to the bounties direct and indirect
to your teams and boats, to the hands employed in your fisheries, and
to the looms and other machineries, which without such encouragements
would not be able to meet the threatened rivalships of interfering
neighbors; I say only, that these ideas were in the heads of some of
my tenants. For myself I should not have mentioned them but as a
defence against what I must regard as so unfounded a charge, that it
ought not to be permitted to make a lasting impression.

But laying aside all these considerations, I repeat, my dear Jonathan,
that the appointment of the head steward lies as much, if not more,
with you than with me. Let the choice fall where it may you will find
me faithfully abiding by it, whether it be thought the best possible
one or not, and sincerely wishing that he may equally improve better
opportunities of serving us both, than was the lot of any of those who
have gone before him.

Jonathan who had a good heart, as well as a sound head and steady
temper, was touched with this tender and conciliatory language of
Mary; and the bickering which had sprung up ended as the quarrels of
lovers _always_, and of married folks _sometimes_ do, in an increased
affection and confidence between the parties.




For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MARRYING WELL.


PHILADELPHIA, 1835.

_My Dear Miss H----_,--

I fully agree with you in the high character you have given of the
"Southern Literary Messenger,"--some numbers of which I have had the
pleasure of reading, and join most heartily with you in the wish that
it may meet with the success it so eminently deserves. But what shall
I say in reply to your request to write something for its columns? You
are aware that nothing "_mediocre_" can find its way there; and you
are as well aware that I have seldom or never been charged with the
sin of authorship. Your requests however are commands; and although I
may fail to give to the subject I have selected, sufficient interest
to induce the editors to yield it a place in their paper, yet will I
indulge the hope that as it is a true story, it may prove useful to
yourself, for the truths it reveals,--though lacking the ornament to
make them acceptable to the general reader.

It is not necessary to give a "local habitation" to those whose brief
story I am about to record. For all the purposes for which I have
called them up, you may suppose them to have lived in either Albany or
Richmond; for in many respects these cities are very much alike. Each
is situated on a noble river, and is the capital of a state. Each has
in its vicinity, hills and valleys, and landscapes of picturesque
beauty and grandeur, amid whose romantic and love inspiring scenes
many a sigh has been breathed and many a vow offered in vain.
Notwithstanding these places thus resemble each other, I would here
observe that you are not at liberty to be particular in your choice,
because you may have known or heard of persons and events in either of
them similar to those here described. What happens in one place may
happen in another, and he who travels far and wide will find the human
family every where agitated by the same feelings and the same
passions, and that all the elements that enter into the history of the
world, may be found in any one town or village, directing and
controlling the destinies of its inhabitants.

Leaving however, to the historian and the philosopher, the task of
writing the history of the world, and developing the secret springs of
human action, and to sager heads to read them, than that of my fair
correspondent,--I will only ask your attention to what will be more
congenial to your wishes, and a more easily understood subject, a tale
of "Ladye Love," in which some of my younger friends and feelings were
deeply interested.

During our schoolboy days, I became acquainted with George Marley; but
we will pass over his earlier years, until he had arrived at the age
of twenty. As it is not my intention to enter upon a particular
analysis of form and features, mind or manners, I will leave your
imagination to make George whatever you please, not incompatible with
a "marvellously proper" young man, tall and straight, with raven locks
and eagle eye--with all those high intellectual qualities, and that
deep moral rectitude, which wins admiration and commands esteem. Two
years before I have here introduced him to you, George's father was
considered one of the most wealthy merchants in the city, and George's
education and hopes were in accordance with his high expectations. But
a {346} series of disasters to which commercial property is so very
liable, swept away from Mr. Marley every thing he possessed but the
honorable and virtuous character of himself and his family. At the
time of his father's misfortune George was taken from school, and
placed in a merchant's counting house, to qualify him for the active
career of life thus early forced upon him--a career in which he must
depend upon his own exertions for success, and in which he must win
for himself, and by himself, whatever he might obtain of fortune or of
fame.

In the particular circumstances of his situation at this time, I am
aware there is nothing to excite your sympathy. Many thousands of
young men enter upon the active scenes of life under more
disadvantages than these--without friends, without a good education,
without early habits of propriety and rectitude, and yet reach to the
highest eminence and renown; and why might not George Marley? The
answer is simply, he _loved!_ and would not love inspire him with
stronger and more powerful motives for exertion and success?

Isabella Barclay was, if ever there was, a perfectly lovely girl. She
was one of those fair creatures that occasionally are seen among us,
but which seem to belong to a higher order of beings than those
inhabiting this lower world. It is not wonderful therefore that George
Marley should love her, or that she should love him. They did love,
truly--devotedly. They were too young to conceal it; there was no
cause for concealment. Every body knew it; their parents knew it, and
sanctioned it--and why should they not? Previously to the failure of
Mr. Marley, they were equal in fortune, in education, and in all that
could give promise of a certain and happy union. Although Mr. Marley
had fallen from affluence to comparative poverty, yet himself and his
family continued to enjoy the respect of all their acquaintance; and
the particular friendship that had existed between Mr. Marley and Mr.
Barclay, and their respective families, to all appearance suffered no
interruption.

The misfortunes of Mr. Marley, although it had blighted the hopes of
George, had no effect on Isabella but to excite her pity and
strengthen her love. She was too young to calculate chances or
consequences--she had not loved George for his father's wealth, but
for himself; and while he remained the same, her affections were
immutable. Thus reasoned this pure and amiable girl; and for the two
years that elapsed from the time of the unfortunate failure of Mr.
Marley, up to that at which we commenced our tale, George was happy in
the expectation of ere long being enabled to raise his own fallen
fortune, and happier in the tried sincerity of his Isabella's love.

I need not stop to tell you of the thousand hopes and fears, pleasures
and pains, our lovers suffered or enjoyed: I suppose they were such as
are common to all the votaries of the fickle God. Their attachment had
commenced at school, and we have continued it until he had arrived at
the age of twenty, and she seventeen, and at no time had any
interruption to its progress taken place. If you have paid any
attention to these love affairs, you will have observed the great
difference there is between those where the attachment commences early
in life, and the parties grow up together, forming and moulding their
feelings, their wishes, their amusements, their tastes, their whole
heart and soul, by the same model; and those "whom accident or blind
chance" bring together, and from some peculiarity of form or mind, for
a while deem themselves in love with each other. With the former, it
is the web of their existence, which, once broken, can never be woven
again; with the latter, it is "like a lady's glove," put off as easily
as it is put on, and with whose last sigh passes away all its
pleasures and its pains, leaving no "wreck behind." As that of George
and Isabella was of the former kind, and as no objection had been made
on the inequality of their fortunes, and as he was about to enter into
business for himself under the fairest prospects, their marriage when
they should arrive at a proper age, was looked for by themselves and
all others as beyond the reach of doubt or contingency. What
contingency could happen? Their known engagement, his constant
attention, and her acknowledged affection for him, formed an
impassable barrier to the advances that otherwise would have been made
by many who admired her. Indeed, you and I would suppose that no one
would attempt to mar their promised happiness, or wish to win hearts
that had so long beat for each other, and each other only. Yet did the
spoiler come! and where will he not come? Since he first found his way
into the Garden of Eden, and blasted the happiness of our common
parents, where is the paradise some spoiler has not entered? where the
scene of love and harmony he has not attempted to break up and
destroy?

In the particular city to which we have alluded, there lived a
bachelor of upwards of double the age of George Marley, although his
appearance was younger than his age would have indicated; with few
personal attractions, he had but little education; and no more of
common sense, or any other kind of sense, than fitted him for the
accumulation of wealth. As he sustained a respectable character, was
called rich, and lived in a style of comparative splendor, he was of
course one of the good society of the city, and a desirable match for
any daughter a mother wished to sell to the highest bidder. If Mr.
Simson, for such was this gentleman's name, ever had had any feelings
of the heart--if he ever was susceptible of a pure and holy love; the
associations, habits, and pursuits of his whole life, had long since
deadened them all, or made them subservient to his will, an {347}
article of trade or commerce, of marketable value, to bestow them on
the wife of his bosom, as a Pacha bestows his on the last fairest
slave his wealth has purchased. But you may ask what Mr. Simson has to
do with the loves of George and Isabella? Ah! my dear girl, old,
ignorant and cold hearted as he may be, he is the arbiter of their
fate. It is in his power to give them years of happiness, or it is in
his power to blight their buds of promise, and send them prematurely
to their graves! and why? because he is _rich!_ I know your young
heart rejects the supposition that such a man would, or could, break
their bonds of mutual love, that thus seemed to have been formed and
strengthened under the auspices of heaven,--that he by any means could
"pluck from the brows of their innocent love, the rose, and place a
blister there." I know you anticipate that he will appropriate a part
of his wealth to establish George in business, or will die and leave
it all to him; that thus he will be enabled to wed his Isabella, and
their lives thenceforth "go merry as a marriage bell." Alas! how
little do we know of ourselves or our destiny! how unseen or mistaken
may be the path that leads to high and happy places, or that which
leads to misery and despair!

Nothing is more painful to my mind, than to witness a beautiful girl
thrown into the alluring and deceptive scenes of life without a
mother's guardianship. No other heart can sympathise with her, no
other hand direct her course. She does not feel for them, and they
cannot feel with her! Others may warn and advise her, but none but a
mother's watchful eye can perceive, and a mother's tender care guard
or direct her young affections. Isabella had a mother. But Mrs.
Barclay was a woman of the world. In early life she may have loved,
and that love may have been successful and happy; or she may have
married for convenience, to gratify some darling passion, and never
have known the deep feelings of a long cherished affection. No matter
what was the history of her younger days, they had passed away, and
with them all their sympathies and all their influence. She was now a
woman of the world--a _fashionable lady_. She loved her daughter, and
to make that daughter happy was the chief object of her care. The
notions of happiness entertained by this worthy matron, was such as
thousands and thousands believe, yet never find true. The show, the
glare of wealth and its attendants, the unsatisfying yet exciting
routine of fashionable life, were to her every thing; and that calm,
pure and virtuous happiness which springs in the heart, and is
cherished by its high and heavenly attributes, were to her unknown, or
as nothing. With such views, it was not to be expected that she would
look upon the attachment of George and Isabella in the most favorable
light, or promote its continuance, when it interfered with any other
more splendid prospect that might offer. Such a prospect did offer;
and that being who of all others should have directed her young and
unsuspecting offspring in the path of truth and rectitude; by a course
of deceptions, endeavored to induce Isabella to forsake her first and
only love, and unite herself to one who was incapable of loving her,
and who she could never love--to Mr. Simson! George was early apprised
of her purpose, and did all a true and noble mind could do, to avert
the blow she was preparing for him. His fears were always lulled by
the unwavering love of Isabella, and her vows of constancy. He
believed her true, and she believed herself true. But the continual
and insidious efforts of her mother and her fashionable friends,
poisoned her mind; and, tired of their importunities, she at length
yielded to their persuasions. George was too proud to let the world
triumph in the prostration of his hopes; as soon therefore as he was
assured of her infidelity, he set sail for South America.

Isabella's abandonment of George, and her affiance to Mr. Simson, were
events soon known, and as soon attracted the attention of their
acquaintance. It was perceptible to every one, that her character had
passed away with him who had so long given it its tone and direction.
Freed from him who had from her infancy been the source and the
companion of all her pleasures, she visited every public and private
amusement or assembly, and was every where remarkable for her vivid
and reckless gaiety. Those who judged by appearances deemed her happy
in her new situation; but those who looked beneath the surface, saw
only in these wild demonstrations of joy, the vain efforts to banish
from her heart "the worm that dyeth not."

Some months after the departure of George, Mr. Simson and Isabella
were married. From the time the latter had broken her vows to George,
all intimacy between her and myself had ceased. I was not therefore at
her wedding, but it was said to be numerous and brilliant--the bride
splendidly decorated, lovely, and the gayest of the gay.

For a few short years after her marriage, although I lived in a
distant part of the country, I could hear of Isabella, now Mrs.
Simson. For sometime she apparently luxuriated in the golden vision,
for which had been sacrificed her earliest and fondest anticipations.
She gave the largest parties, and the most splendid fetes, and the
fashionable world pronounced her marriage _fortunate_. But soon this
illusory existence vanished, and I learned, what nothing can conceal,
that the decay which halteth not had settled itself upon her beautiful
form. A few months and she was confined to her house, and then to her
room, and then to her bed--and then came from her a brief but
thrilling letter, ardently desiring me to come to her before she died.
I did go; and did hear from her dying lips, {348} how a mother's
mistaken love had made her faithless, and of the years of hopeless and
bitter anguish that followed and dragged her down to the grave. I have
stood by the dying bed of friends and relations--I have seen the last
struggle of a father, of brothers and sisters, and for all of these I
have had deep sorrow. But it was in the presence of that broken
hearted sufferer, and from the revealings and monitions of her
departing spirit, I learned that enduring lesson of life, which time
nor circumstance can ever obliterate. Yes! my dear girl; it was there
I received that lesson which I have so often endeavored to impress
upon your mind,--to guard you against the snares that are every where
spread by those who have wrecked their own happiness, to draw the
young and thoughtless into the vortex of their own dazzling but
heartless pleasures. Could you have been in that chamber, and have
seen and known how one so lovely, and whose morning of life was so
fair, had been snatched from the world of her bright
dreams,--prostrating in her fall all the years of earthly bliss that
might have been hers, and all the proud aspirations, the promised
felicity of him, the betrothed of her heart,--you would never again
breathe one sigh, or one wish,--or weaken one chord of pure affection,
for all that wealth and fashion can promise or bestow.

A few days after this interview, she left this world of trouble,--and
the papers of the day, announced in the usual manner,--Died, on the
---- instant, of a "pulmonary complaint," Mrs. Simson, wife of Mr.
---- Simson; and who thought otherwise? who of all that surrounded
her, could deem she had a _heart_ to _break_? Thus she passed away;
and the world, busied with its own little and great schemes, soon
ceased to remember that she had ever lived, or loved, or died.

With Isabella ends our tale. And it is only necessary in conclusion to
say, that George never knew how fully and fearfully she had atoned for
her fatal error. Before I had an opportunity of communicating to him
my last painful interview with her,--and her prayers for his happiness
and forgiveness, he had fallen in the struggle of South America for
liberty and independence. Mrs. Barclay is still alive, and so is Mr.
Simson, though now some ten years older than when he led Isabella a
victim to the altar. I presume he is still in the market; he is ten
years older, he is ten years richer, and thus doubly desirable to
those mothers who _love_ their daughters, and wish to have them _well
married_.

I have endeavored to be as brief as possible, but my letter has
extended itself too long, and yet I fear it is too short to make that
impression I could wish. I cannot but hope, however, that Isabella's
fate will awaken in your breast, as it did in mine, those reflections
that will lead you justly to appreciate how false and empty are the
world's opinions, when compared with the conscientious dictates of our
own calm and unbiassed judgment,--and determine you to choose that
life whence rises and flows the streams of all our earthly happiness.
If I have failed, and that flower which now blooms so fair and
fragrant by the banks of Powhatan, should be plucked by a hand
insensible to its sweets, to ornament some princely hall, and wither
amid all its splendor, then you may recollect the warning voice, and
think of one, though humble, who would have sacrificed every other
hope of happiness to cherish that flower--you may then remember----

B----.




For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SKETCH OF VIRGINIA SCENERY.

The following Sketch of Virginia Scenery is sent with the hope the
author will excuse the liberty taken, as it was written without the
slightest idea of its being ever published, by a traveller through
some of the scenes of Western Virginia:--


"It was a charming evening--the sky was almost cloudless, and the
sultry air of summer seemed to be gradually giving way to the cool and
refreshing breezes of autumn. Accompanied by a few companions and some
persons acquainted with the surrounding country, I ascended the large
and romantic rock near the village of Rockymount, known by the name of
the '_Bald Knob_.' This rock is about 200 feet above the level of the
water, and the ascent exceedingly steep and difficult. Its name is
indeed descriptive of its general character and appearance, which are
calculated to strike more by its novelty of height and rugged aspect,
than its beauty of herbage or richness of attire.--We wound up among
ledges of rock, and now and then found our progress retarded by the
intervention of some stunted cedars and oaks, which had clung to a
soil which would seem hardly able to afford any sustenance, except to
the moss, long celebrated for its fondness for the flinty rock. This
moss, consisting of several rich and beautiful species, has wove a
seeming carpet of the most vivid green, and surpasses in softness the
finest fabrics of the Turkish looms. Delighted and amused, we strolled
from cliff to cliff, gazing on the works of Omnipotence, which arose
around, above, beneath us, and feasting our delighted senses on the
rich magnificence of the scenes presented from its summit. The lofty
mountains dimly seen from afar; the 'rural cottages' in the vales
below; the smoke richly curling from the unseen hamlets among the
lofty trees; the startling sound of the huntsman's gun re-echoed from
the rocky heights--were an assemblage of pleasures rarely enjoyed by
so short an excursion. The 'Peaks of Otter,' appeared with much
distinctness and beauty, while a rich and variegated cloud seemed to
rest on their summit, as though it had stooped to gaze with us on
their magnificent heights. A branch of the Alleghany is also visible
between two lofty hills, and the blue tints that rested on its brow,
contrasted with the {349} glowing greens of the adjacent forests,
presented to the eye a grateful and pleasing variety of shade.--The
picturesque village of Rockymount appears to much advantage from this
rock, and the country around is one of much wild and romantic beauty.
Long did we gaze on the works of nature's God,--displayed in majestic,
rural, and beautiful scenes; and then turning from these glorious
manifestations of wisdom and power, traced the names of many a
youthful swain and maid, who had chiselled out their initials on the
flinty rock, urged no doubt by the puerile ambition of being
remembered long after they had ceased to roam among its rocky alcoves.
There could the poet's soul catch sparks of inspiration from nature's
open volume, and the painter's pencil vainly strive to touch with
living lines his there _faithless_ canvass. 'Who can paint like
nature?' would echo from each lovely object; and man, in all his pride
of nature and of art, shrink from the task of copying her rich and
gorgeous dyes. There would the Christian pour out his soul in
adoration and praise; and, lost in contemplation of the Hand that
raised the mountains and spread out the plain, stoop not to draw his
sources of delight from the _poorer, yet still rich_ pleasures
afforded to the carnal mind. The fanciful may, aided by this sketch,
catch a glimpse of the beauties of the scenes,--but let them, like me,
view them as they are, and they will own how far the reality exceeds
the most vivid colorings of even a wild and enthusiastic admirer of
the works of nature's God."

J. W. C.

_September, 1832_.




  From the Scottish Literary Gazette.

COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE.


There lived in a country not a thousand miles from Edinburgh, a decent
farmer, who, by patient industry and frugality, and without being
avaricious, had made himself easy in circumstances. He enjoyed life
without being profuse; for he tempered his enjoyments with moderation.
At the age of sixty, he still retained the bloom of health on his
cheek. He lived till that age a bachelor; but his household affairs
were regulated by a young woman, whose attentive zeal for her master's
interest made it easy for him to enjoy his home without a wife. She
was only in the character of his humble servant, but she was virtuous
and prudent. Betty allotted the tasks to the servants in the house,
performed the labor within doors, during harvest, when all the others
were engaged. She saw every thing kept in order, and regulated all
with strict regard to economy and cleanliness. She had the singular
good fortune to be at once beloved by her fellow-servants, as well as
respected and trusted by her master. Her master even consulted her in
matters where he knew she could give advice, and found it often his
interest to do so. But her modesty was such, that she never tendered
her advices gratuitously. Prudence regulated all her actions, and she
kept the most respectful distance from her master. She paid all
attention to his wants and wishes; nor could a wife or daughter have
been more attentive. When he happened to be from home, it was her
province to wait upon him when he returned, provide his refreshment,
and administer to all his wants. Then she reported to him the
occurrences of the day, and the work which had been done. It did not
escape her master's observation, however, that, though she was anxious
to relate the truth, she still strove to extenuate and hide the faults
of those who had committed misdemeanors. Her whole conduct was such,
that, for the period of fifteen years, the breath of slander dared not
to hazard a whisper against her.

It happened, however, that a certain _maiden_ lady in the neighborhood
had cast an eye upon the farmer. She was the niece of a bachelor
minister, and lived at the manse in the character of housekeeper. But,
with all opportunity to become a competitor with Betty, she could
never gain her character. Those people who want personal attractions
take strange means of paying court, and endeavoring to open the way
for themselves. What they cannot effect by treaty, they endeavor to do
by sapping. Scandal is their magazine, by which they attempt to clear
their way from all obstructions. This maiden lady made some sinister
remarks, in such a way, and in such a place, as were sure to reach the
farmer's ear. The farmer was nearly as much interested for the
character of his servant as he was for his own, and so soon as he
discovered the authoress, made her a suitable return. But he made
ample amends to Betty for the injury she had suffered, and, at the
same time, rewarded her for her services, by taking her for his wife.
By this event, the lady, whose intentions had been well understood,
and who had thought of aggrandizing herself at the expense and ruin of
poor Betty, found that she had contributed the very means to advance
her to the realization of a fortune she had never hoped for. May all
intermeddlers of the same cast have the same punishment: they are
pests to society.

Betty's success had created some speculation in the country. Though
every one agreed that Betty deserved her fortune, it was often
wondered how such a modest, unassuming girl had softened the heart of
the bachelor, who, it was thought, was rather flinty in regard to the
fair sex. Betty had an acquaintance, who was situated in nearly the
same circumstances as herself, in being at the head of a bachelor
farmer's house; but it would appear that she had formed a design of
conquering her master. If Betty used artifice, however, it was without
design. But her neighbor could not, it would appear, believe that she
had brought the matter to a bearing without some stratagem; and she
wished Betty to tell her how she had gone about "courting the old
man." There was, withal, so much native simplicity about Betty, and
the manner of relating her own courtship and marriage is so like
herself, that it would lose its _naïveté_ unless told in her own
homely Scotch way. Betty, into all, had a lisp in her speech, that is,
a defect in speech, by which the _s_ is always pronounced as _th_,
which added a still deeper shade of simplicity to her manner; but it
would be trifling to suit the orthography to that common defect. The
reader can easily suppose that he hears Betty lisping, while she is
relating her story to her attentive friend.

"Weel, Betty," says her acquaintance, "come, gi'e me a sketch, an'
tell me a' about it; for I may ha'e a chance mysel'. We dinna ken
what's afore us. We're {350} no the waur o' ha'ein' some body to tell
us the road, whan we dinna ken a' the cruiks and thraws in't." "Deed,"
says Betty, "there was little about it ava. Our maister was awa at the
fair ae day selling the lambs, and it was gey late afore he cam' hame.
Our maister verra seldom steys late, for he's a douce man as can be.
Weel, ye see, he was mair herty than I had seen him for a lang time;
but I opine he had a gude merket for his lambs, and ther's room for
excuse whan ane drives a gude bergen. Indeed, to tell even on truth,
he had rather better than a wee drap in his e'e. It was my usual to
sit up till he cam' hame, when he was awa. When he cam' in and gaed up
stairs, he fand his sipper ready for him. 'Betty,' says he, very
saft-like. 'Sir,' says I. 'Betty,' says he, 'what has been gaun on the
day--a's right, I houp?' 'Ouy, sir,' says I. 'Very weel, very weel,'
says he, in his ain canny way. He ga'e me a clap on the shouther, and
said I was a gude lassie. When I had telt him a' that had been dune
throu' the day, just as I aye did, he ga'e me another clap on the
shouther, and said he was a fortunate man to ha'e sic a carefu' person
about the house. I never had heard him say as muckle to my face
before, tho' he aften said mair ahint my back. I really thocht he was
fey. Our maister, when he had gotten his sipper finished, began to be
verra joky ways, and said that I was baith a gude and bonny lassie. I
kent that folks arna' themsels whan in drink, and they say rather mair
than they wad do if they were sober. Sae I cam' awa' doon into the
kitchen.

"Twa or three days after that, our maister cam' into the
kitchen--'Betty,' says he. 'Sir,' says I. 'Betty,' says he, 'come up
stairs; I want to speak t'ye,' says he. 'Verra weel, sir,' says I. Sae
I went up stairs after him, thinking a' the road that he was gaun to
tell me something about the feeding o' the swine, or killing the
heefer, or something like that. But whan he telt me to sit doun, I saw
there was something serious, for he never bad me sit doun afore but
ance, and that was whan he was gaun to Glasgow fair. 'Betty,' says he,
'ye ha'e been lang a servant to me,' says he, 'and a gude and honest
servant. Since ye're sae gude a servant, I aften think ye'll make a
better wife. Ha'e ye ony objection to be a wife, Betty?' says he. 'I
dinna ken, sir,' says I. 'A body canna just say hou they like a
bargain till they see the article.' 'Weel, Betty,' says he, 'ye're
very right there again. I ha'e had ye for a servant these fifteen
years, and I never knew that I could find fau't wi' ye for onything.
Ye're carefu', honest, an' attentif, an'--.' 'O, sir,' says I, 'ye
always paid me for't, and it was only my duty,' 'Weel, weel,' says he,
'Betty, that's true; but then I mean to mak' amens t'ye for the evil
speculation that Tibby Langtongue raised about you and me, and forby,
the warld are taking the same liberty: sae, to stop a' their mouths,
you and I sall be married.' 'Verra weel, sir,' says I; for what cou'd
I say?

"Our maister looks into the kitchen another day, an' says, 'Betty,'
says he. 'Sir,' says I. 'Betty,' says he, 'I am gaun to gi'e in our
names to be cried in the kirk, this and next Sabbath.' 'Verra weel,
sir,' says I.

"About eight days after this, our maister says to me, 'Betty,' says
he. 'Sir,' says I. 'I think,' says he, 'we will ha'e the marriage put
owre neist Friday, if ye ha'e nae objection.' 'Verra weel, sir,' says
I. 'And ye'll tak' the grey yad, and gang to the toun on Monday, an'
get your bits o' wedding braws. I ha'e spoken to Mr. Cheap, the
draper, and ye can tak' aff onything ye want, an' please yoursell, for
I canna get awa that day.' 'Verra weel, sir,' says I.

"Sae I gaed awa to the toun on Monday, an' bought some wee bits o'
things; but I had plenty o' claes, and I cou'dna think o' being
'stravagant. I took them to the manty-maker, to get made, and they
were sent hame on Thursday.

"On Thursday night, our maister says to me, 'Betty,' says he. 'Sir,'
says I. 'To-morrow is our wedding-day,' says he, 'an' ye maun see that
a' things are prepared for the denner,' says he, 'an' see every thing
dune yoursel,' says he, 'for I expect some company, an' I wad like to
see every thing feat and tiddy in your ain way,' says he. 'Verra weel,
sir,' says I.

"I had never ta'en a serious thought about the matter till now; and I
began to consider that I must exert mysel to please my maister and the
company. Sae I got every thing in readiness, and got every thing
clean--I cou'dna think ought was dune right except my ain hand was
in't.

"On Friday morning, our maister says to me, 'Betty,' says he. 'Sir,'
says I. 'Go away and get yoursel dressed,' says he, 'for the company
will soon be here, and ye maun be decent. An' ye maun stay in the room
up stairs,' says he, 'till ye're sent for,' says he. 'Verra weel,
sir,' says I. But there was sic a great deal to do, and sae many grand
dishes to prepare for the dinner to the company, that I could not get
awa', and the hail folk were come afore I got mysel dressed.

"Our maister cam' doun stairs, and telt me to go up that instant and
dress mysel, for the minister was just comin doun the loan. Sae I was
obliged to leave every thing to the rest of the servants, an' gang up
stain, an' pit on my claes.

"When I was wanted, Mr. Brown o' the Haaslybrae cam' and took me into
the room among a' the gran' fouk, an' the minister. I was maist like
to fent; for I never saw sae mony gran' folk together a' my born days
afore, an' I didna ken whar to look. At last, our maister took me by
the han', an' I was greatly relieved. The minister said a great deal
to us--but I canna mind it a'--and then he said a prayer. After this,
I thought I should ha'e been worried wi' folk kissing me,--mony a yin
shook hands wi' me I had never seen afore, and wished me much joy.

"After the ceremony was o'er, I slipped awa' doun into the kitchen
again amang the rest o' the servants to see if the dinner was a'
right. But in a wee time our maister cam' into the kitchen, an' says,
'Betty,' says he. 'Sir,' says I. 'Betty,' says he, 'ye must consider
that ye're no longer my servant, but my wife,' says he; 'and therefore
ye must come up stairs and sit amongst the rest of the company,' says
he. 'Verra weel, sir,' says I. Sae what could I do, but gang up stairs
to the rest of the company, an' sit doun among them? I sat there in a
corner, as weel out o' sight as I could, for they were a' speaking to
me or looking at me, an' I didna ken how to behave amang sic braw
company, or how to answer them. I sat there till it was gey late, and
our maister made me drink the company's healths, and they gaed a'
away.

"When the company were a' gaen awa', I went doun {351} to the kitchen,
and saw that every thing was right; and after I put a candle into my
maister's bed-room, I took another, and gaed away up to my ain wee
room, in the garret. Just whan I was casting aff my shune, I hears our
maister first gang into his ain room, and then come straight awa' up
towards mine. I think I can hear him yet, for it was siccan
extraord'nar thing, and I never saw him there afore; and every stamp
o' his feet gaed thunt, thunt to my very hert. He stood at the cheek
o' the door, and said, very saftly, 'Betty,' says he. 'Sir,' says
I--'But what brought ye here, sir,' says I. 'Naething,' says he.
'Verra weel, naething be it, sir,' says I. 'But,' says he, 'remember
that ye're no longer my servant, but my wife,' says he. 'Verra weel,
sir,' says I; 'I will remember that.' 'And ye must come down stairs,'
says he. 'Verra weel, sir,' says I; for what could I do? I had always
obeyed my maister before, and it was nae time to disobey him now.

"Sae, Jean, that was a' that was about my courtship or marriage."




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

REMINISCENCE:

OR, STORY OF A SHIPWRECK.


In the year 1797, I left the United States, having under my control a
new clipper built schooner of about eighty tons, bound to Cape
Francais, in the island of St. Domingo, with a cargo, chiefly
munitions of war, for the colonial government of that island. The
harbor of Cape Francais is one of the best in the world,--capacious,
safe, and of easy access; the entrance under a high point of land,--on
the side of which is a strong fortification called Fort Picolet, which
completely commands the pass. Above the fort, on very elevated ground,
was placed the observatory, in view of the town, although two or three
miles distant.

England being then at war with France, and having the command of the
West India seas, the direct intercourse of the island with France was
rare and uncertain--European news generally reaching them by the way
of the United States. My business at the Cape being nearly finished,
it became necessary, for a particular mercantile speculation, that I
should return to the United States by the way of St. Thomas. Three or
four days before I was prepared to sail, early one forenoon, I
observed all at once a singular excitement in the streets,--drums
beating, alarm guns firing, &c. Upon making inquiry into the occasion,
I was informed that the signals at the observatory indicated a fleet
to windward standing for the port. The leading frigate was soon seen
from the town, making signals to the fort, and without molestation
stood directly in, and proved to be a squadron from France, under the
command of Commodore Barney, with a number of prizes in company, which
altogether made a very imposing appearance. The day before I had
intended to leave the Cape, I was accosted in the street by a stout
sailor looking man, who civilly inquired if I had not a vessel in port
bound to St Thomas, and could he get a passage in her--adding, that he
was an Englishman, had been captain of one of the brigs then in port,
captured by Commodore Barney, on his passage out from Liverpool to
Barbadoes; and as he had not been armed he was not held as a prisoner,
but turned ashore pennyless, to shift for himself as he best
might--that could he get to St. Thomas, he could raise funds by bills
on his consignees at Barbadoes, and would pay whatever the charge
might be for his passage up. I told him I believed that it was the
custom for unfortunate seamen to receive assistance from their
fellows, without thinking of recompense--that he was entirely welcome
to a passage; and as the schooner would leave the port early the next
morning, I would give him a note to the captain, and advise him to
take his baggage and go immediately on board. He observed that his
baggage was easily removed--that although he had considerable property
on board of the brig when captured, belonging to himself, the captors
had left him nothing but a sailor's bag to take care of. Next morning
we left Cape Francais, with a view of beating up to St Thomas. This is
a voyage of some difficulty, being a distance of some six or seven
hundred miles, with the trade wind dead ahead. Navigators of those
seas know that in this passage there is a dangerous reef of sunken
rocks, whose sharp points rarely reach the surface, called the Silver
Keys, lying about midway between the northeast part of the island of
St. Domingo, and the cluster of islands, keys and shoals, east of
Turk's Island; and although the passage is probably a hundred miles
wide, and the reef covers but a small space, yet many a fine vessel
has been wrecked thereon. Knowing perfectly well the existence and
location of this dangerous reef, and making my own observations on the
run of the vessel, I had calculated on the third night that we were
out--that if we neither saw nor heard any thing of it by midnight, we
should have passed it; I therefore kept the deck until that hour, when
concluding all was safe, went below. I had got to sleep, when I was
awoke by the vessel's bottom and sides rubbing violently against the
rocks. I immediately got upon deck, and looking round found we were in
a most perilous situation; on all sides surrounded by rocks, which
were plainly known by the waves gently breaking upon them. The moon
was near her full, occasionally obscured by passing clouds--the wind
moderate. The schooner was instantly put about, under the expectation
of finding the way out by which we entered; she had only got cleverly
under way when she went bows on, upon a sunken sharp pointed rock, and
remained stationary. An immediate examination was made, when it was
discovered that the rock had penetrated her bottom, and the water was
pouring in. Our situation was in the highest degree alarming--the
schooner evidently lost, and no chance for our safety but the boat,
which for a vessel of eighty tons could not be large. There was nine
of us, the captain, mate, English captain, myself and five colored
seamen. Fortunately the weather was mild; the vessel quietly hanging
to the rock, and not filling very fast, gave us time to make our
arrangements. The boat was launched, a mast and sail prepared, short
stanchions nailed to her gunwale, and a strip of sail cloth attached
thereto, for the purpose of raising her sides, to prevent the spray of
the sea washing in. We took also on board, the ship's compass, a bag
of biscuit, a keg of water, and some bottles of brandy. No baggage was
permitted. My own dress was shirt, pantaloons, shoes, hat, and an old
surtout coat. I had taken the precaution to secure the papers relative
to the voyage, my watch, and about sixty Spanish dollars tied up in a
shot bag; the bag of dollars I made fast to the {352} ringbolt in the
boat's stern. We were probably a couple of hours in making those
preparations. At length the schooner being nearly full of water, we
settled ourselves in the boat and left her,--the captain, who steered,
and myself in the stern sheets, the mate and English captain next, two
of the seamen midships, with tin cans to bail the water out as it
should splash in, the others forward. I had little expectation that
the boat could possibly live as deeply loaded as she was, and such I
believe was the opinion of all on board,--for the first two or three
hours there was not a dozen words spoken. It was our object to make
the island of St. Domingo, from which we were fifty or sixty miles
distant, as soon as possible. To effect this all our exertions were
used; but so miserably rigged as we were, and so deep withal, that we
could do little more than run before the wind. Our oars were some how
or other of little use. On the first day we made, that is we had a
very distant view of land, on our larboard bow, which we supposed to
be Point Isabella, the most northern part of the island of St.
Domingo; the wind would not permit us to reach it. In the evening we
had a severe squall; the wind blew, the waves increased; we lowered
our sail, just sufficient to keep before the wind. Soon it commenced
raining hard, the waves were stilled, we rode out the storm, and began
to breathe more freely--entered into conversation, and entertained
hopes of our ultimate safety, by getting to land somewhere, or being
picked up; but neither land nor vessel appeared during the whole of
the second day, we still running before the wind, making as much
southing as the nature of our equipment would permit. On the morning
of the third day we found ourselves off Monti Christi, and might
probably have reached the land; but by this time we had become
confident in our power to sustain ourselves, and determined to run for
Cape Francais, which then lay direct to leeward, and which we reached
in perfect safety about three o'clock that afternoon. Thus terminated
a voyage of about two hundred and fifty miles, in about sixty hours,
in the open sea, and in a small boat so deeply loaded, that her
gunwale, on an even keel, could not be above four inches above the
water--leaving us in a complete state of destitution; not a man but
myself had saved any thing but the clothes around him.

Our return created a considerable sensation. I was quickly surrounded
by my acquaintances, anxious to hear the details of our misfortune,
and to offer their services in the most liberal manner. This was
naturally to be expected from my countrymen. There was however one
occurrence in a French gentleman, which I can never forget, and must
relate; he held some subordinate office under government. I had been
introduced to his family by a German who I had known in the United
States. This gentleman called upon me, and taking me aside from the
crowd by which I was surrounded, told me that he had just heard of my
misfortune, and had come to offer me any money I might want, to be
returned in my own way, and at my own convenience. Altogether his
manner was so kind and friendly, that I am sorry his name has entirely
escaped my memory. After very sincerely thanking him for his
friendship and generosity, I told him I had sufficient funds for my
immediate wants. Early next day I was called upon by two American
gentlemen, the one a Mr. Dodge, who from his long residence and good
character, was usually called "consul." They informed me that the
Americans at the Cape, resident and transient, hearing of the
misfortunes of myself and crew, had raised a subscription for our
relief, and that they had called upon me to know the numbers and
relative situation of those on board at the time of the disaster, to
enable them to make the distribution of the money raised, in the
fairest and most efficient manner. I informed these gentlemen that we
were not exactly objects of charity--that my funds were sufficient for
my purposes--that the captain had sold the boat which preserved us,
for thirty or forty dollars--that the mate could get employment if he
wished it, or could get a gratuitous passage home--that the colored
seamen could ship aboard American vessels in port, who were in want of
hands--but that there was one person shipwrecked with us, who was
particularly unfortunate: he was, or rather had been, the captain of
an English brig then in the harbor, a prize to Commodore Barney,
turned ashore with nothing but his clothes, and those lost in the
wreck; I was giving him a passage to St. Thomas, with a view of
placing him as near as I could to the place he was bound to; he was
now in an enemy's country, and entirely destitute. Mr. Dodge observed
that he would not consent to give the Englishman a dollar; that the
English cruisers were plundering and confiscating American property
wherever they could find it, and that they had almost ruined him. I
observed that I had correctly informed them of the situation of all
the persons in the vessel when wrecked, and that they, as the
distributors of the public contribution, would in course use their own
discretion. They left me. A few hours afterwards, the gentleman who
had accompanied Mr. Dodge returned alone. He told me that Mr. Dodge
had consented to let the Englishman in for a portion of the money
collected, and that he would share equally with the schooner's mate,
and that if I would bring him to Mr. Dodge's counting house, his quota
was ready for him. This I promised to do; and in the course of the day
fell in with our companion in misfortune, told him what had been done,
took him to the place designated, and introduced him to the gentlemen.
They counted out, as well as I remember, about sixty hard dollars, and
presented them to him. He gathered them up in a dirty handkerchief,
and thanked them for their kindness and liberality--in doing which he
was so much affected, that be burst into tears. We left the place
together; I parted from him in the street, and have never heard of him
since. In a few days I took passage on board an American schooner
bound for Philadelphia, and after a short passage, was peaceably under
quarantine in the river Delaware.

R.

_Alexandria, January 1835_.




SELECTIONS

From the Papers of the Virginia Historical and Philosophical Society.


We have been permitted to transfer to our pages the subjoined papers
in possession of the Historical Society, which will doubtless afford
much gratification to our readers. The first is an extract from a
manuscript which was the property of the late venerable and learned
Chancellor Wythe, and seems to have been {353} copied by him, or for
his use, from the "Breviate Book" of Sir John Randolph, who was
attorney general of the Colony in 1734. This extract contains
biographical sketches of John Holloway and William Hopkins, two
prominent members of the bar at that early period. The orthography of
the original has been preserved.

The second is an interesting record of the proceedings of a patriotic
band in Norfolk Borough and County in the early part of the
Revolutionary war, associated under the brief and imposing title of
"Sons of Liberty." This document breathes a noble spirit of resistance
to tyranny in our ancestors, which we may fondly hope their
descendants will never cease to cherish and emulate. It was presented
at the last meeting of the Society by Dr. Barraud, whose letter we
also take pleasure in publishing.

The third paper, is an authentic narrative of an Indian attack upon
Wheeling Fort in 1777, furnished by one of the survivors, who is now
living in the county of Brooke. This document was communicated by
William McCluney, Esq. of Wellsburg, and has once appeared in the
"Brooke Republican." Mr. McCluney states, that Captain Samuel Mason,
the commander of the fort, was afterwards the famous Mississippi
robber.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Taken from Sir John Randolph's Breviate Book.

On the 14th of December, 1734, died suddenly of a fit, John Holloway,
Esq., after having languished about ten months with a sort of
epilepsie at certain times of the moon, which had much impaired his
memory and understanding. He had practised in this court upwards of
thirty years, with great reputation for diligence and learning; and
was so much in the good opinion of the court, that I have, upon many
occasions, known him prevail for his clients against reasons and
arguments much stronger and better than his. His opinions were by most
people looked upon as decisive, and were very frequently acquiesced in
by both parties, those against whom he pronounced being discouraged
from disputing against so great authority. He practised with much
artifice and cunning, being thoroughly skilled in attorneyship; but
when his causes came to a hearing, he reasoned little, was tedious in
reading long reports of some cases, and little abridgments of others,
out of which he would collect short aphorisms, and obiter sayings of
judges, and rely upon them, without regarding the main point in
question, and arbitrarily affirm or deny a matter of law, which had
often too much weight, against the reason and difference of things. By
this method, he gained many causes which always gave him great joy;
but was as impatient if he lost one, as if it tended to a diminution
of his credit. He was blameable for one singular practice, in drawing
notes for special verdicts. He would state naked circumstances of
facts only, and leave it to the court to collect the matter of fact
out of them; so that, upon such verdicts, we have had many tedious
debates about what the fact was: whereas, if that had been found
positively as it should be, there would have been no need of a special
verdict. But against this I could never prevail. His greatest
excellence was his diligence and industry; but for learning I never
thought he had any, nor could it be expected he should. He had served
a clerkship; went a youth afterwards into the army in Ireland, in the
beginning of King William's reign; after that betook himself to
business, having got to be one of the attorneys of the Marshalsea
court; but not being contented with his income from that, turned
projector and ruined himself, which brought him first into Maryland,
and afterwards hither. I remember one particular instance, which
satisfied me his knowledge in the law was not very profound. An
ejectment was brought, (whether I was at first concerned in it I
forget,) and upon a special verdict the case was thus. A seized in fee
by deed, gave the land in question to B his daughter, for life, and
after her death, to her heirs forever. She sold it to the defendant,
and after her death, the plaintiff, B's heir, claiming as a purchaser
in remainder, brought this action to recover. When I saw this, I told
the plaintiff, who was my client, I could not say one word for him,
not knowing a more certain rule of law than this:--that where by will
or conveyance, any estate of freehold is given to the ancestor, and by
the same writing an estate is limited to his heirs, that makes a fee,
[heirs] being there a word of limitation, and not of purchase. Yet the
defendant, by this eminent lawyer's advice, gave up the land without
argument, upon the plaintiff's allowing him to remain in possession
some short time longer; when if the matter had been brought to a
hearing I would not have said one word. However, his reputation was
such, that he was universally courted, and most people thought
themselves obliged to him, if he would engage their side upon any
terms; and he really thought so himself. This gave him great
opportunities of exacting excessive fees; which I have heard he always
did, where the value of the thing in question would allow it: and
covered great blemishes in one part of his private life, besides many
imperfections of his mind, which any body might observe who knew any
thing of him. He was of a haughty, insolent nature; passionate and
peevish to the last degree. He had a stiffness in his carriage which
was ridiculous, and often offensive; and was an utter stranger to
hospitality. He was sincere in his friendship, where he professed
any,--but not constant; apt to change upon small provocations, and to
contract new friendship upon very slight grounds, in which he would be
very warm and ready to do all good offices. One of his greatest
defects was that he would always bring his opinion and friendship to
agree. But what he wanted in virtue and learning to recommend him, was
abundantly supplied by fortunate accidents. He was fourteen years
speaker of the House of Burgesses, and eleven years public Treasurer.
But in those he acted with little applause, and less abilities; though
he was three times chosen, and once unanimously. His management of the
treasury contributed to his ruin, and brought him to the grave with
much disgrace. I was always his friend, and had a great deal of reason
to believe him mine. Yet it was impossible to be blind to so many
imperfections. He died, little lamented, in the sixty-ninth year of
his age.

       *       *       *       *       *

In a few daies afterwards, in London, died William Hopkins, Esq. who
had practised in this court about eighteen years, and in that time, by
hard study and observation, he made a surprising progress; became a
very ingenious lawyer and a good pleader, though at his first coming
he was raw and much despised. But {354} he had a carelesness in his
nature, which preserved him from being discouraged, and carried him on
till he came to be admired. He had a good foundation in school
learning; understood Latin and French well; had a strong memory, a
good judgment, a quickness that was very visible, and a handsome
person;--all mighty advantages. But his manner was awkward; his temper
sour, if it was to be judged by the action of his muscles; and was
given, too much given, to laugh at his own discourses.

When he had brought himself into good business, he almost totally
neglected it; which I believe was owing to a desire of dipping into
all kinds of knowledge, wherein he had a great deal of vanity, and
prevented his digesting what he had so well as he would have done
otherwise. He had many good qualities in his practice; was moderate in
his fees; ingenious and honest; never disputed plain points, but was a
candid, fair arguer. Yet he had a failing, which brought him to a
quarrel with me. It was an odd sort of pride, that would not suffer
him to keep an equilibrium in his own conceits. He could not see
himself admired, without thinking it an injury to him to stand upon a
level with any other; and therefore, though I was always his friend,
had done him many kindnesses, and he himself thought himself obliged
to me, he came into so ill a temper, as not to allow me either
learning or honesty; which broke our acquaintance--and after that I
thought I discovered some seeds of malice in him. He died in the
flower of his age, and may be justly reckoned a loss to this poor
country, which is not like to abound (at present at least) in great
genius's.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Norfolk, January 16th, 1835_.

SIR: I herewith transmit you (with a request that if you shall deem it
proper, it may be presented to the next meeting of the Virginia
Historical and Philosophical Society,) a copy of an ancient Record of
the Actings and Doings of certain inhabitants of the Borough and
County of Norfolk, associated under the name of "Sons of Liberty."
This record has lain (tradition relates) in the office of the clerk of
this Borough from its date; unknown to the world at large, and
unnoticed even by many of the inhabitants themselves. The moment my
attention was called to it, it appeared to me entitled by its
antiquity and the generous spirit of patriotism and self-devotion
which it so strongly breathes, to a place in the records of a society
whose laudable purpose is to rescue from oblivion (into which already
too many of the works of talent and deeds of patriotism of the state
have fallen,) the remaining monuments of the colonial and
revolutionary history of Virginia.

The letter of Richard Bland, (attached to the original, and which is
obviously autographic,) seemed to me particularly interesting, and to
deserve a place among the transactions of your society. That letter
characterizes the resolutions as "noble," and declares that "they will
remain lasting monuments of the public spirit of the Sons of Liberty,
and of their love to their country." To this end I very respectfully
tender them to your society, whose institution, allow me to say, I
hail as the dawn of a new era in the literature and science of the
commonwealth.

Be pleased to accept for your society, and yourself individually,
assurances of my high respect,

OTWAY B. BARRAUD.

_To the President of the Historical and Philosophical Society of
Virginia._


PROCEEDINGS

Of the Sons of Liberty at Norfolk, 1766.

Preserved as a monument of their public spirit and love to their
country.

At a meeting of a considerable number of inhabitants of the town and
county of Norfolk, and others, Sons of Liberty, at the court-house of
said county, in the Colony of Virginia, on Monday, the 31st of March,
1766--

Having taken into consideration the evil tendency of that oppressive
and unconstitutional act of Parliament, called the stamp act, and
being desirous that our sentiments should be known to posterity, and
recollecting that we are a part of that colony who first, in general
assembly, openly expressed their detestation to the said act, (which
is pregnant with ruin, and productive of the most pernicious
consequences,) and unwilling to rivet the shackles of slavery and
oppression on ourselves and millions yet unborn, have unanimously come
to the following resolutions--

1. _Resolved_, That we acknowledge our sovereign lord King George the
Third to be our rightful and lawful king; and that we will at all
times, to the utmost of our power and ability, support and defend his
most sacred person, crown and dignity, and shall be always ready, when
constitutionally called upon, to assist his said majesty with our
lives and fortunes, and to defend all his just rights and
prerogatives.

2. _Resolved_, That we will, by all lawful ways and means which Divine
Providence has put into our hands, defend ourselves in the full
enjoyment of, and preserve inviolate to posterity, those inestimable
privileges of all free-born British subjects, of being taxed only by
representatives of their own choosing, and of being tryed by none but
a jury of their peers: and that if we quietly submit to the execution
of the said stamp act, all our claims to civil liberty will be lost,
and we and our posterity become absolute slaves; for by that act,
British subjects in America are deprived of the invaluable privileges
aforementioned.

3. _Resolved_, That a committee be appointed, who shall, in such
manner as they think most proper, go upon necessary business, and make
public the above resolutions; and that they correspond, as they shall
see occasion, with the associated Sons of, and Friends to Liberty, in
the other British colonies in America.

James Holt; Henry Tucker; Robert Tucker; Robert Tucker, Jr.; John
Hutchings; Thomas Davis; Manuel Calvert; James Parker; Lewis Hansford.

_Signed to the foregoing--_

John Hutchings, Jr.; Paul Loyall; William Roscow Curle; Anthony
Lawson; Joseph Hutchings; Thomas Newton, Sr.; John Phripp, Jr.; John
Ramsay; John Gilchrist; Matthew Godfrey; Matthew Phripp; Thomas
Newton, Jr.; Samuel Boush; Richard Knight; James Campbell; John
Lawrence; Joshua Nicholson; Nicholas Wonycott; Matthew Rothery; Jacob
Elligood; Cornelius Calvert; Edward Archer; Edward Voss; Francis
Peart; Samuel Calvert; James Gibson; Nicholas Winterton; Griffin
Peart; John {355} Wilfery; William Skinker; Thomas Butt; William Gray;
Hudson Brown; John Taylor; Alexander Moseley; John Taylor, Jr.;
William Calvert; William Atchison; Edward Hach Moseley, Jr.; William
Hancock; Robert Brett; Stephen Tankard; Thomas Willoughby; James Dunn;
John Crammond; Alexander Kincaid; George Muter; Christopher Calvert.

On a motion made that a Moderator be chosen for the better transacting
business, the Reverend Thomas Davis was recommended, and unanimously
chosen.

On a motion made that a Secretary be appointed to this general
meeting--

_Resolved_, That James Holt and William Roscow Curle be Secretaries.

_Resolved_, That the Committee of Correspondence do consist of the
following persons, to wit:

Manuel Calvert, Esq.; Mr. Paul Loyall; Mr. James Parker; Mr. Joseph
Hutchings; Doctor John Ramsay; Mr. Anthony Lawson; Mr. Samuel Boush;
Mr. John Phripp, Jr.; Mr. John Gilchrist; Mr. Lewis Hansford; Mr. John
Lawrence; Mr. John Hutchings, Jr.; Mr. Thomas Newton, Jr.; Mr. Matthew
Phripp.

And that they or any five of them do make public the resolutions
aforesaid; and take into consideration all matters necessary to be
laid before this society, and make report of their proceedings to the
next general meeting.

_Resolved_, That this general meeting adjourn till to-morrow nine
o'clock.

       *       *       *       *       *

At a meeting of the Sons of Liberty, continued and held at the
court-house in the town and county of Norfolk, in the colony of
Virginia, on Tuesday, April 1st, 1766--

_Resolved_, That we will, on any future occasion, sacrifice our lives
and fortunes, in concurrence with the other Sons of Liberty in the
neighboring provinces, to defend and preserve our invaluable blessings
transmitted to us by our ancestors.

_Resolved_, That whoever is concerned, directly or indirectly, in
using or causing to be used, in any way or manner whatsoever, within
this colony, (unless authorised by the general assembly thereof,) that
detestable paper called the stamps, shall be deemed to all intents and
purposes, an enemy to his country, and treated by the Sons of Liberty
accordingly.

_Resolved_, That the thanks of this society be given to Colonel
Richard Bland, for the deep investigation and connective chain of
reasoning set forth in his treatise, justly opposing the rights and
liberties of this colony to the non-existing stamp act.

_Resolved_, That a committee be appointed to present the thanks of the
Sons of Liberty to Colonel Richard Bland, for his treatise, entitled
"An Enquiry into the Rights of the British Colonies;" and that Mr.
Loyall, Mr. Boush, and Mr. Parker be appointed to draw an address for
that purpose.

_Resolved_, That this society be adjourned till Friday, the 11th day
of this instant, April.

T. D.

  J. H. _Secretary_.
  W. R. C. _Secretary_.

       *       *       *       *       *

At a Committee of Correspondence of the Sons of Liberty, held at the
court-house in Norfolk, in Virginia, on Wednesday, the 2d April,
1766--

Present, Mr. Manuel Calvert; Mr. Paul Loyall; Mr. John Ramsay; Mr.
John Phripp, Jr.; Mr. Lewis Hansford; Mr. John Gilchrist; Mr. John
Lawrence; Mr. John Hutchings, Jr.; Mr. Thomas Newton, Jr.

A copy of the resolves of the Sons of Liberty having been fairly
transcribed, the same was delivered to Mr. John Hutchings, Jr., who
undertook to deliver the same to the printer of the Virginia Gazette,
and request him to insert the same in his next paper, and make report
to this committee.

  J. H. _Secretary_.
  W. R. C. _Secretary_.

The copy delivered is as follows:

At a meeting of a considerable number of inhabitants of the town and
county of Norfolk, and others, Sons of Liberty, at the court-house of
the said county, in the colony of Virginia, on Monday, the 31st of
March, 1766--

Having taken into consideration the evil tendency of that oppressive
and unconstitutional act of Parliament, commonly called the stamp act;
and being desirous that our sentiments should be known to posterity,
and recollecting that we are a part of that colony who first in
general assembly, openly expressed their detestation to the said act,
(which is pregnant with ruin, and productive of the most pernicious
consequences,) and unwilling to rivet the shackles of slavery and
oppression on ourselves and millions yet unborn, have unanimously come
to the following resolutions--

1. _Resolved_, That we acknowledge our sovereign lord and king George
the Third to be our rightful and lawful king, and that we will at all
times, to the utmost of our power and ability, support and defend his
most sacred person, crown and dignity; and will be always ready, when
constitutionally called upon, to assist his majesty with our lives and
fortunes, and defend all his just rights and prerogatives.

2. _Resolved_, That we will, by all lawful ways and means which Divine
Providence hath put into our hands, defend ourselves in the full
enjoyment of, and preserve inviolate to posterity, those inestimable
privileges of all free born British subjects, of being taxed by none
but representatives of their own choosing, and of being tried only by
a jury of their peers; for if we quietly submit to the execution of
the said stamp act, all our claims to civil liberty will be lost, and
we and our posterity become absolute slaves.

3. _Resolved_, That we will, on any future occasion, sacrifice our
lives and fortunes, in concurrence with the other Sons of Liberty in
the American provinces, to defend and preserve those invaluable
blessings transmitted us by our ancestors.

4. _Resolved_, That whoever is concerned, directly or indirectly, in
using or causing to be used, in any way or manner whatsoever, within
this colony, unless authorised by the general assembly thereof, those
detestable papers called stamps, shall be deemed to all intents and
purposes, an enemy to his country, and by the Sons of Liberty treated
accordingly.

5. _Resolved_, That a committee be appointed to present the thanks of
the Sons of Liberty to Colonel Richard Bland, for his treatise,
entitled "An Enquiry into the Rights of the British Colonies."

6. _Resolved_, That a committee be appointed, who shall make public
the above resolutions, and {356} correspond, as they shall see
occasion, with the associated Sons of, and Friends to Liberty, in the
British colonies in America.

Copy--Test,

J. H. _Secretary_.

[Here ends the record of the proceedings of the Sons of Liberty.]

[The following is a copy of the original letter in the hand-writing of
Richard Bland, and attached to the above record, in answer to the
letter of thanks written him in obedience to one of the resolves, but
which no where appears on the minutes.]

_Gentlemen!_

The approbation of my Enquiry into the rights of the British Colonies,
by the Norfolk Sons of Liberty, which you have been pleased to
transmit to me in the politest terms, does me a very singular and
unexpected honor, and demands my most sincere acknowledgements, which
I beg leave to return to them with feelings of the warmest gratitude.

The glorious cause they have united to defend, merits of every true
friend of the colonies the highest sentiments of their virtue. And
though we have the strongest assurance that the violent attacks made
upon our rights and liberties by a late arbitrary and oppressive
minister will soon be removed; yet the noble resolutions entered into
by the Norfolk Sons of Liberty, against the detestable stamp act, will
remain lasting monuments of their patriotic spirit and love to their
country. I am, with particular regard to yourselves, and the deepest
respect to all the members of your association, gentlemen, your much
obliged and very

RICHARD BLAND.

_Jordan's May 8th, 1766_.

To Paul Loyall, Lewis Hansford, and Thomas Newton, Jr. Esqrs. in
Norfolk.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Virginia, Borough of Norfolk, to wit:_

I hereby certify that the foregoing is a true copy of an old record in
the clerk's office of the Borough aforesaid, endorsed "Proceedings of
the Sons of Liberty at Norfolk, 1766, preserved as a monument of their
patriotic spirit and love to their country."

I further certify that the said record was found in the said office in
the year 1831, when I became clerk of the Borough court, and tradition
relates that it was deposited there at the date of the transactions
recorded.

In testimony whereof, I have hereunto set my hand and seal, this 16th
day of January, in the year 1835.

JOHN WILLIAMS, _C. C._

       *       *       *       *       *

ATTACK ON WHEELING FORT IN THE YEAR 1777.

We are indebted to Mr. Abraham Rogers, a distinguished actor in the
scene, and now a resident of this county, for the following
particulars of the attack, by the Indians, in the year 1777, on
Wheeling fort, and the successful defence of that place by twelve men.

As an interesting incident connected with the early settlement of the
country, and as a tribute of respect and gratitude to the early and
adventurous Pioneers of the west, for their valor, perseverance and
long suffering, it is due to their memory that it should be recorded,
and find a place in the history of our country.

The fort was situated on the higher bank or bluff, not far from the
place, where the mansion house of the late Noah Zane, Esq., was
subsequently erected. It covered between one half and three quarters
of an acre of ground, and was enclosed with pickets 8 feet high. The
garrison, at the time of the attack, including all who were able to
bear arms, did not exceed 15 in number, and of these several were
between the ages of 12 and 18. The number of women and children is not
known.

The first intimation the commandant of the fort, (Col. David Shepard)
had of the approach of an enemy, was received the evening before the
attack, from Capt. Ogle, who with Abraham Rodgers, Joseph Biggs,
Robert Lemons and two others, had just arrived from Beech bottom fort,
on the Ohio, about 12 miles from Wheeling. Capt. Ogle, on his approach
to Wheeling, had observed below that place, the appearance of large
volumes of smoke in the atmosphere, which he rightly conjectured was
caused by the burning of Grave creek fort by hostile Indians, and upon
his arrival immediately communicated his suspicions to Col. Shepard,
but it was too late in the evening to reconnoitre. At a very early
hour the next morning, (1st day of September,) the commander of the
fort sent two of his men in a canoe, down the river, to ascertain the
cause of the smoke, and whether any Indians were in the neighborhood.
These two men were massacred by the Indians, (on their return as it
was supposed) at the mouth of Wheeling creek, a few hundred yards
below the fort. In the mean time, an Irish servant and a negro man had
also been sent out to reconnoitre in the immediate vicinity. The
Irishman was decoyed, seized, and killed by the Indians, but the negro
was permitted to escape, who, on his return, gave the first alarm of
the actual approach of the Indians. Capt. Ogle, on the receipt of this
intelligence, accompanied by 15 or 16 of the garrison, leaving but 12
or 13 in the fort, immediately proceeded towards the mouth of the
creek, in pursuit of the savages. The Indians were lying in ambush,
and permitted the captain and his devoted followers to advance almost
to the creek, when a brisk and most deadly fire was opened upon them;
they fought bravely--desperately; but overpowered by the number of the
enemy, were, all except the captain and two others, killed and
scalped.

Upon hearing the firing at the creek, Rodgers, Biggs and Lemons, left
the fort to join their comrades, but the work of death was over, their
comrades slaughtered, and the triumphant enemy with a horrid yell,
were rapidly advancing upon the fort. The three were fired upon and
compelled {357} to return. On their arrival at the gate of the fort,
so near were the savages, that it was not without the most imminent
danger that it was opened for their admission. A general attack was
then immediately made on the fort by the whole body of the Indians,
consisting of about 500 men, commanded by the infamous Simon Girty.
The grand assault was from the east side, under cover of a paled
garden, and a few half faced cabins within 40 or 50 yards of the fort,
of which they took possession, and from whence a brisk fire was kept
up until a late hour at night. During the engagement, the Indians
sustained great injury from the bursting of a maple log, which they
had bored like a cannon, and charged to fire upon the fort.

The little garrison of twelve sustained this protracted siege, from
about 7 o'clock in the morning until 10 or 11 o'clock at night, when
the savages were finally repulsed and obliged to retreat, without
having killed or wounded a single individual in the fort. The loss on
the part of the Indians was variously estimated from twenty to one
hundred, but their dead were principally carried off or concealed, and
a conjecture of the number of the killed, could only be formed from
the great appearance of blood, which was observable for many days
after the battle. The day was fair, and the most of the garrison were
called "sharp shooters," all of whom had a great number of "fair
shots:" it is therefore not improbable that some 30 or 40 of the enemy
were killed, and perhaps many more; for there was a continued firing
during the whole time of the engagement. Every man did his duty, and
all were entitled to an equal meed of praise and thanks from the
commander. But our informant particularly distinguished one person,
who, he said, contributed more to the successful termination of the
issue than any other. This was Mrs. Zane, wife of Ebenezer, and mother
of the late Noah Zane, Esq., who rendered much actual service to the
men, by running bullets, cutting patches, making cartridges, and
hurrying from post to post, cheering and encouraging by her presence,
exhortations and assistance, the sometimes almost exhausted efforts of
the brave defenders of the fort. By her example, zeal and presence of
mind, much assistance was also afforded, by a number of the other
"blessed women" in the fort, (as our informant termed them.) A rapid
fire was continued from the fort, from the commencement of the
assault, until the Indians retired. Their rifles were used until they
become too much heated to handle, when they were obliged to exchange
them for muskets, which were fortunately found in the magazine. This
more than Spartan band of patriots, had no time to take any sustenance
from Sunday, the last day of August, until the 2d September, after the
retreat of the Indians.

When it is considered that the Indians were led to the attack by the
noted Simon Girty, a man who had much experience in the art of savage
warfare, that he mustered more than 500 veteran warriors, and that the
fort was defended by 12, and those chiefly old men and boys; the
successful and glorious defence of the fort, by that little band of
western pioneers; their names will richly merit a place in the page of
history, with the most renowned heroes of the "olden time."

We much regret, that from a want of acquaintance with the localities
of the place, as well as from other circumstances, we have been unable
to do full justice to this subject; but we are not without a hope,
that some more experienced pen will take a hint from these crude
remarks, and redeem from oblivion this memorable event.




The Editor of the New York Evening Star is so well known and so highly
estimated as a political writer, that we believe there is no party
which does not feel the stronger for his friendship--or does not
experience some dread from his opposition. His genius, however, does
not exclusively delight in the _carte and tierce_ of political strife.
He has an infinite fund of strong common sense and racy humor, and
withal an uncommon power of description, which he employs with great
effect in hitting off the manners of the age, and rebuking those
pernicious innovations which are making such sad havoc with our
antient simplicity. In the following article, he depicts with
admirable force the evil consequences which, in our large cities
especially, are likely to flow from an unrestrained indulgence in the
follies and extravagancies of fashion.

FASHIONABLE PARTIES AND LATE HOURS.

BY M. M. NOAH.


We are killing ourselves in this country by inches, and that for a
tall man or an amazonian woman, is a dreadful reflection. In sooth,
our late hours break in terribly on real comfort, sound health, and
that refreshing sleep which "seals up the eyelids" in calm and soft
repose, and ministers to our real enjoyments. We marvel why _fashion_,
instead of being represented in bewitching and attractive colors, is
not drawn with a Medusa's head, fiery eyes and snaky crest--or, under
the silken cowl and wreaths of roses, a skeleton head peeping out as a
warning--a caution in time--a _memento mori_. In this country we eat
and dance ourselves to death with much more rapidity than they do at
the Sandwich Islands.

I met a friend on the _pave_ last week, who said, "Will you come to
our party to-morrow night?" "A party? How? Comfortable dish of tea,
game of whist, glass of whiskey-punch, and a sandwich, eh." "Oh, no--a
real tearer--a regular turnout--been preparing a fortnight. I must
give a couple every year for the sake of the world you know." "The
world, ha! Well, I'll come, and if I don't, you won't miss me in the
squeeze. Tell {358} me, for old acquaintance sake, how much will the
party cost?" "Why, about fifteen hundred dollars." "Fifteen hundred
dollars! Prodigious! How many charming _tertulias_ in Spain,
_converzaziones_ in Italy, and _soirees_ in France, would fifteen
hundred dollars procure?--and all this sum swallowed up in one dancing
frolic!"

I determined to go, and a friend promised to call for me in his
carriage. I was ready at seven, and sat quietly until nine--half past
nine--ten; when, just as I was ringing for my slippers, and preparing,
as Monsieur Morbleu says, for my night-caps, _rat-tat-tat_ goes the
coachman, and in walked my friend--pumps and tight pants on--white
gloves and perfumed handkerchief. "So, sir, a pretty time you have
called for me; why I have been ready since seven o'clock." "Seven
o'clock! why bless you, the company only begin to assemble at ten; and
even now we are rather early." "Early, do you call it? Go out to spend
the evening at half past ten o'clock! Well, well, I suppose we must
not be out of the fashion--so come along."

Our carriage rattled up one of the principal streets, and a glare of
light was showered in all directions from the house. We fell in behind
a range of coaches, and had to wait until our turn, and found, on
alighting, a retinue of yellow servants to usher us in the mansion; to
take our coats, hats, and canes, and prepare us in form for the
_entree_. Every thing was elegant--gayety, fashion, and pleasure
reigned triumphant; beauty, in resplendent beams, shed its halo over
the scene; plenty, from its golden horn, was poured forth in all
directions; music, and the giddy dance, were kept up with unabated
vigor, until the russet morn had nearly flickered the east. I got
home; tossed and tumbled for two or three hours in bed, and then rose
for the duties of the day.

Having occasion to call on an old gentleman about twelve o'clock, I
found him in his parlor, with the breakfast table before him. "What,
not breakfasted yet?" "O yes, long ago--this is for my daughters, who
came from the party about three o'clock, and are not yet up." In a few
minutes the young ladies entered; but oh, how altered!--where were the
bounding step and elastic gait--the brilliant eye, the jocund
smile--the silken attire--the well-dressed hair, and jewelled form of
last night's entertainment? They were pallid and exhausted--their eye,
their hair, their dress, all _en dishabille_--both with a hectic
cough--both looking as wo-begone and spiritless as if they had just
escaped from the siege of Troy.--"Have you slept well, girls?" said
the anxious parent. "Not a wink, father--we tossed and tumbled and
worried for several hours, but not a wink of sleep--oh, my head, my
head--and oh, my bones, my bones." "Probably your restlessness arose
from eating too heartily at supper."--"No such thing, father--why, I
only ate a little chicken salad, a wing of turkey, some jelly, a few
macaronies and mottoes, a dozen pickled oysters, and drank a few
glasses of champaign, that's all--excepting a sponge cake or two, and
a glass of lemonade, during dancing, and a little ginger sweetmeats.
There's Lizzy ate twice as much as I did." "No I didn't, but I was
more select, father; a few slices of cold tongue--a piece of a-la-mode
beef--three pickles--a few olives, some _blanc mange_--two plates of
ice-cream--a little floating island--some truffles and bons bons--and
oranges, plum-cake, and custard during the evening. I'm sure I don't
care much for solids." "And did you dance after supper?" "To be sure
we did; one cotillion, one contra dance, the mazourka and a
gallopade." The murder's out! no wonder at head-aches, and bone-aches,
and heart-aches, and sleepless hours, after so much eating; and then
dancing on so much eating--churning these singular masses of food and
contradictory condiments in a delicate female stomach, with scarcely
sufficient gastric juice to digest the wing of a pheasant.--That's the
way our girls kill themselves prematurely; that's the cause of our
heavy weekly lists of interments; of the many cases of consumption,
uncharitably carried to the credit of our climate. Alas! how many
charming women are hurried to the grave by carelessness; by the
bewitching attractions of fashion; by keeping late hours; by thin
clothing, and by eating too much! The observation made by strangers
is, "how pale and thin your ladies are!" Why will they not have
resolution enough to discard these seducing and destructive
allurements; why not enjoy life soberly, discreetly, prudently?

What can be more agonizing to true affection than to see the girl
nourished with tenderness in infancy; amiable, intelligent, and
accomplished, gradually sinking into the grave ere she reaches the age
of womanhood? The pride and delight of fond parents and numerous
friends, the rose which early bloomed, daily fading in the brilliancy
of its colors, and drooping like the lily of the vale? To see the eye,
once so brilliant, sunken, heavy, and dull; and the lips, once so
ruby, now thin and pallid? To witness the being so beloved, so
cherished, the victim of slow, but unerring disease, not
constitutional, but brought on by neglect, by fashion? To see the
vision recede from the sight, step by step, until evening frowns upon
its setting glory, and the tomb closes upon it forever!




PRIDE, ENVY, AND HATE.


If you want enemies, excel others; if you want friends, let others
excel you. There is a diabolical trio, existing in the _natural_ man,
implacable, inextinguishable, co-operative, and consentaneous, Pride,
Envy, and Hate. Pride, that makes us fancy we deserve all the goods
that others possess; Envy, that some should be admired, while we are
overlooked; and Hate, because all that is bestowed on others,
diminishes the sum that we think due to ourselves.--[_Lacon_.


{359}


We extract the following eloquent and pathetic narrative from the
pages of the "Western Monthly Magazine," published at Cincinnati,
Ohio; and we invite our readers, especially those of the "softer sex,"
to give it a perusal.

THE VILLAGE PASTOR'S WIFE.


What impels me to take up my pen, compose myself to the act of
writing, and begin the record of feelings and events which will
inevitably throw a shadow over the character which too partial and
misjudging affection once beheld shining with reflected lustre? I know
not--but it seems to me, as if a divine voice whispered from the
boughs that wave by my window, occasionally intercepting the sun's
rays that now fall obliquely on my paper, saying, that if I live for
memory, I must not live in vain--and that, perchance, when I, too, lie
beneath the willow that hangs over _his_ grave, unconscious of its
melancholy waving, a deep moral may be found in these pages, short and
simple as they may be. Then be it so. It is humiliating to dwell on
past errors--but I should rather welcome the humiliation, if it can be
any expiation for my blindness, my folly--no! such expressions are too
weak--I should say, my madness, my sin, my hard-hearted guilt.

It is unnecessary to dwell on my juvenile years. Though dependent on
the bounty of an uncle, who had a large family of his own to support,
every wish which vanity could suggest, was indulged as soon as
expressed. I never knew a kinder, more hospitable, uncalculating
being, than my uncle. If his unsparing generosity had not experienced
a counteracting influence in the vigilant economy of my aunt, he would
long since have been a bankrupt. She was never unkind to me; for I
believe she was conscientious, and she had loved my mother tenderly. I
was the orphan legacy of that mother, and consequently a sacred trust.
I was fed and clothed like my wealthier cousins; educated at the same
schools; ushered into the same fashionable society; where I learned
that awkwardness was considered the only unpardonable offence, and
that almost any thing might be said and done, provided it was said and
done gracefully. From the time of our first introduction into what is
called the world, I gradually lost ground in the affections of my
aunt, for I unfortunately eclipsed my elder cousins in those outer
gifts of nature and those acquired graces of manner, which, however
valueless, when unaccompanied by inward worth, have always exercised a
prevailing, an irresistible influence in society. I never exactly knew
why, but I was the favorite of my uncle, who seemed to love me better
than even his own daughters, and he rejoiced at the admiration I
excited, though often purchased at their expense. Perhaps the secret
was this. They were of a cold temperament; mine was ardent, and
whatever I loved, I loved without reserve, and expressed my affection
with characteristic warmth and enthusiasm. I loved my indulgent uncle
with all the fervor of which such a nature, made vain and selfish by
education, is capable. Often, after returning from an evening party,
my heart throbbing high with the delight of gratified vanity, when he
would draw me towards him and tell me--with most injudicious fondness,
it is true--that I was a thousand times prettier than the flowers I
wore, more sparkling than the jewels, and that I ought to marry a
prince or a nabob, I exulted more in his praise, than in the
flatteries that were still tingling in my ears. Even my aunt's
coolness was a grateful tribute to my self-love--for was it not
occasioned by my transcendency over her less gifted daughters?

But why do I linger on the threshold of events, which, simple in
themselves, stamped my destiny--for time, yea, and for eternity.

It was during a homeward journey, with my uncle, I first met him, who
afterwards became my husband. My whole head becomes sick and my whole
heart faint, as I think what I might have been, and what I am. But I
must forbear. If I am compelled at times to lay aside my pen, overcome
with agony and remorse, let me pause till I can go on, with a steady
hand, and a calmer brain.

Our carriage broke down--it was a common accident--a young gentleman
on horseback, who seemed like ourselves a traveller, came up to our
assistance. He dismounted, proffered every assistance in his power,
and accompanied us to the inn, which fortunately was not far distant,
for my uncle was severely injured, and walked with difficulty, though
supported by the stranger's arm and my own. I cannot define the
feeling, but from the moment I beheld him, my spirit was troubled
within me. I saw, at once, that he was of a different order of beings
from those I had been accustomed to associate with; and there was
something in the heavenly composure of his countenance and gentle
dignity of manner, that rebuked my restless desire for admiration and
love of display. I never heard any earthly sound so sweet as his
voice. Invisible communion with angels could alone give such tones to
the human voice. At first, I felt a strange awe in his presence, and
forgot those artificial graces, for which I had been too much admired.
Without meaning to play the part of a hypocrite, my real disposition
was completely concealed. During the three days we were detained, he
remained with us; and aloof from all temptation to folly, the best
traits of my character were called into exercise. On the morning of
our departure, as my uncle was expressing his gratitude for his
kindness, and his hope of meeting him in town, he answered--and it was
not without emotion--'I fear our paths diverge too much, to allow that
hope. Mine is a lowly one, but I trust I shall find it blest.' I {360}
then, for the first time learned that he was a minister--the humble
pastor of a country village. My heart died within me. That this
graceful and uncommonly interesting young man should be nothing more
than an obscure village preacher--it was too mortifying. All my bright
visions of conquest faded away. 'We can never be any thing to each
other,' thought I. Yet as I again turned towards him, and saw his
usually calm eye fixed on me with an expression of deep anxiety, I
felt a conviction that I might be all the world to him. He was
watching the effect of his communication, and the glow of excited
vanity that suffused my cheek was supposed to have its origin from a
purer source. I was determined to enjoy the full glory of my conquest.
When my uncle warmly urged him to accompany us home, and sojourn with
us a few days, I backed the invitation with all the eloquence my
countenance was capable of expressing. Vain and selfish being that I
was--I might have known that we differed from each other as much as
the rays of the morning star from the artificial glare of the
skyrocket. _He_ drew his light from the fountain of living glory, _I_
from the decaying fires of earth.

The invitation was accepted--and before that short visit was
concluded, so great was the influence he acquired over me, while _I_
was only seeking to gain the ascendancy over _his_ affections, that I
felt willing to give up the luxury and fashion that surrounded me, for
the sweet and quiet hermitage he described, provided the sacrifice
were required. I never once thought of the duties that would devolve
upon me, the solemn responsibilities of my new situation. It is one of
the mysteries of Providence, how such a being as myself could ever
have won a heart like his. He saw the sunbeam playing on the surface,
and thought that all was fair beneath. I did love him; but my love was
a passion, not a principle. I was captivated by the heavenly graces of
his manner, but was incapable of comprehending the source whence those
graces were derived.

My uncle would gladly have seen me established in a style more
congenial to my prevailing taste, but gave his consent, as he said, on
the score of his surpassing merit. My aunt was evidently more than
willing to have me married, while my cousins rallied me, for falling
in love with a country parson.

We were married. I accompanied him to the beautiful village of ----. I
became mistress of the parsonage. Never shall I forget the moment when
I first entered this avenue, shaded by majestic elms; beheld these
low, white walls, festooned with redolent vines; and heard the voice,
which was then the music of my life, welcome me here, as Heaven's best
and loveliest gift. How happy--how blest I might have been! and I
_was_ happy for awhile. His benign glance and approving smile were,
for a short time, an equivalent for the gaze of admiration and strains
of flattery to which I had been accustomed. I even tried, in some
measure, to conform to his habits and tastes, and to cultivate the
good will of the plebians and rustics who constituted a great portion
of his parish. But the mind, unsupported by principle, is incapable of
any steady exertion. Mine gradually wearied of the effort of assuming
virtues, to which it had no legitimate claim. The fervor of feeling
which had given a bluer tint to the sky and a fairer hue to the
flower, insensibly faded. I began to perceive defects in every object,
and to wonder at the blindness which formerly overlooked them. I still
loved my husband; but the longer I lived with him, the more his
character soared above the reach of mine. I could not comprehend, how
one could be endowed with such brilliant talents and winning graces,
and not wish for the admiration of the world. I was vexed with him for
his meekness and humility, and would gladly have mingled, if I could,
the base alloy of earthly ambition with his holy aspirations after
heaven. I was even jealous--I almost tremble while I write it--of the
God he worshipped. I could not bear the thought, that I held a second
place in his affections--though second only to the great and glorious
Creator. Continually called from my side to the chamber of the sick,
the couch of the dying, the dwelling of the poor and ignorant, I in
vain sought to fill up the widening vacuum left, by becoming
interested in the duties of my station. I could not do it. They became
every day more irksome to me. The discontent I was cherishing, became
more and more visible, till the mild and anxious eye of my husband
vainly looked for the joyous smile that used to welcome his return.

It is true, there were many things I was obliged to tolerate, which
must inevitably be distasteful to one, educated with such false
refinement as I have been. But I never reflected they must be as
opposed to my husband's tastes as my own, and that christian principle
alone led him to the endurance of them. Instead of appreciating his
angelic patience and forbearance, I blamed him for not lavishing more
sympathy on me for trials which, though sometimes ludicrous in
themselves, are painful from the strength of association.

The former minister of the village left a maiden sister as a kind of
legacy to his congregation. My husband had been a protegee and pupil
of the good man, who, on his death-bed, bequeathed his people to the
charge of this son of his adoption, and _him_, with equal tenderness
and solemnity, to the care of his venerable sister. She became a
fixture in the parsonage, and to me a perpetual and increasing
torment. The first month of our marriage, she was absent, visiting
some of her seventh cousins in a neighboring town. I do not wish to
{361} exculpate myself from blame; but, if ever there was a thorn in
human flesh, I believe I had found it in this inquisitive,
gratuitously advising woman. I, who had always lived among roses,
without thinking of briars, was doomed to feel this thorn, daily,
hourly, goading me; and was constrained to conceal as much as possible
the irritation she caused, because my husband treated her with as much
respect as if she were an empress. I thought Mr. L---- was wrong in
this. Owing to the deep placidity of his own disposition, he could not
realize what a trial such a companion was to a mercurial, indulged,
self-willed being as myself. Nature has gifted me with an exquisite
ear for music, and a discord always 'wakes the nerve where agony is
born.' Poor aunt Debby had a perfect mania for singing, and she would
sit and sing for hours together, old fashioned ballads and hymns of
surprising length--scarcely pausing to take breath. I have heard aged
people sing the songs of Zion, when there was most touching melody in
their tones; and some of the warmest feelings of devotion I ever
experienced, were awakened by these solemn, trembling notes. But aunt
Debby's voice was full of indescribable ramifications, each a separate
discord--a sharp sour voice, indicative of the natural temper of the
owner. One Sunday morning, after she had been screeching one of Dr.
Watts' hymns, of about a hundred verses, she left me to prepare for
church. When we met, after finishing our separate toilettes, she began
her animadversions on my dress, as being too gay for a minister's
wife. I denied the charge; for though made in the redundance of
fashion, it was of unadorned white. 'But what,' said she, disfiguring
the muslin folds with her awkward fingers, 'what is the use of all
these fandangles of lace? They are nothing but Satan's devices to lead
astray silly women, whose minds are running after finery.' All this I
might have borne with silent contempt, for it came from aunt Debby;
but when she brought the authority of a Mrs. Deacon and a Mrs. Doelan
of the parish to prove that she was not the only one who found fault
with the fashion of my attire, the indignant spirit broke its bounds;
deference for age was forgotten in the excitement of the moment, and
the concentrated irritation of weeks burst forth. I called her an
impertinent, morose old maid, and declared that one or the other of us
should leave the parsonage. In the midst of the paroxysm, my husband
entered--the calm of heaven on his brow. He had just left his closet,
where he had been to seek the divine manna for the pilgrims it was his
task to guide through the wilderness of life. He looked from one to
the other, in grief and amazement. Aunt Debby had seated herself on
his entrance, and began to rock herself backward and forward, and to
sigh and groan--saying it was a hard thing to be called such hard
names at her time of life, &c. I stood, my cheeks glowing with anger,
and my heart violently palpitating with the sudden effort at
self-control. He approached me, took my hand, and said, 'My dear
Mary!' There was affection in his tone, but there was upbraiding,
also; and drawing away my hand, I wept in bitterness of spirit. As
soon as I could summon sufficient steadiness of voice, I told him the
cause of my resentment, and declared, that I would never again enter a
place, where I was exposed to ridicule and censure, and from those,
too, so immeasurably my inferiors in birth and education. 'Dearest
Mary!' exclaimed he, turning pale from agitation, 'you cannot mean
what you say. Let not such trifles as these, mar the peace of this
holy day. I grieve that your feelings should have been wounded; but
what matters it what the world says of our outward apparel, if our
souls are clothed with those robes of holiness, which make us lovely
in our Maker's eyes? Let us go together to the temple of Him, whose
last legacy to man was _peace_.' Though the bell was ringing its last
notes, and though I saw him so painfully disturbed, I still resisted
the appeal, and repeated my rash asseveration. The bell had pealed its
latest summons, and was no longer heard. 'Mary, must I go alone?' His
hand was on the latch--there was a burning flush on his cheek, such as
I had never seen before. My pride would have yielded--my conscience
convicted me of wrong--I would have acknowledged my rashness, had not
aunt Debby, whom I thought born to be my evil spirit, risen with a
long-drawn sigh, and taken his arm, preparatory to accompany him.
'No,' said I, 'you will not be alone. You need not wait for me. In
aunt Debby's company, you cannot regret mine.'

Surely my heart must have been steeled, like Pharaoh's, for some
divine purpose, or I never could have resisted the mute anguish of his
glance, as he closed the door on this cold and unmerited taunt. What
hours of wretchedness I passed in the solitude of my chamber. I
magnified my sufferings into those of martyrdom, and accused Mr. L----
of not preparing me for the trials of my new situation. Yet, even
while I reproached him in my heart, I was conscious of my injustice,
and felt that I did not suffer alone. It was the first time any other
than words of love and kindness had passed between us, and it seemed
to me, that a barrier was beginning to rise, that would separate us
forever. When we again met, I tried to retain the same cold manner and
averted countenance, but he came unaccompanied by my tormenter, and
looked so dejected and pale, my petulance and pride yielded to the
reign of better feelings. I had even the grace to make concessions,
which were received with such gratitude and feeling, I was melted into
goodness, transient, but sincere. Had aunt Debby remained from us, all
{362} might yet have been well; but after having visited awhile among
the parish, she returned; and her presence choked the blossoms of my
good resolutions. I thought she never forgave the offending epithet I
had given her in the moment of passion. It is far from my intention,
in delineating peculiarities like hers, to throw any opprobrium on
that class of females, who from their isolated and often unprotected
situation, are peculiarly susceptible to the shafts of unkindness or
ridicule. I have known those, whose influence seemed as diffusive as
the sunshine and gentle as the dew; at whose approach the ringlets of
childhood would be tossed gaily back, and the wan cheek of the aged
lighted up with joy; who had devoted the glow of their youth, and the
strength of their prime, to acts of filial piety and love, watching
the waning fires of life, as the vestal virgins the flame of the
altar. Round such beings as these, the beatitudes cluster; and yet the
ban of unfeeling levity is passed upon the maiden sisterhood. But I
wander from my path. It is not _her_ history I am writing, so much as
my own; which, however deficient in incident, is not without its moral
power.

I experienced one source of mortification, which I have not yet
mentioned; it may even seem too insignificant to be noticed, and yet
it was terribly grating to my aristocratic feelings. Some of our good
parishioners were in the habit of lavishing attentions, so repugnant
to me, that I did not hesitate to refuse them; which I afterwards
learned, gave great mortification and displeasure. I would willingly
accept a basket of fragrant strawberries, or any of the elegant
bounties of nature; but, when they offered such plebeian gifts as a
shoulder of pork or mutton, a sack of grain or potatoes, _I_
invariably returned my cold thanks and declined the honor. Is it
strange, that I should become to them an object of aversion, and that
they should draw comparisons, humbling to me, between their idolized
minister and his haughty bride?

My uncle and cousins made me a visit, not long after my rupture with
aunt Debby, which only served to render me more unhappy. My uncle
complained so much of my altered appearance, my faded bloom and
languid spirits, I saw that it gave exquisite pain to Mr. L----, while
my cousins, now in their day of power, amused themselves continually
with the old fashioned walls of the house, the obsolete style of the
furniture, and my humdrum mode of existence. Had I possessed one spark
of heavenly fire, I should have resented all this as an insult to him
whom I had solemnly vowed to love and honor. These old fashioned walls
should have been sacred in my eyes. They were twice hallowed--hallowed
by the recollections of departed excellence and the presence of living
holiness. Every leaf of the magnificent elms that overshadowed them,
should have been held sacred, for the breath of morning and evening
prayer had been daily wafted over them, up to the mercy-seat of
heaven.

I returned with my uncle to the metropolis. It is true, he protested
that he would not, could not leave me behind--and that change of scene
was absolutely necessary to the restoration of my bloom, and Mr. L----
gave his assent with apparent cheerfulness and composure. But I
knew--I felt that his heart bled at my willingness, my wish to be
absent from him, so soon after our marriage. He told me to consult my
own happiness, in the length of my visit, and that he would endeavor
to find a joy in solitude, in thinking of mine. 'Oh!' said one of my
cousins, with a loud laugh, 'you can never feel solitary, when aunt
Debby is'--

Behold me once more 'mid the scenes congenial to my soul--a gay
flower, sporting over the waves of fashion, thoughtless of the caverns
of death beneath. Again the voice of flattery fell meltingly on my
ear; and while listening to the siren, I forgot those mild,
admonishing accents, which were always breathing of heaven--or if I
remembered them at all, they came to my memory like the grave rebuke
of Milton's cherub--severe in their beauty. Yes, I did remember them
when I was alone; and there are hours when the gayest will feel
desolately alone. I thought of him in his neglected home; him, from
whom I was gradually alienating myself for his very perfections, and
accusing conscience avenged his rights. Oh! how miserable, how poor we
are, when unsupported by our own esteem! when we fear to commune with
our own hearts, and doubly tremble to bear them to the all-seeing eye
of our Maker! My husband often wrote me most affectionately. He did
not urge my return, but said, whenever I felt willing to exchange the
pleasures of the metropolis for the seclusion of the hermitage, his
arms and his heart were open to receive me. At length I received a
letter, which touched those chords, that yet vibrated to the tones of
nature and feeling. He seldom spoke of himself--but in this, he
mentioned having been very ill, though then convalescent. 'Your
presence, my Mary,' said he, 'would bring healing on its wings. I
fear, greatly fear, I have doomed you to unhappiness, by rashly
yielding to the influence of your beauty and winning manners, taking
advantage of your simplicity and inexperience, without reflecting how
unfitted you were, from natural disposition and early habits, to be a
fellow-laborer in so humble a portion of our Master's vineyard. Think
not, my beloved wife, I say this in reproach. No! 'tis in sorrow, in
repentance, in humiliation of spirit. I have been too selfish. I have
not shown sufficient sympathy for the trials and vexations to which,
for me, you have been exposed. I have asked to receive too much. I
have given back too little. Return then, my Mary; you were created for
nobler purposes than the beings who surround you. Let us begin {363}
life anew. Let us take each other by the hand as companions for
time--but pilgrims for eternity. Be it mine to guard, guide, and
sustain--yours, to console, to gild and comfort.' In a postscript, he
added:

'I am better now--a journey will restore me. I will soon be with you,
when I trust we will not again be parted.'

My heart was not of rock. It was moved--melted. I should have been
less than human, to have been untouched by a letter like this. All my
romantic love, but so recently chilled, returned; and I thought of his
image as that of an angel's. Ever impulsive, ever actuated by the
passion of the moment, I made the most fervent resolutions of
amendment, and panted for the hour when we should start for, together,
this immortal goal! Alas! how wavering were my purposes--how
ineffective my holy resolutions.

       *       *       *       *       *

There was a numerous congregation gathered on the Sabbath morn, not in
the simple village church, but the vaulted walls of a city dome. A
stranger ascended the pulpit. Every eye was turned on him and none
wandered. He was pallid, as from recent indisposition; but there was a
flitting glow on his cheek, the herald of coming inspiration. There
was a divine simplicity, a sublime fervor, an abandonment of self, a
lifting up of the soul to heaven, an indescribable and spiritual
charm, pervading his manner, that was acknowledged by the breathless
attention of a crowded audience, composed of the wealth and fashion of
the metropolis. And I was there, the proudest, the happiest of the
throng. That gifted being was my husband. I was indemnified for all
past mortifications, and looked forward to bright years of felicity,
not in the narrow path we had heretofore travelled, but a wider, more
brilliant sphere. My imagination placed him at the head of that
admiring congregation; and I saw the lowly flock he had been lately
feeding, weeping, unpitied, between the porch and the altar.

Before we bade farewell to my uncle, I had abundant reason to believe
my vision would soon be realized. The church was then without a
pastor. No candidate had as yet appeared in whom their opinions or
affections were united. They were enthusiastic in their admiration of
Mr. L----, and protested against the obscurity of his location. With
such hopes gilding the future, I left the metropolis with a
cheerfulness and elasticity of spirits, which my husband hailed as a
surety for long years of domestic felicity. I would gladly linger here
awhile. I fear to go on. You have followed me so far with a kind of
complaisant interest, as a poor, vain, weak young creature, whose
native defects have been enhanced by education, and who has
unfortunately been placed in a sphere she is incapable of adorning.
The atmosphere is too pure, too rarified. Removed at once from the
valley of sin to the mount of holiness, I breathe with difficulty the
celestial air, and pant for more congenial regions. Must I proceed?
Your compassion will turn to detestation: yet I cannot withdraw from
the task I have imposed on myself. It is an expiatory one; and oh, may
it be received as such!

It was scarcely more than a week after our return. All had been peace
and sunshine: so resolved was I to be all that was lovely and amiable,
I even listened with apparent patience to aunt Debby's interminable
hymns, and heard some of her long stories, the seventy-seventh time,
without any manifest symptom of vexation. It was about sunset. We sat
together in the study, my husband and myself, watching the clouds as
they softly rolled towards the sinking sun, to dip their edges in his
golden beams. The boughs of the elms waved across the window, giving
us glimpses of the beautiful vale beyond, bounded by the blue outline
of the distant hills. Whether it was the warm light reflected on his
face, or the glow of the heart suffusing it, I know not, but I never
saw his usually pale features more radiantly lighted up than at that
moment. A letter was brought to him. I leaned over his shoulder while
he opened it. From the first line I understood its import: it was the
realization of my hopes. The offer was there made--more splendid, more
liberal than I had dared to anticipate. I did not speak: but with
cheeks burning and hands trembling with eagerness and joy, I waited
till he had perused it. He still continued silent. Almost indignant at
his calmness, I ejaculated his name in an impatient tone; when he
raised his eyes from the paper and fixed them on me. I read there the
death-blow of my hopes. They emitted no glance of triumph: there was
sorrow, regret, humility, and love--but I looked in vain for more. 'I
am sorry for this,' said he, 'for your sake, my dear Mary. It may
excite wishes, which can never be realized. No! let us be happy in the
lowlier sphere, in which an All-wise Being has marked my course. I
cannot deviate from it.' 'Cannot!' repeated I: 'say, rather, you will
not.' I could not articulate more. The possibility of a refusal on his
part had never occurred to me. I was thunderstruck. He saw my
emotion--and, losing all his composure, rose and crushed the letter in
his hand. 'I could not, if I would, accept this,' he cried; 'and, were
my own wishes to be alone consulted, I would not, were I free to act.
But it is not so. I am bound to this place, by a solemn promise, which
cannot be broken. Here, in this very house it was made, by the dying
bed of the righteous, who bequeathed the people he loved to _my_
charge--_me_, the orphan he had protected and reared. "Never leave
them, my son," said the expiring saint--"never leave the lambs of my
flock to be scattered on the mountains." {364} I pledged my word,
surrounded by the solemnities of death: yea, even while his soul was
taking its upward flight. It is recorded, and cannot be recalled.'

Did I feel the sacredness of the obligation he revealed? Did I
venerate the sanctity of his motives, and admit their authority? No!
Totally unprepared for such a bitter disappointment, when I seemed
touching the summit of all my wishes, I was maddened--reckless. I
upbraided him for having more regard to a dead guardian, who could no
longer be affected by his decision, than for a living wife. I
threatened to leave him to the obscurity in which he was born, and
return to the friends who loved me so much better than himself. Seeing
him turn deadly pale at this, and suddenly put his hand on his heart,
I thought I had discovered the spring to move his resolution, and
determined that I would not let it go. I moved towards the door,
thinking it best to leave him a short time to his own reflections,
assured that love must be victorious over conscience. He made a motion
as if to detain me, as I passed--then again pressed his hand on his
heart. That silent motion--never, never, can I forget it! 'Are you
resolved on this?' asked he, in a low, very hoarse tone of voice.
'Yes, if you persist in your refusal. I leave you to decide.' I went
into the next room. I heard him walk a few moments, as if agitated and
irresolute--then suddenly stop. I then heard a low, suppressed cough,
but to this he was always subject, when excited, and it caused no
emotion. Yet, after remaining alone for some time, I began to be
alarmed at the perfect stillness. A strange feeling of horror came
over me. I remembered the deadly paleness of his countenance, and the
cold dew gathered fast and thick on my brow. I recollected, too, that
he had told me of once having bled at the lungs, and of being
admonished to shun every predisposing cause to such a malady. Strange,
that after such an entire oblivion of every thing but self, these
reflections should have pressed upon me, with such power, at that
moment. I seemed suddenly gifted with second sight, and feared to
move, lest I should see the vision of my conscience embodied. At
length, aunt Debby opened the door, and for the first time, rejoicing
in her sight, _I_ entreated her to go into the library, with an
earnestness that appalled her. She did go--and her first sharp scream
drew me to her side. There, reclined upon the sofa, motionless,
lifeless--his face, white as a snow-drift, lay my husband; his
neck-cloth and vest, saturated with the blood that still flowed from
his lips. Yes, he lay there--lifeless, dead, dead! The wild shriek of
agony and remorse pierced not his unconscious ear. He was dead, and
_I_ was his murderer. The physician who was summoned, pronounced my
doom. From violent agitation of mind, a blood vessel had been broken,
and instant death had ensued. Weeks of frenzy, months of despair,
succeeded--of black despair. Nothing but an almighty arm thrown around
my naked soul, held me back from the brink of suicide. Could I have
believed in annihilation--and I wrestled with the powers of reason to
convince myself that in the grave, at least, I should find rest. I
prayed but for rest--I prayed for oblivion. Night and day the image of
that bleeding corse was before me. Night and day a voice was ringing
in my ears, '_Thou hast murdered him!_' My sufferings were so fearful
to witness, the at first compassionate neighbors deserted my pillow,
justifying themselves by the conviction that I merited all that I
endured.

My uncle and aunt came when they first heard the awful tidings, but
unable to support my raving distress, left me--after providing every
thing for my comfort--with the injunction that as soon as I should be
able to be removed, to be carried to their household. And whose kind,
unwearied hand smoothed my lonely pillow, and held my aching brow?
Who, when wounded reason resumed her empire, applied the balm of
Gilead and the oil of tenderness; led me to the feet of the divine
Physician, prayed with me and for me, wept with me and over me, nor
rested till she saw me clinging to the cross, in lowliness of spirit,
with the seal of the children of God in my forehead, and the joy of
salvation in my soul? It was aunt Debby. The harsh condemner of the
fashions of this world, the stern reprover of vanity and pride, the
uncompromising defender of godliness and truth; she who in my day of
prosperity was the cloud, in the night of sorrow was my light and
consolation. The rough bark was penetrated and the finer wood beneath
gave forth its fragrance. Oh! how often, as I have heard her, seated
by my bedside, explaining in a voice softened by kindness, the
mysteries of holiness, and repeating the promises of mercy, have I
wondered, that I, who had turned a deaf ear to the same truths, when
urged upon me with all an angel's eloquence, should listen with
reverence to accents from which I had heretofore turned in disgust.
Yet, at times, there seemed a dignity in her tones; her harsh features
would light up with an expression of devout ecstacy, and I marvelled
at the transforming power of christianity. Well may I marvel! I would
not now, for the diadem of the east, exchange this sequestered
hermitage for the halls of fashion--these hallowed shades for the
canopies of wealth--or the society of the once despised and hated aunt
Debby, for the companionship of flatterers. I see nothing but thorns
where once roses blushed. The voice of the charmer has lost its power,
though 'it charm never so wisely.' My heart lies buried in the tomb on
which the sunlight now solemnly glimmers--my hopes are fixed on those
regions from whence those rays depart. {365} Had he only lived to
forgive me--to know my penitence and agony--but the last words that
ever fell on his ear from my lips, were those of passion and
rebellion--the last glance I ever cast on him, was proud and
upbraiding.

The sketch is finished--memory overpowers me.

C. L. H.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THOUGHTS ON AFFECTATION.

  _For the benefit of all whom they may concern_.


Affectation, as defined by Johnson, is "an artificial show, an
elaborate appearance, a false pretence,"--"affected, studied with
overmuch care, or with hypocritical appearance." The terms of this
definition are so revolting, that the justice of its ascription to any
individual, however felt, can scarcely be expected to be acknowledged
by such, because it too deeply wounds self-love, its natural parent.
Studiously disguised from ourselves, it is vainly believed to be so
from others. Let us compare the utmost advantages to be derived from
its adoption, with its peril and its loss. Do we really hope to
improve by it, those qualities, moral, intellectual or physical, with
which the bounty of nature has distinctively gifted us? Or do we hope
by "an artificial show, an elaborate appearance, a false pretence," to
obtain credit with others for attributes which do not belong to us?
and with the deceitful appearance of which, (_provided_ it deceive,)
we shall be basely content; thus falsely laboring for the attainment
of a vain shadow, when the same labor honestly bestowed, would give us
the real substance of all we ought to desire, viz: that solid
improvement of the heart and mind, around which ever play, as their
natural consequences, the most captivating of all graces--_simplicity
and truth_. Viewed simply as matter of taste, can any thing short of
its vilest corruption, its lowest degradation, induce a preference for
a clumsy counterfeit, a hand-maiden, who impudently usurping the place
of her mistress, presumes to play high life below stairs, over her
noble mistress, arrayed in her simple majesty? What monstrous
perversion can prompt us to turn the latter out of doors, and hug to
our bosoms so vile an intruder? With what bribes does she corrupt the
loyalty of her fair advocates? With what store of "quips and quirks,
and wreathed smiles?" with what rich caskets of bright gems,
counterfeit or stolen; with what rare graces, unmatched by those even
of her injured and abused mistress, which she boldly pronounces _fade
and obsolete_? Alas! how often do such meretricious lures prove
resistless to the infatuated fair one! Behold her arrayed in all the
paraphernalia of the despicable traitress,--henceforth sole promptress
of the drama in which she proposes to act a conspicuous part, and
which she vainly flatters herself to act with that last degree of art
which conceals it. Not reflecting that the whole history of dramatic
art affords few such adepts, she aspires at her very first debut, to
surpass even a Siddons. Discarding nature, and not sufficiently wedded
to art,--what becomes of her witchery? Her smiles are grimaces--her
laughter discord--her movements ridiculous antics. Her tones speak to
any thing but the heart;--all is foreign to nature,--whose modesty she
outrages and oversteps. She is mocked and  hissed by all the world
with whom she would cordially unite, were the actress other than her
own _dear_ self, whom alone self-love has blinded to herself. Hers is
the delusion of the silly ostrich, which in the concealment of his
head, thinks to elude pursuit. But granting her the utmost success of
long and carefully practised art--and that her airs and graces, her
soft _languishments_, killing glances, heavenly smiles, and soul
thrilling laughter, have all the witchery that such art can give, and
have called forth the applause of the crowd of vulgar admirers,--will
it compensate for the obvious disgust of those who have learned to
detect and to despise their empty and heartless display? Will it
compensate for the lowering of that proud self-esteem, which is the
bright reward of truth, and the best security of virtue? Would she
flourish in the empire of the heart, that bright dominion of her sex?
Would she, by her look, manner and words, inspire respect, confidence
and love? And shall each betray that they have been practised but to
deceive? Shall she hope to speak to the heart in tones which come not
from the heart? Shall she hope to engage interest for the subject of
her conversation, when full not of it but of herself? For what is it
that she would challenge the affections? For a being pure, single
hearted, and identical,--or for one whose very identity is almost lost
amidst the perpetually varying aspects and phases, under which, in her
inflated vanity, she pleases to exhibit herself. How shall our love
continue to pursue, and cling to that, of whose very form and essence
we have no abiding assurance? In the disruption of feeling produced by
such changes, we cannot but feel that we have almost lost the beloved
object, and exclaim in bitterness,--alas! she is no longer what I have
loved.

  "Why _affectation_,--why this mock grimace?
   Go silly thing, and hide that simp'ring face;
   Thy lisping prattle, and thy mincing gait--
   All thy false mimic fooleries I hate:
   For thou art Folly's counterfeit--and she,
   Altho' right foolish, hath the better plea;--
   Nature's true idiot I prefer to thee.

  "Why that soft languish,--why that drawling tone?
   Art sick? art sleepy? Get thee hence; begone--
   I laugh at all thy pretty baby tears,
   Those flutterings, faintings, and unreal fears.

  "Can they deceive us? Can such mum'ries move?
   Touch us with pity, or inspire with love?
   No! affectation--vain is all thy art;
   Those eyes may wander over every part,
   They'll never find their passage to the heart."

Of all the diseases of the mind or the heart, affectation is the
fittest subject of ridicule,--since we are ridiculous not for what we
are, but for what we pretend to be. One of the arguments of the
apologists for this mean and pitiful vice is,--that the ordinary
conventional forms of politeness necessarily involve its commission,
and that all the tutored and refined graces of polished life, are but
its varying forms. Of the former, benevolence should be, if it be not
always, the genuine and captivating source; and if we have it not, the
assumption of a virtue which inculcates a sacrifice to the feelings of
others of our own, may find a sufficient apology, perhaps, for a
semblance to which society has learned to affix its value. With regard
to the latter, _la belle nature_ is loveliest when embellished, not
prostituted, by art, in its most vulgar form, viz: _affectation_.
{366} Neither wealth nor fashion can divest it of its character of
vulgarity. One should, indeed, be too proud to be _vain_, when vanity
leads to affectation,--which in its milder form, is the meanness of
asking credit for what we do not possess--and in its deeper die,
impels us to obtain it by dissimulation, hypocrisy and fraud. In its
approaches, few vices are more insidious. Having its germ in the
indiscriminate love of imitation natural to youth, vanity prompts an
eager exchange of our native attributes, for what we deem attractive
in others--and artifice is speedily resorted to, to give the
acquisition the semblance of an original possession. One cherished
appropriation is added to another, until the product becomes a
complete bundle of fancied charms and perfections, entailing, however,
all that anxiety of concealment, whose only tendency is to betray the
theft. If the original effects of affectation have been correctly
assigned, the mode and importance of prevention will sufficiently
suggest themselves. Let parents beware how they suffer their children
to be exposed to the contagion of this vile leprosy. Let them
carefully remove from them, as from a pestilence, those infected
subjects, whose resemblance they would shudder to see them. The
garment of affectation once put on, like that of the fated Nessus,
grows to the wearer. Should her complacency ever be so far alarmed as
to make her attempt to doff it, may vainly fancy she has succeeded, by
simply pulling it around, and exhibiting it under a different aspect.
Should she be so fortunate as to have the most invaluable, because the
rarest of friends,--one who will neither flatter, nor shrink from the
task of the faithful anatomy of her heart, and the development of the
fatal poison which lurks at its core, and be brought sincerely to
desire its removal,--let her, while she earnestly applies to it her
own rigid examinations, fervently invoke the aid of a mightier
physician, who cleansing her heart, will restore her to a place a
little less than the angels, of whom I am an

ADORER.




Our readers are apprised that the poet Willis has for some time past,
been employed in making the grand tour of Europe--a kind of literary
reconnoissance, not only for his own benefit and gratification, but
also for the purpose, we suppose, of enriching the columns of the New
York Mirror (of which periodical he is one of the Editors,) with the
various results of his observation. With many of his letters, or
"first impressions" as they are called, we acknowledge ourselves to
have been much delighted. His sketches of character and scenery are
generally very impressive, and whilst on the one hand he avoids the
too common fault of American writers,--a wearisome profusion of
words--he does not, on the other, disdain the graces of ornament, or
the beauties of amplification. It appears that he is at last peeping
into the concerns of our venerable ancestor, John Bull. We hope that
he will give a fair and candid account of the old gentleman's virtues,
as well as his faults and peculiarities, "nothing extenuating, nor
setting down aught in malice."--The following letter is very
interesting.

WILLIS'S IMPRESSIONS OF LONDON.


From the top of Shooter's Hill we got our first view of London--an
indistinct, architectural mass, extending all round to the horizon,
and half enveloped in a dim and lurid smoke. "That is St.
Paul's!--there is Westminster Abbey!--there is the Tower of London!"
What directions were these to follow for the first time with the eye!

From Blackheath, (seven or eight miles from the centre of London,) the
beautiful hedges disappeared, and it was one continued mass of
buildings. The houses were amazingly small, a kind of thing that would
do for an object in an imitation perspective park, but the soul of
neatness pervaded them. Trellises were nailed between the little
windows, roses quite overshadowed the low doors, a painted fence
enclosed the hand's breadth of grass-plot, and very, oh, _very_ sweet
faces bent over lapfuls of work beneath the snowy and looped-up
curtains. It was all home-like and amiable. There was an
_affectionateness_ in the mere outside of every one of them.

After crossing Waterloo bridge, it was busy work for the eyes. The
brilliant shops, the dense crowds of people, the absorbed air of every
passenger, the lovely women, the cries, the flying vehicles of every
description, passing with the most dangerous speed--accustomed as I am
to large cities, it quite made me giddy. We got into a "jarvey" at the
coach-office, and in half an hour I was in comfortable quarters, with
windows looking down St. James'-street, and the most interesting leaf
of my life to turn over. "Great emotions interfere little with the
mechanical operations of life," however, and I dressed and dined,
though it was my first hour in London.

I was sitting in the little parlor alone, over a fried sole and a
mutton cutlet, when the waiter came in, and pleading the crowded state
of the hotel, asked my permission to spread the other side of the
table for a clergyman. I have a kindly preference for the cloth, and
made not the slightest objection. Enter a fat man, with top-boots and
a hunting whip, rosy as Bacchus, and excessively out of breath with
mounting one flight of stairs. Beefsteak and potatoes, a pot of porter
and a bottle of sherry followed close on his heels. With a single
apology for the intrusion, the reverend gentleman fell to, and we ate
and drank for a while in true English silence.

"From Oxford, sir, I presume," he said at last, pushing back his
plate, with an air of satisfaction.

"No, I had never the pleasure of seeing Oxford."

"R-e-ally! may I take a glass of wine with you, sir?"

We got on swimmingly. He would not believe I had never been in England
till the day before, but his cordiality was no colder for that. We
exchanged port and sherry, and a most amicable understanding found its
way down with the wine. Our table was near the window, and a great
crowd began to collect at the corner of St. James'-street. It was the
king's birth-day, and the people were thronging to see the nobility
come in state from the royal _levee_. The show was less splendid than
the same thing in Rome or Vienna, but it excited far more of my
admiration. Gaudiness and tinsel were exchanged for plain richness and
perfect fitness in the carriages and harness, while the horses were
incomparably finer. My friend pointed out to me the different liveries
as they turned the corner into Piccadilly, the duke of Wellington's
among others. I looked hard to see his grace; but the two pale and
beautiful faces on the {367} back seat, carried nothing like the
military nose on the handles of the umbrellas.

The annual procession of mail coaches followed, and it was hardly less
brilliant. The drivers and guard in their bright red and gold
uniforms, the admirable horses driven so beautifully, the neat
harness, the exactness with which the room of each horse was
calculated, and the small space in which he worked, and the
compactness and contrivance of the coaches, formed altogether one of
the most interesting spectacles I have ever seen. My friend, the
clergyman, with whom I had walked out to see them pass, criticised the
different teams _con amore_, but in language which I did not always
understand. I asked him once for an explanation; but he looked rather
grave, and said something about "gammon," evidently quite sure that my
ignorance of London was a mere quiz.

We walked down Piccadilly, and turned into, beyond all comparison, the
most handsome street I ever saw. The Toledo of Naples, the Corso of
Rome, the Kohlmarket of Vienna, the Rue de la Paix and Boulevards of
Paris, have each impressed me strongly with their magnificence, but
they are really nothing to Regent-street. I had merely time to get a
glance at it before dark; but for breadth and convenience, for the
elegance and variety of the buildings, though all of the same scale
and material, and for the brilliancy and expensiveness of the shops,
it seemed to me quite absurd to compare it with any thing between New
York and Constantinople--Broadway and the Hippodrome included.

It is the custom for the king's tradesmen to illuminate their shops on
his majesty's birth-night, and the principal streets on our return
were in a blaze of light. The crowd was immense. None but the lower
order seemed abroad, and I cannot describe to you the effect on my
feelings on hearing my own language spoken by every man, woman and
child about me. It seemed a completely foreign country in every other
respect, different from what I had imagined, different from my own and
all that I had seen, and coming to it last, it seemed to me the
farthest off and strangest country of all--and yet the little sweep,
who went laughing through the crowd, spoke a language that I had heard
attempted in vain by thousands of educated people, and that I had
grown to consider next to unattainable by others, and almost useless
to myself. Still, it did not make me feel at home. Every thing else
about me was too new. It was like some mysterious change in my own
ears--a sudden power of comprehension, such as a man might feel who
was cured suddenly of deafness. You can scarcely enter into my
feelings till you have had the changes of French, Italian, German,
Greek, Turkish, Illyrian, and the mixtures and dialects of each, rung
upon your hearing almost exclusively, as I have for years. I wandered
about as if I were exercising some supernatural faculty in a dream.

A friend in Italy had kindly given me a letter to lady Blessington,
and with a strong curiosity to see this celebrated lady, I called on
her the second day after my arrival in London. It was "deep i' the
afternoon," but I had not yet learned the full meaning of "town
hours."--"Her ladyship had not come down to breakfast." I gave the
letter and my address to the powdered footman, and had scarce reached
home when a note arrived inviting me to call the same evening at ten.

In a long library lined alternately with splendidly-bound books and
mirrors, and with a deep window of the breadth of the room, opening
upon Hyde Park, I found lady Blessington alone. The picture to my eye,
as the door opened, was a very lovely one. A woman of remarkable
beauty half buried in a fauteuil of yellow satin, reading by a
magnificent lamp, suspended from the centre of the arched ceiling;
sofas, couches, ottomans and busts arranged in rather a crowded
sumptuousness through the room; enamel tables, covered with expensive
and elegant trifles in every corner, and a delicate white hand
relieved on the back of a book, to which the eye was attracted by the
blaze of its diamond rings. As the servant mentioned my name, she rose
and gave me her hand very cordially, and a gentleman entering
immediately after, she presented me to her son-in-law, Count D'Orsay,
the well-known Pelham of London, and certainly the most splendid
specimen of a man and a well-dressed one that I had ever seen. Tea was
brought in immediately, and conversation went swimmingly on.

Her ladyship's inquiries were principally about America, of which,
from long absence, I knew very little.--She was extremely curious to
know the degrees of reputation the present popular authors of England
enjoy among us, particularly Bulwer, Galt, and D'Israeli, (the author
of Vivian Grey.) "If you will come to-morrow night," she said, "you
will see Bulwer. I am delighted that he is popular in America. He is
envied and abused by all the literary men of London, for nothing, I
believe, except that he gets five hundred pounds for his books and
they fifty, and knowing this, he chooses to assume a pride, (some
people call it puppyism,) which is only the armor of a sensitive mind,
afraid of a wound. He is to his friends the most frank and gay
creature in the world, and open to boyishness with those who he thinks
understand and value him. He has a brother, Henry, who is as clever as
himself in a different vein, and is just now publishing a book on the
present state of France. Bulwer's wife, you know, is one of the most
beautiful women in London, and his house is the resort of both fashion
and talent. He is just now hard at work on a new book, the subject of
which is the last days of Pompeii. The hero is a Roman dandy, who
wastes himself in luxury, till this great catastrophe rouses him and
developes a character of the noblest capabilities.--Is Galt much
liked?"

I answered to the best of my knowledge that he was not. His life of
Byron was a stab at the dead body of the noble poet, which, for one, I
never could forgive, and his books were clever, but vulgar. He was
evidently not a gentleman in his mind. This was the opinion I had
formed in America, and I had never heard another.

"I am sorry for it," said Lady B., "for he is the dearest and best old
man in the world. I know him well.--He is just on the verge of the
grave, but comes to see me now and then, and if you had known how
shockingly Byron treated him, you would only wonder at his sparing his
memory so much."

"_Nil mortuis nisi bonum_," I thought, would have been a better
course. If he had reason to dislike him, he had better not have
written since he was dead.

"Perhaps--perhaps. But Galt has been all his life miserably poor, and
lived by his books. That must be his apology. Do you know the
D'Israeli in America?"

I assured her ladyship that the "Curiosities of {368} Literature," by
the father, and "Vivian Grey and Contarini Fleming," by the son, were
universally known.

"I am pleased at that, too, for I like them both. D'Israeli the elder
came here with his son the other night.--It would have delighted you
to see the old man's pride in him. He is very fond of him, and as he
was going away, he patted him on the head, and said to me 'take care
of him, lady Blessington, for my sake. He is a clever lad, but he
wants ballast. I am glad he has the honor to know you, for you will
check him sometimes when I am away!' D'Israeli, the elder, lives in
the country about twenty miles from town, and seldom comes up to
London. He is a very plain old man in his manners, as plain as his son
is the reverse. D'Israeli, the younger, is quite his own character of
Vivian Grey, crowded with talent, but very _soigne_ of his curls, and
a bit of a coxcomb. There is no reserve about him, however, and he is
the only _joyous_ dandy I ever saw."

I asked if the account I had seen in some American paper of a literary
celebration at Canandaigua, and the engraving of her ladyship's name
with some others upon a rock, was not a quiz.

"Oh, by no means. I was equally flattered and amused by the whole
affair. I have a great idea of taking a trip to America to see it.
Then the letter, commencing 'Most charming countess--for charming you
must be since you have written the conversations of Lord Byron'--oh,
it was quite delightful. I have shown it to every body. By the way, I
receive a great many letters from America, from people I never heard
of, written in the most extraordinary style of compliment, apparently
in perfectly good faith. I hardly know what to make of them."

I accounted for it by the perfect seclusion in which great numbers of
cultivated people live in our country, who, having neither intrigue,
nor fashion, nor twenty other things to occupy their minds as in
England, depend entirely upon books, and consider an author who has
given them pleasure as a friend. America, I said, has probably more
literary enthusiasts than any country in the world; and there are
thousands of romantic minds in the interior of New England, who know
perfectly every writer this side the water, and hold them all in
affectionate veneration, scarcely conceivable by a sophisticated
European. If it were not for such readers, literature would be the
most thankless of vocations. I, for one, would never write another
line.

"And do you think these are the people who write to me? If I could
think so, I should be exceedingly happy. People in England are refined
down to such heartlessness--criticism, private and public, is so
interested and so cold, that it is really delightful to know there is
a more generous tribunal. Indeed I think all our authors now are
beginning to write for America. We think already a great deal of your
praise or censure."

I asked if her ladyship had known many Americans.

"Not in London, but a great many abroad. I was with Lord Blessington
in his yacht at Naples, when the American fleet was lying there, eight
or ten years ago, and we were constantly on board your ships. I knew
Commodore Creighton and Captain Deacon extremely well, and liked them
particularly. They were with us, either on board the yacht or the
frigate every evening, and I remember very well the bands playing
always 'God save the King,' as we went up the side. Count D'Orsay
here, who spoke very little English at that time, had a great passion
for Yankee Doodle, and it was always played at his request."

The count, who still speaks the language with a very slight accent,
but with a choice of words that shows him to be a man of uncommon tact
and elegance of mind, inquired after several of the officers, whom I
have not the pleasure of knowing. He seemed to remember his visits to
the frigate with great pleasure. The conversation, after running upon
a variety of topics, which I could not with propriety put into a
letter for the public eye, turned very naturally upon Byron. I had
frequently seen the Countess Guiccioli on the continent, and I asked
lady Blessington if she knew her.

"No. We were at Pisa when they were living together, but though Lord
Blessington had the greatest curiosity to see her, Byron would never
permit it. 'She has a red head of her own,' said he, 'and don't like
to show it.' Byron treated the poor creature dreadfully ill. She
feared more than she loved him."

She had told me the same thing herself in Italy.

It would be impossible, of course, to make a full and fair record of a
conversation of some hours. I have only noted one or two topics which
I thought most likely to interest an American reader. During all this
long visit, however, my eyes were very busy in finishing for memory a
portrait of the celebrated and beautiful woman before me.

The portrait of lady Blessington in the Book of Beauties is not unlike
her, but it is still an unfavorable likeness. A picture by Sir Thomas
Lawrence hung opposite me, taken, perhaps, at the age of eighteen,
which is more like her, and as captivating a representation of a just
matured woman, full of loveliness and love, the kind of creature with
whose divine sweetness the gazer's heart aches, as ever was drawn in
the painter's most inspired hour. The original is now (she confessed
it very frankly) forty. She looks something on the sunny side of
thirty. Her person is full, but preserves all the fineness of an
admirable shape; her foot is not crowded in a satin slipper, for which
a Cinderella might long be looked for in vain, and her complexion, (an
unusually fair skin, with very dark hair and eyebrows,) is of even a
girlish delicacy and freshness. Her dress of blue satin, (if I am
describing her like a milliner, it is because I have here and there a
reader of the mirror in my eye who will be amused by it,) was cut low
and folded across her bosom, in a way to show to advantage the round
and sculpture-like curve and whiteness of a pair of exquisite
shoulders, while her hair dressed close to her head, and parted simply
on her forehead with a rich _ferronier_ of turquoise, enveloped in
clear outline a head with which it would be difficult to find a
fault.--Her features are regular, and her mouth, the most expressive
of them, has a ripe fulness and freedom of play, peculiar to the Irish
physiognomy, and expressive of the most unsuspicious good humour. Add
to all this a voice merry and sad by turns, but always musical, and
manners of the most unpretending elegance, yet even more remarkable
for their winning kindness, and you have the prominent traits of one
of the most lovely and fascinating women I have ever seen. Remembering
her talents and her rank, and the unenvying admiration she receives
from the world of fashion and genius, it {369} would be difficult to
reconcile her lot to the "doctrine of compensation."

There is one remark I may as well make here, with regard to the
personal descriptions and anecdotes with which my letters from England
will of course be filled. It is quite a different thing from
publishing such letters in London. America is much farther off from
England than England from America. You in New York read the
periodicals of this country, and know every thing that is done or
written here, as if you lived within the sound of Bow-bell. The
English, however, just know of our existence, and if they get a
general idea twice a year of our progress in politics, they are
comparatively well informed. Our periodical literature is never even
heard of. Of course, there can be no offence to the individuals
themselves in any thing which a visiter could write, calculated to
convey an idea of the person or manners of distinguished people to the
American public. I mention it lest, at first thought, I might seem to
have abused the hospitality or frankness of those on whom letters of
introduction have given me claims for civility.

N. P. W.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MISS C----, ON HER COQUETRY.


  "Go to," and quit thy idle ways
    Thou winning little creature;
  A mind of nobler import plays,
    Around thy every feature.

  Why waste those powers, by heav'n design'd
    To win true hearts and wear them?
  To wreck the peace of half mankind,
    Who let thy arts ensnare them?

  In thy pursuit 'tis all the same,
    The simple, wise, or learned,
  Alike are fuel for thy flame--
    Are on thy altar burned.

  Nay, say not "no!"--within that hall,
    Hallowed by deeds of ages,
  I've seen thy _look_ around thee call
    Virginia's proudest sages.

  I've seen thee, 'midst the festive scene,
    With fools and fops in waiting,
  Essay to conquer things too mean,
    For pity, love, or hating.

  Go, quit it all--'tis weak--'tis vain--
    'Tis wicked--nay, 'tis _cruel_;
  Thy native truth alone can gain
    For thee, the brightest jewel.

B.

_Richmond, Feb. 1835_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

WRITTEN FOR MISS M---- T----'S ALBUM.


    Mary, thou wert a lovely child!
  A sweeter cherub never smiled!
  Tho' since we have not often met,
  Those days I well remember yet;
  When, in thy sportiveness and glee,
  Thou wert a favorite with me;
  And told me, in thy frolic mood,
  The story of Red-riding-hood--
  In words I ne'er could understand--
  They seemed sweet sounds from fairy land.

    Time's changes numberless had passed
  O'er thee when I beheld thee last,
  Yet still I thought that I could trace
  The same expression in thy face;
  Only that then it was refined
  By the bright impress of the mind--
  For years had failed to steal away
  The artlessness of childhood's day.
  In nature's richest tints arrayed,
  Thy cheek the bloom of health displayed;
  And in its varying flush, I read
  All that thy lips had left unsaid.

    Mary, I thought thee lovely then--
  Oh! may'st thou long thy charms retain,
  And ne'er thine eyes their witness bear
  To any but compassion's tear!
  May life's fast flowing stream, for thee
  Roll smoothly bright, and buoyantly--
  Bearing thee calmly on thy way,
  To realms of ever-shining day;
  To regions of eternal peace,
  Where joys live on and sorrows cease.

E. A. S.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES

Written on the Pillar erecting by Mrs. Barlow, to the memory of her
husband, Minister of the United States at Paris.


    Where o'er the Polish desarts trackless way,
  Relentless Winter rules with savage sway,
  Where the shrill polar storms, as wild they blow,
  Seem to repeat some plaint of mortal woe;
  Far o'er the cheerless space, the traveller's eye
  Shall this recording pillar long descry,
  And give the sod a tear where Barlow lies,
  He who was simply great and nobly wise;
  Here led by Patriot zeal, he met his doom,
  And found amid the frozen wastes a tomb--
  Far from his native soil the Poet fell,
  Far from that Western World he sung so well.
  Nor she, so long beloved, nor she was nigh,
  To catch the dying look--the parting sigh!
  She, who, the hopeless anguish to beguile,
  In fond memorial rears the funeral pile;
  Whose widowed bosom, on Columbia's shore,
  Shall mourn the moments that return no more--
  While bending o'er the broad Atlantic wave,
  Sad fancy hovers on the distant grave.

H. M. WILLIAMS.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO ONE WHO WILL UNDERSTAND ME.


    Memory! within thy deepest cell
  A recollection glows;
  A burning thought--whose magic spell
  Can charm away my woes:
  It gushes o'er my troubled soul
  In lava streams of joy,
  Its talismanic power can roll
  The darkness from my sky; {370}
  It thrills my heart with ecstacy,
  That ever present thought!
  And, oh! it were too sweet to die
  With mind so richly fraught:
  And who is she for whom my heart,
  My feelings, harmonize?
  And who is she that has the art
  To chain my sympathies?

    Thine is the brightness of the eye,
  Which tide nor time can dim;
  Thy voice is softer than the sigh
  Of love, or angel's hymn;
  The rose is thine--but not the hue
  That fadeth with the morn--
  _Thy_ color's deeper when the dew
  Away from flower is gone--
  When all beside is bleak and drear
  Thy genial blushes rise,
  Like flow'rets of the northern year,
  That bloom amid the ice;
  But more than all, thy beauty brings
  In her imperial train;
  And more than all, thy magic flings
  To dim the dizzened brain.
  Yes! more than these--than rosy cheek--
  Is thy pure lofty mind;
  Thy nature calm, and soft and meek,
  With warmth of heart conjoined.
  These are the charms that deck _thee_ most,
  With radiance deep and pure,--
  These are the flow'rs that thou may'st boast,
  When beauty's hour is o'er:
  Thy world may fade--its glory past,--
  But in the sky afar,
  Thy mind will shine undimmed at last,
  A high and holy star!
  Go to the East--it is thy home--
  In nature like to thee;
  And while o'er beds of flowers you roam,
  No breeze, no bird so free--
  And while you breathe the Attar-Gul
  Of fragrant memory,
  Your heart with thrilling joy so full,
  It throbs like summer sea;
  Oh! then should thought of times gone by,
  With dew-drop dim thine ee,
  May, mid the breeze that dances nigh,
  A sigh be heard for me.

----.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXTRACT FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM.


  There is a form before me now,
  A spirit with a peerless brow,
  And locks of gold that lightly lie,
  Like clouds on the air of a sunset sky,
  And a glittering eye, whose beauty blends
    With more than mortal tenderness,
  As bright a ray as Heaven sends
    To light those orbs, where the pure and blest
    Are taking their eternal rest.
  Sweet Spirit! thou hast stolen afar
  From thy home in yonder crystal Star,
    That I might look on thee, and bless
    Thy kindness and thy loveliness.

    How oft against these prison bars
      I have leaned my head, and gazed for hours
    Upon the wonder-telling stars;
      Thinking, if in their sinless bowers
    The memory of this planet dim
    E'er mingles with thy blissful dream.
    And when low winds were stealing by,
    I have sometimes closed my weary eye;
  And fancied the sigh that was silently stealing
  Through my damp hair, was thine own breathing:
    Then would I lay me down upon
    This carpetless cold flinty stone,
    And pray--how long! how fervently!
    To look on thee once more and die.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MOONLIGHT.


  The half-orbed Moon hangs out her silvery lamp,
    A liquid lustre pouring o'er the scene;
  While silk-winged zephyrs bathed in dewy damp
    Scarce move the pensile leaves, or break the calm serene.

  Radiant she rests upon the brow of night,
    The lucid diadem that crowns the sky;
  So softly beautiful, so mildly bright,
    She sways the ravished heart, and feeds the insatiate eye.

  In jocund _boyhood_ erst her magic face
    Impressed no feeling but a gentle joy;
  For moonlit memory knew not then to trace
    The saddened scenes of youth that later hopes alloy.

  When dawning _manhood_, fired by fancy's ray,
    Enrobed all nature in her rainbow hues,
  Then fond affection loved at eve to stray
    And, gazing on the Moon, with thrilling heart to muse.

  But when _advancing years_ have broke the ties
    Formed at the altar of the Moonlit Heaven,
  The thoughts of buried joys in sadness rise,
    And tear-drops glisten in the silent light of even.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO HOPE.


  O! ever skilled to wear the form we love!
    To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart,
  Come gentle Hope! with one soft smile remove
    The wasting sadness of an aching heart.

  Thy voice benign, enchantress let me hear;
    Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom;
  That Fancy's radiance. Friendship's precious tear
    Shall brighten or shall soothe misfortune's gloom.

  But come not glowing with the dazzling ray,
    Which once, with dear illusions charmed my eye!
  O! strew no more, sweet flatterer! on my way,
    The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die.
  Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast,
  That asks not Happiness, but longs for rest.


{371}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO THE BIBLE.


      Go, Holy Book!
  Tell those whom many woes assail
      On thee to look;
  They'll find how weak it is to wail
  Though every earthly comfort fail.

      The Orphan's tear
  Go wipe away, and bid his heart
      To be of cheer;
  Heal thou his bosom's sorest smart,
  And gild with Hope misfortune's dart.

      Say thou to those,
  Shut out from every good on earth,
      Lost to repose,
  Baptized in sorrow at their birth,
  That worldly joy's of little worth.

      The poor soul tell,
  The poor, lone, wretched, friendless man,
      Though his heart swell,
  The ways of God, he must not scan--
  But trust the Universal plan.

      Tell poor disease,
  Bravely to bear the piercing pain;
      Eternal ease,
  Waits those who do not poorly plain,
  And worldly loss is heavenly gain.

      Tell those who sigh
  Over some friend's untimely doom,
      That all must die;
  He whom they saw laid in the tomb,
  In God's own paradise may bloom.

      Go, say to those
  Doom'd still to groan and till the soil,
      That soon repose
  Shall wipe away their drops of toil,
  And stay for aye their weary moil.

      Tell those who pine
  In the damp dungeon's dreary gloom,
      There yet will shine
  Through their poor melancholy dome,
  A light to guide their footsteps home.

      Tell the Pilgrim,
  When storms are blackening round his head,
      'Tis good for him;
  What though his thorn torn feet have bled,
  The heart's blood of his God was shed.

      The Mariner,
  Who bides the tempest's fiercest blaze,
      Bid not to fear;
  Though thunders hurtle in the air,
  The Launcher of the thunder's there.

      Tell those who fear
  Their sins can never be forgiven,
      To be of cheer--
  If they have call'd on God and striven,
  There's mercy for them still in Heaven.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ON SEEING THE JUNCTION OF THE SUSQUEHANNA AND LACKAWANNA RIVERS.


  Rush on, broad stream, in thy power and pride,
  To claim the hand of thy promis'd bride,--
  She doth haste from the realm of the darken'd mine,
  To mingle her murmur'd vows with thine;
  Ye have met, ye have met,--and the shores prolong
  The liquid tone of your nuptial song.

  Methinks ye wed as the white man's son
  And the child of the Indian king have done;
  I saw thy bride as she strove in vain
  To cleanse her brow from the carbon stain,--
  But the dowry she brings, is so rich and true,
  That thy love must not shrink from the tawny hue.

  Her birth was rude in the mountain cell,
  And her infant freaks there are none to tell;
  The path of her beauty was wild and free,
  And in dell and forest she hid from thee,--
  But the time of her fond caprice is o'er,
  And she seeks to part from thy breast no more.

  Pass on, in the joy of your blended tide,
  Thro' the land where the blessed Miquon[1] died;
  No red man's blood with its guilty stain,
  Hath cried unto God, from that green domain;
  With the seeds of peace they have seen the soil
  Bring a harvest of wealth for their hour of toil.

  On,--on,--thro' the vale where the brave ones sleep,
  Where the waving foliage is rich and deep;
  I have look'd from the mountain and roam'd thro' the glen,
  To the beautiful homes of the western men,
  Yet naught in that realm of enchantment could see,
  So fair as the Vale of Wyoming to me.

L. H. S.

_Hartford, Conn._

[Footnote 1: The Indian name for William Penn.]




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

HOPES AND SORROWS.


            The fitful beam
            Of the rippled fountain,
            The purple gleam
            Of the eve-lit mountain,
            The vanishing glance
            Of the meteors motion,
            The lights that dance
            On the darkened ocean,
  Are the faithful types of the _hopes_ that won us,
  While the dew of our youth still sparkled upon us.

            The arid sands
            Of the sun-dried river,
            The rock that stands
            Where lightnings quiver,
            The pitiless rush
            Of the earthquake's ruin,
            The startling hush
            Of the sea-storm brewing,
  Are as truly types of the _sorrows_ that found us,
  When the hopes that we nursed had all fled from around us.


{372}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE WANDERER.

BY ALEX. LACEY BEARD, M.D.


  Along the devious paths of life,
    A wild and wayward wand'rer, I,
  Have steered my bark mid passion's strife,
    And where destruction's pitfalls lie.

  When on a dark and rock-bound shore,
    My bark was wildly tempest tost,
  And o'er the breakers' sullen roar,
    Arose the fearful cry--_all's lost!_

  I shrunk not from the raging blast,
    But with a bold and reckless hand
  I steered her on, till she had past
    The stormy sea and rocky strand.

  A fierce enthusiast, I have dared
    To risk my all, upon one cast,--
  Have seen the danger,--nor have feared,
    What others looked upon aghast.

  Disease has laid her iron hand,
    With no weak grasp, my frame upon,
  But all her power could not withstand
    The spirit which has borne me on.

  A demon some have called me--yet,
    Admit that with my spirit blends,
  A feeling strangely to forget
    All thought of self, in aid of friends.

  A madman some have deemed me--and,
    In sooth, dark shadows often run
  Across my mind, as o'er the land,
    When darkest clouds obscure the sun.

  I often wish to die--and flee
    Far, far away from earth, that I
  May search the dim unknown, and see
    What wonders in its bosom lie.

  'Tis not because life has no charm,--
    I love the gay and laughing stream;
  I love the glowing sunshine warm;
    I love Old Luna's silvery beam.

  I love to gaze on maiden's eye,
    Though it has often been my bane;
  I love on courser swift to fly,
    Like arrow o'er the flowery plain.

  Yet still, my wayward soul will oft,
    Cherish the wish to pass that bound,
  Which spans this life, and seek aloft
    For bliss which here is never found.

  But now my lyre begins to fail
    I'll cease my lone and wand'ring song.
  Fearful lest with my idle wail,
    I linger o'er the chords too long.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TRUE RICHES AND GLORY.


  For fortune's prize let others pant,
  And count the "yellow slave,"
  No joys can gathered jewels grant,
  No sickening sorrows save--
    But bustling and jostling
    To swell the treasured heap,
    It cloys us, annoys us,
    And leaves the _heart_ to weep.

  Let others climb the dizzy height
  Where glory shines afar,
  Alas! renown is but the light
  That decks the falling star.
    Still driving and striving
    To reach the radiant prize,
    We grasp it and clasp it,
    And in our touch it dies.

  But, oh! let mine the treasure be
  That social joys impart,
  And mine the glory, sympathy
  Beams on the feeling heart--
    Still soothing and smoothing
    The grief of friends distrest,
    And lending and spending,
    That others may be blest.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE DEATH OF THE MOTHERLESS.

"As the little one turned for the last time, his tenderly beaming eyes
on all around, they seemed to say 'Father!--she calls,--I
go,--farewell,--farewell.'"


  "Who calleth thee, my darling boy?
    What voice is in thine ear?"
  He answer'd not, but murmur'd on
    In words that none might hear;
  And still prolong'd the whispering tone,
    As if in fond reply
  To some dear object of delight
    That fix'd his dying eye.

  And then, with that confiding smile
    First by his Mother taught,
  When freely on her breast he laid
    His troubled infant thought,
  And meekly as a placid flower
    O'er which the dew-drops weep,
  He bow'd him on his painful bed,
    And slept the unbroken sleep.

  But if in yon immortal clime
    Where flows no parting tear,
  That root of earthly love may grow
    Which struck so deeply here,
  With what a tide of boundless bliss,
    A thrill of rapture wild,
  An angel mother in the skies,
    Must greet her cherub child.

L. H. S.

_Hartford, Conn._


{373}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM A SISTER.

LETTER EIGHTH.

Hotel des Invalides--Chamber of Deputies--Pont Louis 16th--Bridges of
Paris--The Pont Neuf.


PARIS, ----.

_My dear Jane:_

"Let them gild the dome of the Hotel des Invalides," said Napoleon to
an officer, who informed him that unless the war in Italy was
discontinued, there would certainly be a revolution in Paris. The
mandate was issued, the dome covered with the shining leaf, and the
minds of the people immediately turned from the operations of war, to
those of the artisans employed on the cupola of the military asylum.
Napoleon foresaw this, for well he knew the character of his subjects.
A mere trifle, having _novelty_ to recommend it, attracts their
notice, engages their attention, and forms the theme of their
conversation for a long while--at least, until another new bubble
arises. This we must own is a happy disposition, and better calculated
to render a nation contented and joyous, than the sober, phlegmatic
temperament of our Islanders.

Thus, my dear Jane, have I managed to describe to you in a very few
words--the dome of the Invalids and the character of the Parisians.
Knowing you hate prolixity, I rejoice at my success, and for the same
reason, proceed without delay, to give you an account of the Hospital
in question. It is a stately edifice, and was erected by Louis 14th,
for the reception of brave and disabled old soldiers. In approaching
it, you traverse a vast esplanade embellished with a fountain and
bordered by a grove of lofty trees, with seats beneath them, to tempt
the lounger and rest the weary; some of them were occupied by veterans
whom I readily imagined to be telling "how fields were won." We spent
three hours in their noble asylum, examining its spacious halls and
dormitories, its cleanly and well arranged kitchen, its library and
magnificent church, and its cabinet of architecture, which consists of
two large rooms, containing models of all the fortified towns in the
kingdom. These are most ingeniously and beautifully executed, and give
you a perfect idea of the places they represent. The council chamber
adjoins the library, and this and two other apartments are decorated
with the portraits of the deceased marshals of France; while the
originals are living, their likenesses are deposited in the "Salle des
Marécheaux," at the Palace of the Tuilleries. In the church we saw the
mausoleum of Turenne and that of the famous engineer Vauban.[1] The
interior of the dome and the ceilings of six chapels surrounding it
are richly painted, and the tesselated pavement, interspersed with
fleurs de lis and other symbols, is exceedingly beautiful. Three
hundred flags, the spoils of different nations, were once suspended
from the dome; but when the allies entered Paris the _invalid_
warriors tore them down to prevent their being retaken.

[Footnote 1: He was deformed, and being once asked by the king what
his enemies thought of his back,--"Sire, (he replied) they have never
seen it."]

From the Hotel des Invalides we rode to the Chamber of Deputies,
adjoining the palace of Bourbon, and situated on the southern bank of
the Seine, which separates it from the "Place Louis Quinze." It is a
handsome building, adorned with statues and corinthian columns, and
has a pleasant garden attached to it; the deputies hold their
assemblies in a semicircular hall, lighted from the top and
appropriately arranged. Monsieur de N---- was so kind and polite as to
send us tickets, and we have been twice to hear the debates; they were
very animated, though whenever a member wished to speak, he was
obliged to curb the _spirit that moved him_, until he could cross the
floor and mount a rostrum, which delay I should think is most
unfavorable to extemporary eloquence. Returning, we passed over the
Pont Louis Seize, and examined the twelve colossal figures of white
marble, that have recently been placed on it; they are masterly pieces
of sculpture, but too gigantic for the size of the bridge and their
approximation to you. There are no less than seventeen bridges athwart
the Seine, but not one of them can be compared to those of Waterloo,
Blackfriar's, or Westminster at London, as regards strength or
magnitude. The Pont Neuf is the largest; it is more than sixty feet
wide, and lined on each side with stalls of every description; the
passengers are continually beset by the importunities of the
shoe-black, the dog-shaver, the ballad singer, the bird seller, the
fruiterer, the pedler, the vender of second-hand books, and various
other petty dealers. Good night, dear sister. My paper and candle warn
me to conclude, which I fear you will not regret.

LEONTINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTER NINTH.

Arrival of friends--Voyage from London to Calais--Route from Calais to
Paris--Levee at the Minister's of the Marine--Expiatory Chapel.


PARIS, ----.

_My dear Jane:_

We were agreeably surprised the day before yesterday, while at dinner,
by the arrival of the Danvilles, the American family with whom we were
so charmed at Bath last summer. Leonora is as likely as ever, and
delighted at the idea of spending the fall and winter here; she
expects too, to be joined by her cousin Marcello, of whom we have
heard her speak with such affection and admiration. She has been so
good as to let me read her journal, and I have obtained her permission
to transcribe a part of it for your perusal. It concerns the journey
from Calais to Paris, and as I have given you a sketch of that from
Havre here, this will enable you to compare the two routes. I dare say
you will like, also, to read her observations about the Thames and our
steam boats. She writes thus:

"Soon after leaving London, the Thames quite astonished me. I had no
idea it was so considerable a river. For many miles it is broad and
winding, and each shore presents fine scenery. We had a good view of
several noted towns, and remarked the superb hospital at Greenwich and
the royal dock yard at Woolwich, where ships of war are made. At
Gravesend we passed two vessels transporting convicts to Botany Bay,
and I regretted to observe that the women were more numerous than the
men.

"The motion of the English steam boats is still more disagreeable than
that of ours, but their machinery is less noisy. Coal being used for
fuel instead of wood, the passengers soon look dingy in face and
dress: therefore {374} one should not travel in them handsomely clad,
as clothes are quickly ruined by the smoke and dust. There is no
particular hour for breakfast; each person calls for it when it suits
his pleasure, and has a table to himself. Dinner is served at five
o'clock.

"We reached Calais about eight P.M. At the custom house the officers
were not strict in their examination of our baggage; this surprised
us, for we had understood that they were always very rigid in
performing this troublesome duty. Perhaps our being Americans was the
cause of their moderation in disturbing our trunks and boxes,--for the
French like _us_ almost as much as they detest the _English_. On
landing, we were highly diverted at the scene on the Quay. The instant
we left the boat we were beset with men and boys on every side,
recommending different hotels,--and frequently cards of address were
absolutely forced into our hands. When one overheard another advising
any of us to go to a particular house, he would cry out, 'never do you
mind that fellow, ma'am, (or sir) he tells a lie; he always tells
lies!' Or, 'no such thing, sir; that house is full, sir; you can't get
in, and he _knows_ it!' Or, 'that hotel is not a good one,
sir,--indeed it is not; try mine, sir; mine's a palace to it!' and
fifty other such droll speeches, at which (tormented as we were) we
could not help laughing. Sometimes they would even seize us by the arm
and entreat us to accompany them to their hotel, if only to see how
comfortable it was. These _besiegers_ (we have since been told)
receive a trifle from every innkeeper to whom they carry a guest, and
it is their anxiety to obtain this fee, that renders them so annoying
to travellers.

"Ere leaving Calais we had sufficient leisure to walk about the town
and visit the church, the town hall on the 'place d'armes,' and the
column on the pier commemorating the landing of Louis 18th, on the
24th of April, 1814. It is a plain stone pillar, surmounted by a ball
and a fleur de lis. In front of it is a representation in bronze of
the print of the king's foot (or rather his shoe) upon the spot he
first stepped on from the vessel. We found the country between Calais
and Paris uninteresting, and generally barren. Once or twice we had a
fine view of the sea. The French villages appeared horribly dirty
after the exquisite neatness of those in England. The highways
presented a bustling and entertaining scene; for men and women, boys
and girls, gaily dressed, continually passed us, carrying baskets of
fruit, riding on donkeys, or driving along pigs, sheep, cows, or
geese. The venders of fruit would frequently jump up behind our
carriage, and thrust in at the window, peaches, pears and grapes,
beseeching us to buy them, and assuring us we had never tasted better
in all our lives. Whenever we stopped at an inn, or ascended a hill,
we were surrounded by dozens of paupers, begging for a sous. Sometimes
they looked so miserable, it was impossible to refuse; at others, we
were fain to bestow it in order to get rid of them. Little urchins
would also solicit a penny, and scamper after us a considerable
distance, often springing up behind and sticking their heads into the
coach. Upon the whole I am contented with our journey hither, for if
it was not picturesque it was highly amusing.

"The principal towns we have passed through, are Boulogne, Abbeville,
and Beauvais. The first is said to have been founded by Julius Caesar;
and Le Sage, the author of Gil Blas, died there in 1747; the house in
which he expired, is yet shewn as a curiosity. Within a mile of
Boulogne is a corinthian column, which Bonaparte began to erect as a
memento of his victories over the English; he left it unfinished, and
Louis 18th had it completed for his own honor and glory."

Thus far, dear sister, I have copied from Leonora's diary; now for
something of my own. Last night we were at Mr. de Neuville's grand
levee; he has one every week, and being exceedingly popular, his rooms
are generally crowded. We saw there, many distinguished characters;
among them, Monsieur de Chateaubriand, whose travels have afforded us
so much entertainment and instruction, and General Saldanha, the brave
Portuguese. He has a commanding figure and face, and wears a pair of
tremendous mustachios, which are so frightful and so fashionable!
To-day we devoted a portion of our time to the Expiatory Chapel, a
beautiful building, constructed in honor of Louis 16th and Marie
Antoinette; it covers the spot where their remains were first
interred; for since the restoration of the Bourbons, these have been
conveyed to the royal vault at St. Denis. The entrance and interior of
the chapel are very handsome; the light is admitted from the cupola,
beneath which are fifteen niches, destined to hold statues of the
chief victims of the revolution. There is a neat altar, and the will
of Louis and that of his sister, (the Princess Elizabeth) are engraved
in golden letters, on two white marble tablets. A subterranean
apartment contains another altar, and in front of this a black marble
slab bearing an inscription, still designates the original grave of
the royal and unfortunate pair. In the court of the chapel many of
their faithful Swiss guards are interred. The testament of Louis,
wherein he expresses good will towards his enemies and forgiveness of
his unloyal and cruel subjects, is very touching. A peasant girl was
reading it when we entered, and her cheeks were bedewed with tears.

I regret to inform you that Mamma has had a return of her consumptive
cough, and is compelled to drink asses' milk. She is plentifully
supplied with it every morning, by an old man who drives a flock of
female asses about the streets, and milks them before the door of each
customer. The tingling of a little bell, which he carries, gives
notice of his arrival whenever be stops. Farewell: kind greetings to
those around you,--and above all, to yourself. From

LEONTINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTER TENTH.

The Luxembourg--The Observatory--Notre Dame--The Pantheon--Madame
Malibran--M'lle Sontag.


PARIS, ----.

_Dearest Jane:_

On inquiring the day of the month, I am quite surprised to find that
my pen has been idle nearly a week. I will now try to make up for lost
time, by describing to you some of the places we have visited in the
interim, and the Luxembourg being first on the list, will commence
with that. It is one of the most magnificent palaces in Paris. The
exterior is highly embellished; and to use the words of an English
tourist, "the architecture throughout is distinguished by its bold and
masculine character, and by the regularity and beauty of its
proportions." This palace was built by order of {375} Mary de Medici,
the widow of Henry 4th; it afterwards became the property of some of
the French nobility, but was finally restored to the crown. During the
revolution, it was used as a prison; the senate afterwards occupied
it; at present it contains the Chamber of Peers,--and its galleries
are filled with the chêf d'oeuvres of modern artists, whose
productions are not admitted into the Louvre until their death. Of
course the collection of paintings here is much smaller than at the
Louvre, but the pictures are all on the most interesting subjects and
are seen to greater advantage, the light being let in from above
instead of from the sides of the rooms, as is the case at the Louvre.
There are some choice pieces of sculpture; one of them (by Charles
Dupaty) represents the Nymph Biblis, changing to a fountain. It is
both a singular and ingenious production. The Chamber of Peers, like
that of the Deputies, is semicircular in shape; it is hung with blue
velvet; and the marble effigies of several orators, legislators and
warriors of old, grace its walls. From the ceiling, which is painted,
hangs a splendid chandelier. I will only mention one or two more of
the apartments--the Salle du Trone,[2] as being particularly rich, and
the billiard room, which is tapestried with white velvet, with various
views of Rome beautifully delineated on it in water colors. On the
ground floor is the chapel--this is very plain; near it is the
gorgeous chamber of Marie de Medicis,--the ceiling, walls, and
shutters of which are covered with gilding and arabesque paintings.
The principal staircase of the palace is remarkably grand and
magnificent; there are forty-eight steps, each twenty feet in length,
and formed of a single stone; on the right and left of it, are statues
and trophies. The garden of the Luxembourg is shady and pleasant, and
has the usual embellishments of gods and goddesses amid fountains and
flowers; as you are fond of the marvellous, I will tell you a
tradition I have just read respecting it.

[Footnote 2: Hall of the Throne.]

There once stood a castle on the site of this garden, which remaining
a long while uninhabited, was said to be haunted by frightful demons
and apparitions; the whole neighborhood was nightly disturbed by them;
no person would venture out after sunset, and finally the inhabitants
were compelled, for the sake of rest, to seek other dwellings. In this
state of things, the monks of a Carthusian monastery at Gentilly, (who
were doubtless at the bottom of the mystery) promised to drive away
the malicious spirits by exorcism, if St. Louis would grant them the
castle and its appurtenances. Their request was complied with, and
they so faithfully performed their part that peace was soon restored
and the chateau converted into a convent, which existed about six
hundred years.

From the Luxembourg we proceeded through a long sunny avenue, to the
observatory. On the left of the road, Arnaud our valet de place,
pointed out the spot upon which Marshal Ney was shot. "Regardez,
Mesdames! ce fut la (pointing with his finger) l'endroit ou le brave
Maréchal Ney fut massacré--Jétais présent et il me semble que je le
vois tout sanglant dans le moment," said he, shuddering. We paused to
look at the once bloody spot, now verdant with grass and so sadly
interesting. The observatory may be considered a wonderful building,
for neither iron nor wood have been used in its construction; it is
entirely of stone, each piece being ingeniously fitted to another.
Four astronomers pursue their avocations here, and have the advantage
of a good library and apparatus; there are, likewise, an anemometer
for indicating the course of the wind, and a pluviometer for measuring
the quantity of rain that falls at Paris. A geometrical staircase
leads to the entrance of some spacious caverns where experiments in
congelation are made, and these caverns communicate with subterranean
galleries that were originally quarries, and extend a considerable
distance under the city, containing beautiful stalactites, formed by
water oozing through the rocks. We did not see them, for they cannot
be entered without a special guide, and a written permission from
certain persons appointed by government to superintend and inspect
them. But my stars! I have exhausted nearly all my paper, and have yet
a dozen places to describe! Well, well, you must be contented with an
account of two of the most important; and by the time I have finished
with them, I shall have to _squeeze_ in my name, no doubt. And now let
me decide which of the various objects we have examined, I ought to
regard as chief. Why, the mother church of France "Notre Dame," and
the Pantheon, to be sure! The first is the most ancient religious
structure in the city, and is pronounced to be one of the handsomest
in the kingdom. Being built in the Gothic ages, its architecture is
according to the fashion of those times, very singular and bold.--The
interior of the building corresponds with the outside in curious
carving and designs; the choir and the stalls surrounding it are
covered with grotesque sculpture. There are no less than thirty
chapels, and all of them contain pictures, but they are generally very
indifferent. There are several fine ones around the choir--among them
the "Visitation," by Jean Jouvenet; this painting was executed
entirely with his left hand, after he lost the use of his right by a
paralytic stroke. Behind the altar, is a good piece of sculpture by
Coustou; the subject is the "descent from the cross." In the vestry
room, we were shewn some extraordinary relics,--such as part of the
crown of thorns that was worn by our Saviour, and a bit of his cross!!
We also saw the regalia of Charlemagne, and the splendid robes given
to the priests of this cathedral by Buonaparte at the period of his
coronation, upon which occasion they were used; they are embroidered
in the richest manner with gold and silver, and amazingly heavy.
Numerous sacred festivals are celebrated at Notre Dame in the course
of the year; and in August there is to be a procession in fulfilment
of a vow made by Louis XIII. This is done on the 15th of that month
annually, and the royal family always join in it. We shall go to see
it of course; and how I wish you, aunt Margaret and Albert were to be
of our party!

The Pantheon, or Church of Saint Geneviève, is a magnificent
structure, and its dome is the most striking object that presents
itself as you approach Paris. The interior of it is beautifully
painted, the artist having chosen for his subject the apotheosis of
Louis XVI and his family. When the work was finished, the king went to
see it, and after looking at it attentively for a quarter of an hour,
he turned to the painter Gros who {376} was anxiously awaiting his
opinion, and said to him, "Eh bien Monsieur le _Baron_ votre ouvrage
est trés bien fait!" thus recompensing his talents, by bestowing on
him a title of nobility. Saint Geneviève, the patron Saint of Paris,
is buried in the Pantheon, and her tomb is always surrounded by
lighted tapers, the votive offerings of those who come to demand her
intercession for pardon or blessing. In the vaults beneath the church,
many distinguished men are interred. Indeed, it was to receive the
ashes of such that the Pantheon was designed; and Louis XV, who was
the liberal encourager of science and art, was the founder of it.

Contrary to my expectations, I find I've yet space enough to inform
you that we have been twice to the Italian Opera, to hear Madame
Malibran and Mademoiselle Sontag. The former seems really adored here.
At her benefit, many gentlemen voluntarily paid one hundred francs for
a ticket, instead of twenty, the actual price. She sings enchantingly
and acts with great spirit; so does her rival Mademoiselle Sontag. In
fact, I know not to which of these nightingales I prefer listening.
Adieu.

LEONTINE.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE FINE ARTS.

  "My life's employment and my leisure's charm,
   My soul's first choice, my fancy's early flame;
   My chance of fortune and my hopes of fame."

_Shee_.


There is no subject on which mankind more unhesitatingly decide, than
upon the productions of the pencil, and none perhaps upon which the
people of our own country especially, are so little qualified to form
a correct judgment. Few works of any excellence ever reach us, and
these are for the most part confined to the large cities, where those
who visit them are more attracted by the _subject_ than the
_execution_ of the painting. A striking illustration of this, may be
found in the crowds which rushed a short time since, to see the
immodest and demoralizing exhibition of our _first parents in a state
of nudity_--an offence for which Ham was accursed to be a servant of
servants to his brethren; and yet our modest maidens, attended by
their equally modest beaux, hastened in company to view this
production of Parisian profligacy. At the same time, the splendid
painting of "Christ rejected" by the eminent West, scarcely attracted
notice; and the beautiful "Star of Bethlehem" by Cole, twinkled in an
empty hall. Still no one doubts his own intuitive knowledge of the
arts!--He does not, indeed, profess to understand the _modus
operandi_, by which they are perfected,--but yet he knows exactly what
_delights_ him, and with equally becoming modesty, knows how to
_censure_ what he does not like,--although to the real _connoisseur_,
the work condemned may perchance be one of superlative beauty and
value. There are some who fall into raptures at Cimmerian darkness and
obscurity in a picture; they have heard that the works of the old
masters are very dark,--_ergo_, all black pictures must be very good.
Some have heard that Reubens and Rembrandt, painted with a bold free
pencil,--and every daub is therefore free and bold; and there are
others the very antipodes of these, who would have the canvass ivory
smooth, and always test the excellence of a picture with their
finger's ends. Such are the arbiters of taste, to whom the artist must
look for patronage and favor; to whose critical acumen he must
sacrifice the highest professional attainments, and all the poetry of
imagery, for the prosing portraiture of vulgar nature as the
uninstructed eye perceives it. Against such critics, Sir Joshua
Reynolds warned his young academecians. "Study not," said he, "to
please the many, but the few of cultivated taste." Alas! how few in
any age, have given that attention to the subject which is essential
to the formation of a correct judgment. They say,--do we not see and
understand what nature is, and can we not tell when the artist has
truly represented her?--We answer no. The eye unaccustomed to
_contemplate_ nature, cannot perceive the ever changing beauty of her
scenery,--her lights and shades more various than the Dolphins hues;
nor can it discern that play of the thoughts and passions in the
"human face divine," which eludes common observation, and is beheld
only by him who has studied profoundly, that wonderful title page to
the volume of mind. Nature, it is true, like a lovely and virtuous
maiden, is seen and admired by all; but the blush which reveals her
sweetest charm, is only perceived and felt by the devoted lover. That
Lover is the artist. To him the revolving year, brings but a change of
_beauty_. It is the element in which he breathes,--the aliment on
which he lives; his eye detects each flitting shadow--and the whole
world of real or imaginary things, is to his mind full of moving
pictures, which he can, in a moment, transfix and perpetuate on his
canvass. On him the graces attend, and wreathe the flowers of every
season into garlands of beauty; the jocund spring strews buds and
blossoms in his way, which he transplants to other climes, to live in
unfading bloom, and flourish on the same wall with the fruits of
summer, or mingle with the sober and varied hues of autumn. Even
winter, with frosty locks and snowy visage, is compelled to linger in
social companionship with the burning heats of tropical regions. Old
Time, in his onward march, strews cities and temples in the path of
the artist, but his pencil like the wand of the enchanter, bids their
sculptured fragments remain forever, and they obey him. When Aurora
comes forth in the chariot of day, and Cynthia lights her pale lamp at
Diana's altar,--he snatches promethean fire from heaven, and like
Joshua, commands the unwearied sun to stand still, and the glowing
canvass receives it. He not only transfers

  "Italian skies to English walls,"

but by the magic of his pencil, the very faces and persons of the fair
and the brave of ages gone by, come down to our day in the bloom of
youth, and with the daring eye, as they lived and moved when
Shakspeare wrote, or lovely Juliet died.

Where do not the trophies of this incomparable art arrest our
attention?--from the ruins of Pompeii to imperial Rome, or from the
Vatican, where Raphael's immortal pencil traced the transfiguration,
to Hampton Court, the gallery of the cartoons, and of that fair but
frail society, of which England's voluptuous monarch was the sun and
centre.[1] But these are neither black, nor daubed, nor smooth!--and
yet they are excellent in art, and have been so esteemed for three
hundred years. {377} To these the painter may appeal as imbodying all
that is noble in his profession, or like Sir Joshua, who felt and
understood, what others only imagined, he may patiently submit to the
ignorance of vanity--and the vanity of ignorance.

  When they talk of their Raphael, Corregio and Stuff,
  He shifted his trumpet and only took snuff.

G. C.

[Footnote 1: The cartoons of Raphael and the court of Charles II by
Sir Peter Lely, form a part of the collection at Hampton court.]




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A TALE FROM FLORIAN.

The following tale was translated from the French of M. Florian, by
the present hand, about 7 or 8 years ago, for a Richmond newspaper.
That translation its author has not seen since 1827; and lately
meeting with the original again, it seemed new enough, as well as
sufficiently pretty and interesting, to be worth presenting afresh to
the public through the Southern Literary Messenger. It is seldom that
so much varied incident has been compressed into so short a compass:
yet the rapidity of the narrative has not hindered the writer from
indulging a humor both playful and caustic, upon the foibles which he
banters, and the vices and crimes which he holds up to detestation.
And the moral, disclosed in unravelling the mystery of the allegorical
personage from whom the story takes its name, is full at once of
beauty and truth.

M.

       *       *       *       *       *

BATHMENDI.

A PERSIAN STORY.


The THOUSAND-AND-ONE NIGHTS have always appeared to me charming tales;
but I should like them better, if they had oftener a moral scope.
Scheherezade, I am aware, is too handsome to be at the trouble of
being rational: I know, that with so pretty a face, she has no need of
common sense; and that the sultan would have been less enamored, if
she had been less silly. These great truths I devoutly believe: and I
merely repeat, that for my own part, I would rather read stories which
_make me reflect_, while they amuse me. Extravagance is a fine thing,
no doubt; but a picture must have shade: and I would fain have reason
appear now and then, to make folly go off the better. So an uncle of
mine once thought. He had often sailed in the Levant; and had amused
himself while there, by composing PERSIAN TALES. They are far below
the _Thousand-and-one Nights_ in imagination, but exceed them
infinitely in number; for my uncle in his life-time made four thousand
seven hundred and ninety-eight--all of which are now lost except the
following one, preserved by me.

       *       *       *       *       *

Under the reign of a Persian king, whose name my uncle does not tell,
a merchant of Balsora was ruined by commercial disasters; and,
collecting the shattered remains of his fortune, retired to the
province of Kusistan. He there bought a dwelling, and a farm which he
cultivated badly, because he was perpetually regretting his days of
opulence and ease. Chagrin shortened his life; he perceived his end to
be near; and, calling his four sons around him, he said--"My children,
I have nothing to bequeath you but this house, and a secret which I
was bound to conceal till now. In the time of my wealth, I had for my
friend the genius Alzim; who promised to befriend you when I should be
no more, and to divide a treasure amongst you. He dwells some miles
hence, in the great forest of Kom. Go--find him: claim the treasure:
but take heed not to believe." ... Death here suppressed the
merchant's voice.

His four sons, after interring and mourning him, repaired to the
forest of Kom. They inquired for the mansion of the genius Alzim: it
was readily shewn them. He was known to the whole country: he received
kindly all who visited him; he heard their complaints, consoled them,
and lent them money if they needed it. But these benefits were upon
the sole condition of _implicitly obeying his directions_. This was
his whim. No one could enter his palace without an oath to comply with
this condition.

The oath did not deter the merchant's three eldest sons: the fourth,
whose name was Tai, thought it a very ridiculous ceremony. Yet, being
obliged to enter in order to receive the treasure, he swore, like his
brothers: but reflecting on the dangerous consequences of so rash a
vow, and remembering that his father, who frequently came to this
palace, had passed his life in follies, he resolved, without
committing perjury, to place himself out of danger; and, whilst they
were leading him to the genius, stopped his ears with perfumed wax.
Thus fortified, he prostrated himself before Alzim's throne. The
genius made the sons of his ancient friend arise; embraced them, shed
tears to his memory, and had a large chest brought, full of dariques.
"Here," said he, "is the treasure I design for you. I am going to
divide it among you; and I will then tell each the way he must take to
be perfectly happy."

Tai heard not what the genius said; but watching him attentively, he
saw in his eyes and visage traits of cunning and malignity which gave
him much food for thought. Still, he received his portion of the
treasure gratefully. Alzim, having thus enriched them, assumed an
affectionate tone, and said; "My dear children, your good or bad
fortune depends upon your meeting sooner or later a certain being
named BATHMENDI, of whom all the world speaks, but whom few, very few,
know. Wretched mortals grope after him in vain: But I, for the love I
bear you, will whisper to each of you where he may be found." At these
words, Alzim takes Bekir, the eldest brother, aside, and says--"My
son, you were born with courage, and great military talents. The king
of Persia has just sent an army against the Turks. Join that army: in
the Persian camp you will find Bathmendi." Bekir thanks the genius,
and already burns to march.

Alzim beckoned Mesrou, the second son, to approach. "You," said he,
"have shrewdness, address, and a great propensity to falsehood. Take
the road to Ispahan; 'tis at court that you must seek Bathmendi."

To the third brother, whose name was Sadder, he said, "You are gifted
with a lively and fruitful imagination: You see objects not as they
are, but as you would have them be; you often possess genius, and not
always common sense: be a poet. Take the route to Agra: among the wits
and fair ladies of that city, you may find Bathmendi."

Tai, in his turn, advanced; and, thanks to the pallets of wax, heard
not one word that Alzim said. It has since been ascertained, that he
counselled Tai to become a Dervise.

{378} After thanking the beneficent genius, the four brothers returned
home. The three eldest dreamed of nothing but Bathmendi. Tai unstopped
his ears, and heard them arrange their departure, and determine to
sell their little dwelling to the first bidder, in order to divide the
price. Tai offered to become the purchaser: he caused the house and
farm to be valued, paid his brothers their respective portions, and
embracing them tenderly, with a thousand good wishes, remained alone
in the paternal mansion.

He then employed himself in executing a scheme, which he had long
meditated. He was enamored of young Amine, the daughter of a
neighboring farmer. She was handsome and discreet: she managed her
father's household, comforted his declining years, and prayed Heaven
for two things--that her father might long live, and that she might be
the wife of Tai. Her prayers were heard. Tai asked, and obtained her.
Her father went to live with his son-in-law, and taught him the art of
enriching the ground, so as to be enriched by it in return. Tai had
some gold still remaining of Alzim's gift: he employed it in extending
his farm, and in buying a flock. The farm doubled its value; the
fleeces of the sheep were sold; plenty reigned in Tai's house; and, as
he was industrious and his wife frugal, each year augmented their
income. Children, that ruin wealthy idlers, in the cities, enrich
laborers. At the end of seven years, Tai, the father of six lovely
children, the husband of a sweet and virtuous wife, son-in-law to an
aged, yet a hale and amiable man, master of several slaves, and of two
flocks,--was the happiest and the most independent farmer of Kusistan.

Meantime his three brothers were in chase of Bathmendi. Bekir arrived
at the Persian camp; presented himself to the grand vizier, and begged
to be employed in the most hazardous services. His mien, and his
gallant bearing, pleased the vizier, who admitted him into a squadron
of cavalry. In a few days, a bloody battle took place. Bekir achieved
prodigies; saved his general's life, and captured the general of the
enemy. The camp rung with the praises of Bekir: all the soldiers
called him the champion of Persia; and the grateful vizier promoted
his deliverer to the rank of general. "Alzim was right," said Bekir to
himself; "'tis here that fortune awaits me; I am evidently about to
find Bathmendi."

Bekir's glory, and especially his promotion, aroused the envy and the
murmurs of all the satraps. Some of them came to ask him about his
father; complaining that they had suffered by his bankruptcy: others
pretended to have held _madam his mother_ as a slave: all refused to
serve under him, because they were his seniors in office. Bekir, made
miserable by his very successes, lived alone, ever on the watch, ever
in danger of some outrage, which he might amply revenge but could not
prevent. He regretted the time when he was a mere private soldier, and
awaited impatiently the close of the war; when the Turks, reinforced
by fresh troops, and led by a new general, made an attack upon his
division. It was the juncture, for which the satraps of the army had
long wished. They exerted a hundred times more ability in procuring
the defeat of their leader, than they had ever shewn to avoid defeat
themselves. Bekir defended himself like a lion: but he was neither
obeyed nor seconded. In vain did the Persian soldiers wish to fight:
their officers restrained them, and led them only to flight. The
valiant Bekir, abandoned, covered with wounds, and overwhelmed by
numbers, was taken by the Janissaries. The Turkish commander
unworthily loaded him with irons, and sent him to Constantinople,
where he was thrown into a frightful dungeon. "Alas!" cried Bekir, "I
begin to think that Alzim has deceived me: for I cannot hope to meet
Bathmendi here."

The war lasted fifteen years, and the satraps always obstructed the
exchange of Bekir. His dungeon was not opened until peace came: he
hurried to Ispahan, to seek his patron the vizier, whose life he had
saved. It was three weeks before he could obtain an audience. Fifteen
years, in prison, make some change in the appearance of a handsome
young man. Bekir was not easily to be recognized: and the vizier did
not know him again. However, on calling to mind the various events of
his own illustrious life, he did remember that Bekir had done him some
trifling service. "Aye--yes, friend," said he; "I will requite you. A
brave man--but the empire is deeply in debt: a long war, and grand
feastings have exhausted our finances. However--come and see me
again--I will try--I will see"--"Alas, my lord!" said Bekir, "I have
not a morsel of bread; and in the fifteen days that I have been
waiting for a moment's interview with your highness, I should have
died of hunger, but for a soldier of the guard, my old comrade, who
shared his pay with me." "That was very good of the soldier," said the
vizier; "really, it is quite touching. I will report it to the king.
Come and see me again; you know I love you." And with these words, he
turned his back upon him. Bekir returned the next day, and found the
gate closed. In despair, he left the palace and the city, resolving
never to enter them again.

Throwing himself at the foot of a tree, on the bank of the river
Zenderou, he reflected upon the ingratitude of viziers, his own past
misfortunes, and those which menaced him; and, unable to endure
thoughts so dismal, he arose, to plunge into the stream--when he felt
himself clasped by a beggar, who bathed his face with tears, and
sobbed out, "it is my brother; it is my dear Bekir!" Looking up, Bekir
recognised Mesrou. No one can find a long-lost brother without
pleasure; but an unfortunate, needy, friendless, and hopeless, who is
about to end his life in despair, thinks, that in a brother whom he
loves, he sees an angel from Heaven. Mesrou and Bekir at once felt
this sentiment: they press each other to their bosoms--they mingle
their tears--and, after the first moments of tenderness, they gaze at
each other with affliction and surprise. "You too, then, are unhappy!"
cried Bekir. "This is the first moment of happiness," said Mesrou,
"that I have enjoyed since our separation." At these words, embracing
again, they leaned upon each other; and Mesrou, seated beside Bekir,
began his narrative as follows:

"You remember the fatal day, when we went to Alzim's abode. That
perfidious genius told me, that I should find Bathmendi, the object of
our desires, at court. I followed his advice, and soon arrived at
Ispahan. There I became acquainted with a young female slave to the
mistress of the grand vizier's first secretary. This slave took a
liking for me, and made me known to her mistress; who finding me
younger and handsomer {379} than her lover, lodged me in her own
house, as her half-brother. The half-brother was soon presented to the
vizier: and some days afterwards, obtained an office in the palace. I
had only to let my fortune lead me on, and to remember the path which
had brought me thus far. I never quitted that path: and, the sultana
mother being old, ugly, and all-powerful, I failed not to pay my court
assiduously to her. She distinguished me, by a friendship as intimate
as that of the slave and her mistress had been. Thenceforward, honors
and riches began to rain upon me. The sultana caused me to be
presented with all the money in the treasury, and all the dignities of
the state. The monarch himself testified affection for me: he loved to
converse with me, because I flattered him adroitly, and always advised
him to what I knew he wished to do. This was the way to induce him to
do what I wished; and it soon succeeded. At the end of three years, I
was at once prime minister, favorite of the king, lover of his mother,
with power to appoint and displace viziers; deciding every thing by my
influence, and giving audience every morning to the grandees of the
empire, who came to wait for my awaking to obtain a smile of
protection. Amidst all my wealth and glory, I was surprised at not
finding Bathmendi. 'I want for nothing,' said I; 'why does not
Bathmendi present himself?' This thought, and the frightful solicitude
of my life, poisoned all my pleasures. As the sultana grew older, she
became more difficult to please, and my gratitude grew more irksome.
Her tenderness for me was a torment. On the other hand, my station
procured me a thousand tiresome flatterers, and a hundred thousand
powerful enemies. For every favor I conferred, hardly a single mouth
thanked, and a thousand reviled me. The generals whom I appointed were
defeated, and all was attributed to me. Whatever good the king did,
belonged only to himself; all the evil was laid at my door. The people
detested me--the whole court hated, a hundred libels excoriated me: my
master often frowned, the sultana-mother sickened me by her fondness;
and Bathmendi seemed more distant than ever.

"At length, the king's passion for a young Mingrelian gave the
finishing stroke to my fortunes. The whole court united with her, in
hopes that the mistress would expel the minister. I parried the blow,
by joining the Mingrelian, and flattering the king's passion. But his
love became so violent, that, being resolved to espouse her, he
demanded my advice. I evaded an answer for some days. The sultana
mother, who was afraid of losing her power by her son's marriage,
declared to me, that unless I broke off the match, she would have me
assassinated on the very day of its consummation. An hour afterwards,
the fair Mingrelian vowed, that _unless I procured her marriage with
the king the next day_, I should be strangled on the day following. My
position was embarrassing. I must choose the dagger, the bowstring, or
flight. I chose the last. Disguised as you see, I escaped from the
palace with some diamonds, which will sustain us in some nook of
Hindostan, far from courts, Mingrelians, and sultana mothers."

Bekir then recited his adventures to Mesrou. They agreed, that it
would have been as well for them not to run over the world; and that
their wisest course was, to return to Kusistan, to the neighborhood of
their brother Tai, where Mesrou's diamonds would procure them a
peaceful and easy life. Thus resolved, they took the road, and
travelled for some days without an adventure. As they passed through
the province of Farsistan, they arrived one evening at a village,
where they proposed to spend the night. It was a holiday. Upon
entering the village, they saw many children of the peasants'
returning from a procession, led by a sort of master, ill clad,
marching with downcast look and pensive air. The two brothers
approach, and observe him attentively. What was their surprise! It was
Sadder--their brother Sadder, whom they embraced!

"Ah!" said Bekir, "is genius thus rewarded?"--"You perceive," answered
Sadder, "that genius is treated much like valor. But philosophy finds
in misfortune an ample subject for meditation; and that is somewhat
consoling." He then sent his pupils to their home, conducted Bekir and
Mesrou to his little cabin, served them up a little rice for supper,
and, after having heard their histories, told his own:

"Alzim, who, I strongly suspect, delights in the woes of mankind,
counselled me to seek this undiscoverable Bathmendi in the great city
of Agra, among men of genius and fair ladies. I arrived in Agra; and
determined, before I appeared in public, to herald myself by some
brilliant production. At the end of a month, my work appeared: it was
a complete course of all human sciences, in a small octodecimo volume
of sixty pages, divided into chapters. Each chapter comprised a tale;
and each tale taught a science perfectly. My book had prodigious
success. Some reviews cavilled at it, as too prolix: but all people of
fashion bought it; and I was consoled for the criticisms. My book and
I became all the rage. I was sought for--invited into every circle
that had any pretension to wit or genius: all that I did was charming:
I was the theme of every tongue, and every wish; and the favorite
sultana with her own hand wrote me a badly spelled note, praying me to
visit the court. 'Bravo!' thought I; 'Alzim has not deceived me. My
glory is at its height: I shall sustain myself by surer means than
intrigue: I shall please--I shall captivate--I shall find Bathmendi!'
I was favorably received at the great Mogul's palace. The sultana
loudly proclaimed herself my patroness; called upon me for verses;
gave me pensions; admitted me to her select suppers; and, a hundred
times a day, swore to me an unalterable friendship. For my part, I
gave myself up to the liveliest gratitude. I promised to devote my
days to singing the renown of my benefactress; and made a poem, in
which the sun was but a mock-diamond beside her eyes, and ivory,
coral, and the pearls of the Persian gulf, were dim and homely
compared with her face, neck, and teeth. These refined and delicate
compliments completed my assurance of her perpetual favor.

"I thought myself on the point of meeting Bathmendi, when my
protectress quarrelled with the grand vizier, about the government of
a province, which he refused to the son of her confectioner. The
sultana, exasperated at such audacity, demanded of the sultan the
banishment of the insolent minister; but the sultan loved the vizier,
and refused the favorite. The next thing was to organize an intrigue,
to destroy the cherished vizier. Being in the plot, I received orders
to compose a bloody satire against the minister, and circulate it. The
satire was soon made--that is not difficult: it was even {380}
good--which is still easy: it was read with avidity--and that is sure
to tell. The vizier soon learned that I was the author. Going to the
favorite, he carries her the commission which he had before denied,
and a draft upon the royal treasury for one hundred darics; only
asking in return, permission to put me to death in a dungeon. 'He is a
vile wretch,' answered the favorite; 'and I am happy in having the
power to do what may please you. I will instantly have the insolent
sought for, who has dared insult you against my positive orders; and
he shall be put into your hands.' Happily, a slave who was present,
ran to tell me of this conversation; and I had barely time to escape.
Ever since, I have been traversing Hindostan, gaining a meager
subsistence by writing tales, making verses, and toiling for
booksellers who cheated me, and who, less indulgent to my talents than
to their own consciences, continually asserted that my _style was not
pure enough_. Whilst I was wealthy, my works had been master-pieces:
now that I was poor and friendless, my effusions were trash. Tired at
length of enlightening the universe, I preferred teaching the peasants
to read: and I am now schoolmaster in this village, where I eat black
bread, and have no hope of seeing Bathmendi."

"You must go hence," said Mesrou, "and return with us to Kusistan,
where some diamonds of mine will ensure us an easy and quiet life." It
was not difficult to persuade Sadder; and the three brothers, setting
out early next morning, took the way to Kusistan. They were on the
last day of their journey; and not far from Tai's dwelling. This
thought consoled them: but their hope was mingled with fear. "Shall we
find our brother? We left him poor--he cannot have found Bathmendi,
since he has been unable to go in quest of him." "My dear friends,"
said Sadder, "I have reflected much on this Bathmendi, that Alzim told
us of; and really, I believe he deluded us. Bathmendi does not, and
never did exist: for, since Bekir did not meet him when he commanded
half the Persian army--since Mesrou did not hear of him when he was
the favorite of the great king--and I could not even divine who or
what he was, whilst the favors of glory and fortune were heaped upon
me--it is evident, Bathmendi is a creature of fancy; a chimera; an
illusion, which men chase merely from the love of chasing illusions."
Sadder was proceeding to prove that Bathmendi dwelt no where on earth,
when a band of robbers issued from some rocks on the road-side, and
ordered the brothers to strip. Bekir offered resistance; but he was
disarmed; and four of these gentry, holding a dagger at his breast,
unrigged him, while their comrades did the like to Mesrou and Sadder.
After this ceremony, which was the work of a moment, the captain of
the robbers wished them a pleasant journey, and left them half naked
in the highway.

"This confirms my position:" said Sadder, looking at his brothers.
"Ah, the cowards!" cried Bekir; "they took away my sword!" "Oh, my
poor diamonds!" said Mesrou, sorrowfully.

It was now night: the three unfortunates hastened on towards the
mansion of their brother: and on arriving there, the sight of it made
their tears flow fast. They stopped at the door, but durst not knock.
All their fears, all their doubts, returned. While they hesitated,
Bekir rolled up a large stone below the window, and mounting upon it,
looked in. He saw, in a neat and simply furnished apartment, his
brother Tai at table, amid ten children, who were eating, laughing,
and prattling all together. On his right was Amine, mincing some meat
for her youngest son; and on his left was a little old man of a mild
and lively countenance, who was filling Tai's cup. At this spectacle,
Bekir threw himself into the arms of his brothers, and knocked at the
door with all his might. A servant opened it, but uttered cries of
alarm on seeing three half-naked men. Tai runs out: they fall upon his
neck, call him "brother!" and bathe him in tears. Though confounded at
first, he soon recognises them, and locks them in his arms. The
children run to the spectacle; and so does Amine, but retires with her
daughters, on seeing the three strange men. The old man alone did not
leave the table.

Tai clothed his brothers; presented them to his wife, and made them
kiss his children. "Alas!" said Bekir, much affected, "your happy lot
consoles us for all that we have suffered. Since the moment of our
separation, our lives have been but a series of calamities; and we
have not so much as had a glimpse of that Bathmendi, after whom we
have been running." "I believe you"--said the little old man who
continued still at the table; "I have never stirred from this place."
"What!" exclaimed Mesrou, "are you ..." "I am BATHMENDI," said the old
man. "It is quite natural that you should not know me, since you never
saw me before: but ask Tai--ask Amine--and all these children, every
one of whom knows my name. I have lived with them fifteen years; and
am perfectly at home here. I have been away but for one day; it was
when Amine's father died: but I returned, and now hope never to go
hence a single step. It rests only with yourselves, gentlemen
adventurers, to become acquainted with me. If it so please you, I am
willing: if not, why I shall be content. I trouble no one: I stay in
my corner, never dispute, and detest noise." The three brothers, whose
eyes had been eagerly fixed upon the little old man, wished to embrace
him. "O, softly!" said he: "I do not like all these violent emotions:
I am rather delicate; and too close an embrace stifles me. Besides--we
must become friends before we caress. If you wish us to become
friends, do not busy yourselves too much about me. I value freedom
more than politeness; and have an antipathy to all excess." At these
words he arose, kissed the foreheads of all the children, slightly
saluted the three brothers, smiled upon Amine and Tai; and went to
await them in their chamber.

Tai sat down again with his brothers, and had beds prepared for them.
The next morning, he shewed them his fields, his flocks, his working
beasts; and unfolded to them all the pleasures he enjoyed. Bekir
wished to begin work that very day; and he was the first to become the
friend of Bathmendi. Mesrou, who had been prime minister, was the
chief shepherd; and the poet assumed the task of selling the corn,
wool, and milk, which were sent to market in the city. His eloquence
attracted customers; and he was as useful as the others. At the end of
six months, Bathmendi became attached to them; and their days, many
and tranquil, flowed softly on to the bosom of felicity.

[It is needless to say, that _Bathmendi_, in the Persian tongue,
signifies _Happiness_.]


{381}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A SCENE IN PARIS--1827.

BY A VIRGINIAN.


In the month of May 1827 I was in Paris. The discontent of the people
with the government had recently been augmented by a proposition to
restrain the liberty of the press, which the king had laid before the
legislative chambers; and which, having passed the deputies, was under
consideration before the peers.

This discontent with a government, which was in point of fact a very
good one, had existed since the restoration of the Bourbons, and had
its origin in the degradation to which the French people conceived
themselves to have been subjected, in receiving a monarch at the hands
of hostile strangers.

This monarch too was the brother of that imbecile, though amiable
king, whose passiveness had brought him to the scaffold like a lamb to
the slaughter; and he was placed in powerful contrast with him whose
grand ambition aspired to make France his court, and the eastern
continent (perhaps the world,) his empire. Louis le gros was to occupy
the throne of Napoleon the magnificent.

The national pride common to all nations, and the national vanity
peculiar to the French, were thus so severely shocked and wounded,
that the people could not regard with their characteristic loyalty, or
even with toleration, the family whose ascendancy had been established
by other hands than those of Frenchmen. Louis the 18th too, had
violently aggravated this hostility by the unfortunate declaration
that "under God, it was to the Prince Regent of England that he owed
his crown." It was not then to be wondered at that the public mind was
in a state to be easily exacerbated by any cause, and not to be
conciliated by any course however moderate, short of absolute
concession to the popular will. Accordingly the measures of Louis the
18th, who was a wise monarch, and really desired the welfare of his
people, met with jealous opposition, or at best, with unwilling
acquiescence.

The administration of Décazes, which was conducted upon wise and sound
principles, was finally clamored down; and the court, finding the
people incapable of appreciating the mild and liberal measures of the
government, infused more strength into their system.

Charles the 10th, inferior to his brother in mental endowments, and
who brought to the throne stricter notions of legitimacy, and less
disposition to conciliate his subjects, rather tightened than relaxed
the reins of government, and thus increased the disaffection of the
people. Add to this the real or fancied attachment of the king to the
Jesuits, against whose order ancient odium had been recently revived,
and the feelings may easily be conceived which were excited by the
menaced blow at the freedom of the press, which was pending at the
time of which I write.

These feelings were put forth through the usual vents. The public
journals made the most of their liberty while it remained to them, and
kept up an incessant fire of various grades; from the grave
remonstrances of the "Constitutionnel," to the piquant badinage of the
"Drapeau Blanc." The Salons, the Cafés, the Boulevards, the Tuileries,
the Champs Elysées and the Pont Neuf exhibited the politicians of
their respective meridians, from the "riche banquier" to "Monsieur le
tondeur de chiens." The print shops displayed caricatures of the
Jesuits. Beranger "showed up" the royal family in his songs. Mars
played "Tartuffe" at the Francais, and the "parterre" rapturously
applauded her and snapped their fingers at the police.

Early in the month, the annual review by the king, of the regular
troops stationed in Paris, was to take place.

By one of those tacit combinations which sometimes unaccountably
occur, it was resolved that this review should serve as an occasion
for affording an evidence of the sentiments of the people, which
though negative in mode, should be sufficiently positive in character.
It was determined to withhold from the king those testimonials of
attachment and loyalty with which most of the people of Europe are
wont to greet their sovereigns when they appear in public. Accordingly
when on the expected morning, the king with his brilliant suite issued
from the court of the palace, not one of the spectators uttered a
sound of welcome. The place of the review was a mile and a half
distant, and the route was through populous streets; yet from all the
crowd which gradually swelled as the train advanced, not one voice was
heard to utter "vive le roi!" No man cried "God save him." A uniform
silence pervaded the scene, thus giving it the air of a funeral
pageant, rather than of a splendid military display; while at every
turn which the royal company made in their progress, this portentous
legend inscribed on the walls, met their eyes--

  "La silence du peuple est la lecon du Roi."

Proceeding more rapidly and by a nearer route, I reached the Champ de
Mars, the scene of the review, in time to witness the king's arrival.
The Champ de Mars is a beautiful plain, artificially levelled; a
quarter of a mile in breadth, and extending from the Seine to the
école militaire, rather more than half a mile in length--bounded on
each side by embankments, appearing to the eye like ramparts, which
are covered with turf and set with trees.[1]

[Footnote 1: The Champ de Mars was the scene of the famous "fête de la
fédération," which took place in 1790, on the 14th of July, the
anniversary of the taking of the Bastile; when the king, the
representatives of the people, and the other public functionaries, the
commandant of the National Guard, and delegates sent from each of the
eighty-three departments of the kingdom, took an oath to preserve the
new constitution. A splendid altar, called "l'autel de la patrie," was
erected in the middle of the field, around which was an amphitheatre
which held four hundred thousand spectators; in the centre of this was
the throne of the king. All the people of Paris assisted in making
these preparations, that they might be completed by the appointed
time. The Bishop of Autun (Talleyrand) was the ministering flamen of
the solemnities. At the celebration an incident occurred, illustrating
the far seeing sagacity of this man, who thus early discerned the
frail and transient nature of that constitution, which its founders
had decreed should be "une, indivisible, et impérissable." Lafayette,
as commandant of the National Guard, was the first to take the oath;
and as he approached the altar for that purpose, Talleyrand in an
under tone exhorted him to keep his countenance and not to laugh! thus
indicating that he considered the whole scene a solemn farce. I had
this anecdote from an American lady to whom Lafayette told it.]

I found as I had expected, these embankments covered throughout their
whole extent with an innumerable crowd, eager at once to behold the
spectacle and to convince the king that Frenchmen could be silent when
there was an occasion for it, however unnatural the restraint.

{382} I found also the troops to be reviewed, twenty-five thousand in
number, drawn up in beautiful array, and arranged on the plain between
the embankments, in separate divisions, according to their various
designations; the whole forming two lines looking to the centre of the
field, and of course facing each other.

Here were the famed Cuirassiers, arrayed in triple steel--each one
looking the impersonation of war--men and horses forming a dense,
motionless, terrific mass.

There, were the "Chevaux-légers," less imposing in appearance, but
dazzling the eye by the brilliancy of their dress and the rapidity of
their evolutions.

On one side frowned the "Sappeurs Pompiers," with their ample caps of
black fur, their white leather aprons, their glittering axes, their
grim moustaches, and beards like Egyptian sheiks. On the other were
displayed the regular infantry, with their brilliant pieces and
bristling bayonets, at whose points they had so often compelled
victory.

The elder superior officers were conversing in groups--while the
younger paid court to the ladies; whose nodding plumes and wreathed
smiles were displayed in covered stages erected temporarily for the
purpose, and arranged at the inner foot of the embankment on either
side of the field.

In a short time a flourish of trumpets at the école militaire,
announced the arrival of the King. The officers flew to their posts.
Every tongue was hushed, and every eye directed to that extremity of
the field at which the king now appeared, mounted on a white Arabian,
which he managed as one familiar to the seat. He was attended on
either side by the royal dukes Angoulême and Orléans, (the present
king) and followed by a splendid cortège of field marshals and general
officers in gorgeous uniforms, and their horses highly caparisoned.

The king too, and the royal dukes, wore military uniforms, over which
hung the "cordon bleu." After the king and his suite, came an open
barouche, in which appeared the royal ladies d'Angoulême, de Berri and
d'Orléans.

The magnificent cavalcade moved slowly on between the different bodies
of troops, going down on one side of the field and returning on the
other, passing close in front of each line. Their approach was
acknowledged with the promptitude of military discipline, by the
waving of swords, the presentation of pieces, and the lowering of
standards. But this formal military salute was the only greeting. A
silence reigned throughout the immense mass of beholders, as profound
as that which habitual discipline preserved among the troops.

After the review was thus completed, a few evolutions were performed
by the troops in presence of the royal spectators, who then left the
field and returned to the Tuileries.

In a very few days after, it was announced that the king, with a
moderation and wisdom which were not expected, had yielded to the
unequivocal exhibition of public opinion which had been made, and had
withdrawn the offensive law from the consideration of the chambers.
The demonstrations of public joy were then as numerous and violent as
had been before, the expressions of dissatisfaction. For several days
it seemed as if the whole population of Paris had relinquished every
employment, to devote themselves to the most tumultuous display by
every means in their power, of their satisfaction at the victory which
they supposed they had obtained over the court. The public rejoicing
was concluded by a general and splendid illumination of the city.

About ten days after this time, followed the annual review of the
National Guard of Paris.

In the excited state of the people, it was not to be expected that so
remarkable an occasion as this, would be permitted to pass over,
without being marked by some decisive evidence of public sentiment. It
was therefore soon generally understood that the king would, on this
occasion, be received with every outward demonstration of popular
favor and affection; in order that by the contrast with his former
reception, he might be convinced beyond the possibility of doubting,
that in both instances a strong expression of public opinion was
intended.

Of course it was not imagined that all this was not as well known to
the king and his ministers, as to the authors and contrivers. Villèle,
the prime minister, was too sagacious and wary to leave unemployed any
means of obtaining information concerning every subject which agitated
the public mind--information indeed which was of the highest
importance to an administration steering full against the current of
popular opposition. It was therefore feared that the court, usually
desirous of avoiding and preventing all occasions for popular ferment,
would disappoint the public expectation by dispensing with the review.
Innumerable conjectures and rumors floated about like vapors in the
atmosphere, many of which no doubt had their origin in the cabinet,
who probably sent them forth as feelers of the public pulse. All these
at length centred in the general belief that the court would
compromise the matter with the people, by permitting the review to
take place indeed, but by assigning as its locale, the Place du
Carrousel, (adjacent to the Tuileries,) where too little space could
be allowed for spectators, to afford a theatre for the grand
exhibition of public sentiment which had been arranged for the
occasion.

Thus matters stood on the morning of the expected day, which opened in
all the calm glories of May, on the magnificent city and her million
of inhabitants; all ranks of whom, from the courtier to the beggar,
were for once at least occupied by the same theme and excited by the
same agency.

The Moniteur, the government print, was eagerly torn open by thousands
of hands, and thousands of eyes glanced upon the unexpected
announcement that the review of the National Guard would take place
(as usual) at the Champ de Mars!

The people were somewhat taken aback by this unlooked for boldness on
the part of the ministry, but their excitement was not lessened by it.
On the contrary it increased until the great city resembled the
swarming of a mighty hive.

At length the hour appointed for the review arrived, and at that hour
the king, followed by the same brilliant train which had on a former
occasion attended him, once more issued from the palace gates. But not
now as before, was his progress in silence. Every step of his advance
was marked by the most tumultuous {383} and joyous acclamations, which
grew louder as the throng increased, until he reached the Champ de
Mars. The deafening shout of welcome which greeted him from the
hundreds of thousands of spectators there assembled, would have
impressed one, ignorant of the immediate cause, with the belief that
Charles the 10th rivalled in popularity his illustrious ancestor Henry
the 4th; or the still more illustrious usurper of the Bourbon throne,
whose star had just set in St. Helena.

The appearance now exhibited by the Champ de Mars differed but little
from that already described, save that the eye of a critical observer
would have discerned a marked difference between the unmilitary
bearing of the "Milice Bourgeoise," and the exact discipline and
compact and symmetrical array of the regular troops. The martial dress
and perfect armament of the National Guard however, together with
their number, which perhaps exceeded that of the troops at the first
review, gave them a sufficiently imposing appearance.

The Royal personages and their splendid escort advanced towards the
assembled legions, amid cries from every side, of "vive le roi!" "vive
la famille royale!" "vivent les Bourbons!" marking the different
feelings of those who uttered them. The "vive le roi" was on this
occasion merely a "mot de coedille circonstance," a conventional mode
of acknowledging with respect the presence of the monarch. But the
heart had some little agency in prompting "vive la famille royale!"
and "vivent les Bourbons!" These denoted a lurking loyalty, and were
uttered, as I observed, almost exclusively by the females. And this
serves to illustrate the remarkable fact that while the minds of a
large majority of French-men still retained the inclination given to
them by the Republic or the Empire, almost every French-woman was a
decided royalist. The fair sex are usually for the powers that be.

A little incident which occurred on this occasion may be mentioned as
indicative of the sprightliness of the French character. A vagabond
urchin (the like of whom would in our country have been staring in
puzzled wonderment at the scene before him) seeming to enter fully
into the humor of his elders, just as the carriage passed him in which
rode the royal dames, tossed up his ragged cap and exclaimed "vive la
duchesse de Berri toute seule!"

The moment the king reached the first company of the Guards, all its
members, as they gave the military salute, shouted "vive le roi!"
which passed as a watchword from company to company as in turn he
approached them, until at length the entire National Guard were
swelling the chorus of gratulation and welcome.

The harmony was perfect, and the public satisfaction was at its
height, when suddenly a change came over the scene, as rapid and
violent as a storm in tropical climates which in an instant blots the
face of the sunniest day with blackness and wrath.

The review was nearly finished, when a voice was heard from the
company which the king was at the moment passing, mingling with the
cries of "vive le roi," the exclamations "à bas les ministres!" "à bas
les Jésuites!"[2]

[Footnote 2: Down with the ministers, &c.]

A momentary silence following this bold expression, the king instantly
stopped and with becoming spirit said, that he was there to review the
National Guard and not to receive dictation. At the same moment he
ordered the Duc de Reggio, the commandant of the National Guard, (who
was one of his suite) to cause the individual to be arrested who had
uttered the offensive words. The duke promptly passed the order to the
captain of the company; but its execution was at once resisted by the
whole company, who closed around their comrade and energetically
declared that he should not be arrested; and that they all thought as
he did. It was evident that an attempt to enforce the order for arrest
would produce a display of the most alarming violence; it was
therefore wisely abandoned, and the king abruptly left the field.

Immediately a scene of the wildest confusion ensued. The demon of
discord usurped the empire of the spirit of harmony, and in the
twinkling of an eye converted the genial current of good feeling into
the bitter waters of strife.

The troops were instantly dismissed by their officers, and they
mingling with the immense crowd of spectators, the whole mass returned
with tumultuous haste to the city, uttering cries of passion, of
discontent or of derision. "À bas les ministres! à bas les Jésuites! à
bas les Bourbons! vive la charte! au diable Villéle!" &c. &c., issued
from lips which but a few minutes before sent forth expressions of
attachment and loyalty.

The residences of Villéle and Peyronnet, the two ministers against
whom popular indignation was chiefly directed, lay immediately in the
route of the returning crowd. A large number, including many of the
National Guard, stopped before the houses, which were separated only
by a street, and seemed by their furious gestures and menacing cries,
to meditate an attack. The ministers were not at home; for the king on
the instant of his rapid return, had called his cabinet together.
Their families were of course in a state of the most dreadful alarm;
but so soon as the crowd ascertained the absence of the ministers, and
that only unprotected females were within, with the characteristic
gallantry of French-men, (who were not yet wrought to revolutionary
phrenzy) they quitted their position and swept on to communicate their
excitement to those of their fellow citizens who had not witnessed the
events. The effect of their coming, upon the population of Paris, was
that of a whirlwind upon the ocean. It excited them to a state of
fearful commotion, and in less than an hour, the din which arose from
every part of this vast city was as the mighty roar of many waters.

Evening was now approaching; but with it came no diminution of the
wrath of the Parisians. Throughout the night the agitation continued,
and at intervals its sound came through the gloom to startle from
sleep the few who sought repose.

During all this time the king and his cabinet, unterrified by the
denunciations which resounded in their ears, were planning in secret
council at the Tuileries, a "coup d'état" which was to astonish
France.

The next morning the Moniteur appeared as usual, and the very first
line of the first column, which was always appropriated to
annunciations made by authority of the government, consisted of the
following momentous words--

{384} "La Garde Nationale est licenciée"--(the National Guard is
disbanded.)

Had a volcano burst forth in the "place Vendome," the people of Paris
could not have been more astounded. The step was indeed of a boldness
bordering on temerity; for the National Guard was the last remnant of
the revolution--the only connecting link between the present time and
the days of the republic; and its association with revolutionary
remembrances rendered it sacred in the estimation of all those who
professed to entertain the principles of the revolution. And those
were at this time more than three-fourths of the population.

Surprise for a time so completely mastered every other emotion, that
the people were comparatively calm--but this calm was only the
precursor of a fiercer excitement. For several days the commotion
presented the aspect of a menaced revolt. It was by many likened to
the commencing scenes of the revolution; and it filled with anxiety
and dread, all moderate persons who recollected that period of horror.
The entire population of Paris (at least the middle and lower orders)
deserted their homes and thronged the streets and public squares; and
in all parts of the city the tumult of the populace was like the
heaving of a troubled sea.[3]

[Footnote 3: An officer of cavalry with whom I was acquainted, told me
that the agitation far exceeded that which was caused in Paris by the
news of Napoleon's flight from Elba and debarkation in France.]

On one of the nights when the agitation was greatest, I went to the
Rue St. Honoré, one of the great thoroughfares of the city, to witness
the movements of the crowd. When I arrived I found it so thronged as
to render it hazardous if not impossible to enter it. As far as by the
aid of the lights, the eye could reach in either direction, the entire
space of the street presented a dense array of human beings, from
which issued sounds of every variety, constituting altogether the most
deafening clang which ever assailed my ears.

Through the centre of this living mass moved a large body of gendarmes
in single file, reining in their horses to so slow a pace that their
motion through the crowd was barely perceptible. So closely were they
wedged in on every side indeed, that it was impossible to do more than
just to move.

A fitter agent and emblem of an absolute, or, at least, an energetic
government, does not exist, than a gendarme. Stern, silent,
imperturbable, patient--armed at all points, and the moment there is
need for action, implacable, rapid and sure in execution. On this
occasion these men moved through the crowd as though they saw and
heard them not. On every side they were assailed with jeers, with
execrations, and even occasionally with missiles. But these disturbed
not their unconquerable equanimity. They passed on apparently,
unheeding all; but with their swords drawn, ready at a moment's
warning to strike, should the conjuncture arrive to render it
necessary.

They were acting of course under the influence of orders, clear and
strict, and carrying with them the severest penalties for violation.
These orders were, no doubt, to refrain from violence until the
occurrence of some overt act on the part of the people, indicative of
a revolutionary spirit; and to do nothing which might by possibility
lead to such an occurrence.[4]

[Footnote 4: As I had, before going to France, conceived an erroneous
idea of the gendarmes, it may not be useless to explain, that although
as their designation implies, they constitute an armed force, they
have no connection whatever with the army. They are nothing more or
less than the executive police of the kingdom, and are under the
command of the prefect of each department. They are mounted and
completely equipped with sword, pistols, carbine and bayonet; and when
it is recollected that _to resist a gendarme, is to resist the law_,
it will be readily conceived that they are a formidable body. As their
power is great, so also is their responsibility; and they encounter
death as the penalty for any deviation from the strict letter of their
orders. They are perfect machines and the most efficient police in the
world.]

The people had evidently no matured design. They were unprepared for
the energetic measures of the ministry, so that although they more
than once in different parts of the city, gave occasion to the
gendarmes to charge upon them, and several deaths were the result; it
soon became apparent that the excitement was subsiding. After the
expiration of the third day, the city began to wear a calmer aspect.
The affair merely furnished a theme for animated discussions in the
cafés and for eloquent denunciations in the liberal prints. The surest
evidence, however, that all danger of a serious issue was for the
present at an end, was the fact that the little scandalous journals
which exist in every large city, began to serve up the subject in
humorous scraps; for it has been truly remarked, that if the
Parisians, can but be induced to jest about a matter, it is impossible
afterwards to render it serious.

The unexpected boldness of this decisive display of state policy thus
rendered it entirely successful. The king and his ministers were
determined to regain the ground which they had lost in yielding the
law concerning the press.

Fully informed as to the state of the public mind, and ascertaining
that the people had not reached the crisis of revolution, they
resolved to strike a blow which could not be successfully resisted but
by revolution. A more favorable opportunity could not have occurred
than the one which I have attempted to describe; and it was seized
with a promptness and employed with a skill which have never been
excelled. On the very night of the day on which the pretext was given,
the decision was made. At the dawn of day this decision was
communicated to the commanders of all the divisions of the disbanded
body; and with the first rays of the sun the startling annunciation
met the eyes of the astounded Parisians--"_La Garde Nationale est
licenciée!_"

The very style of the decree is worthy of remark, as being in strict
keeping with the rest. There is no labored preamble--no heavy article
covering six columns of the Moniteur, setting forth the reasons for
the act--no endeavor to render the potion palatable to the people by
conciliatory and cajoling declarations--no attempt to lead off the
public mind by sophistry and a maze of argument--none of this. But the
simple, naked, peremptory mandate of authority not expecting to be
questioned--The stern, terse, despotic "_sic vole_" of absolute
rule--"_La Garde Nationale est licenciée!_"

The shaft being shot, the cabinet remained perfectly quiet until the
effervescence and confusion created by the discharge, had subsided;
and then resumed the ordinary routine of their administration, having
derived from the review of the National Guard and its results, {385} a
decided accession of power; and for a time at least, impeded the
progress of liberal principles in France. And although the influence
of these principles must, of course, finally have prevailed, there is
little doubt that the time for their ascendancy would have been longer
deferred, had the successor of Villéle possessed his sagacity, his
boldness, his energy, and his knowledge of the existing state of
things.

Had this been the case, Charles the 10th would perhaps not now be
giving profitless lessons in Royalty to his grandson at Prague, nor
Peyronnet and Chantelauze be playing chess at Ham.




LITERARY NOTICES.


THE CAVALIERS OF VIRGINIA, or the Recluse of Jamestown. An Historical
Romance of the Old Dominion. By the author of a Kentuckian in New
York. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1834.

This work is by a Virginian,--and with that sort of partiality which
inclines us to espouse the literary claims of our native state, (too
long and too unjustly neglected,) we were predisposed to receive it
with favor. Some of the northern periodicals moreover had lauded its
merits, and we own that we felt some pride in the reflection that one
of the most interesting periods in our early colonial history, had
attracted a native adventurer in the field of historical romance. We
regret to say that we are much disappointed in the manner in which the
task has been executed. Our feelings and partialities, which were all
on the author's side,--we are compelled to surrender to the stern
demands of literary justice. The "Cavaliers," in our humble opinion,
is unworthy of the subject it was intended to illustrate,--and
although not entirely destitute of merit,--its faults are so numerous
and censurable, they greatly preponderate in the estimate we have
formed of the work. In the first place, the author has evidently
failed to make himself acquainted with the history of the age and the
character of the incidents which he has chosen as the groundwork of
his story. The portrait of Bacon, is but a poor and feeble likeness of
the original,--and that of Sir William Berkeley, is the merest
caricature of that brave, accomplished, but despotic vicegerent of
royal power. Bacon is represented as a kind of half frantic,
inconsiderate stripling--something of a dandy--but more of a wild and
reckless lover, whose thoughts were principally occupied by his "ladye
love;"--and but slightly, if at all, by the wrongs of his suffering
country. Far different indeed, was the noble and lofty heroism of the
real Bacon--a character which shines in the foreground of our ancient
history,--with a lustre, that despite of the efforts made to diminish
it, will vie with the Wallaces and Tells of other ages and countries.
Sir William Berkeley, though certainly a tyrant, was not the vulgar
insensate wretch which our author has made him. His ambition was made
of "sterner stuff," than to be employed upon petty schemes of
matrimonial alliance,--and the Knight, "in a blue velvet doublet and
pink satin breeches," is but an _outre_ representation of the ancient
and renowned Cavalier,--who had battled with the red man in his savage
lair,--and had exchanged the luxuries of English society, for the
perils and hardships of a wilderness.

There is another capital defect in our author, which if he ever hopes
for success, must be first overcome. He leaves his pictures, both of
character and incident, altogether unfinished,--and darts with a
meteor-like swiftness from subject to subject,--reminding the reader
of a show-box,--in which the eye scarcely lights upon one spectacle,
before it vanishes,--and is substituted by another and a different
one. This perpetual flash and glare, without even the merit of
distinctness, is far more painful than agreeable;--and the author
would do well, if he bestowed more pains in separating the several
parts of his story,--and a little more skill in the arrangement and
harmony of his coloring. In truth, if he intends to repeat his
efforts; and is really a _bona fide_ candidate for fame, we would
advise him to put more oil into his lamp, and expend some additional
labor in fitting his offspring for public exhibition. He does not
employ sufficient _thought_ in the composition of his narrative,--but
suffers his imagination (rich and vivid enough,) to run riot without
restraint or limit. The conduct of Bacon, after the interruption of
the marriage ceremony, as described in the first chapter of the second
volume--is the conduct of a bedlamite, rather than of a rational
being; and the whole scene of his mounting his fiery
courser,--plunging into the river and swimming to the opposite
shore,--his head bared to the "pitiless storm"--"the monsters of the
deep his playmates, and the ill-omened birds of night his fellows;" is
such a tissue of exaggeration and sublime fustian,--that what was
evidently intended for great effect, is in reality extremely
ludicrous. The hero indeed, acts so little like a man of sense, in
this nocturnal aquatic excursion, that the reader feels much more
sympathy for "the white silk breeches and graceful blue cloak," (which
were likely to be spoiled by the half saline element,) than for the
poor unfortunate wight of a bridegroom himself.

The author has moreover been guilty of a very strange mistake in his
geography. He makes his hero swim, "Leander-like," over the majestic
James,--which according to our reckoning, and agreeably to the map of
the country--would have landed him on the _south side_, in the very
respectable county of _Surry_;--but, to our utter amazement, the next
glimpse we have of him, he is rushing on his fleet courser into the
wilderness on the margin of the Chickahomony,--which our best informed
geographers have placed on the _north_ side of the ancient
_Powhatan_,--now called _James river_. Such mistakes are altogether
inexcusable,--and the more so as the author is a native of the "Old
Dominion," and ought to have been more circumspect in his topography.
Equally unfortunate is his arrangement of historical events,--for if
he had looked a little into our early writers, he would have found
that Bacon was never carried prisoner to the Eastern Shore; and that
the treachery of Larimore, did not betray the insurgent squadron into
the power of Berkeley, until _after_ the destruction of Jamestown.
These errors in chronology however, might have been forgiven, if the
author had otherwise redeemed himself from equally formidable
objections. The whole story of the Recluse,--and the miraculous
preservation of Bacon when an infant, as related by the old
nurse,--strike us as evincing poverty of invention, and as altogether
too absurd for an ordinary writer at least to use as materials for
romance. Scott, perhaps, might have turned them to some advantage;--at
all events, the matchless vigor and beauty of his style, would have
thrown a veil over {386} other imperfections. The author might have
made something of Wyanokee, but unfortunately failed to do it,--and we
cannot say that we even felt interested in the sorrows of Virginia
Fairfax. The girl is well enough--very pretty--amiable--and all that,
but she wants force and individuality of character. The whole scene in
which the dying Mrs. Fairfax is exhibited in the bloody conflict with
the Indians in the neighborhood of Richmond, is particularly horrible,
and in wretchedly bad taste.

In taking our leave of the author, we would also advise him, when he
writes another romance, to "sink the shop,"--or rather the
_profession_; and not to describe the wounds and bruises of his
_dramatis personæ_ with that technical precision which only surgeons
and anatomists can fully comprehend. We would also recommend to him,
as a medical man, that when any unlucky hero of his is hereafter tied
to an Indian stake, by all means to have him rescued before the pine
splinters have actually pierced the flesh,--especially when that hero
is made so soon thereafter to perform a series of active exploits
requiring sound bodily health and great muscular exertion.

We have taken no pleasure in this free commentary upon the work before
us, and have only been induced to make it by a sense of duty. Its
author is evidently afflicted with a kind of rabid propensity to write
works of fiction; and, if he is resolved to gratify it, we do most
earnestly entreat him for his own sake and for the sake of his native
state, to invoke hereafter a little more reflection, a purer taste,
and a more enlightened judgment in aid of his labors.

       *       *       *       *       *

VATHEK.

The publisher having sent a copy of the above work to a correspondent
in whose literary attainments, taste and discrimination we place great
confidence, received the following criticism from his pen:

I thank you for Vathek, which I have read _purely_ because you sent it
to me; otherwise it would have remained unread by me forever. I see
nothing "_sublime_" in the work; on the contrary, I was disgusted at
its impurity. A more revolting _jumble of nonsense_, _ridiculous
conceptions_, _debasing exhibitions_, and _corrupt imaginings_, I
never met with in my life. This may perhaps be somewhat redeemed by
the oriental descriptions, which were pronounced by Lord Byron, I
think, to be excellent. Or this I cannot judge; but if the book were
intended, as it seems to be, to inculcate the lesson of the impiety of
looking into matters which are too high for us, the moral loses all
its force, from the very great corruption of the characters of Vathek
and Carathis, who certainly were most justly lodged in Hell, as the
fittest place for such useless and abominable wretches. We feel no
sympathy for them, when we find them with their hearts on fire; and as
for the contrast of the happiness of Gulchenrouz, we care as little
about him, for his happiness was certainly undeserved by any thing he
had done, so far as we are made acquainted with him. There is such a
singular mixture of comic and serious, that one is at a loss to know
what the author would be at. What think you, for instance, of the game
at football? of Aboulfakir the camel, having a taste for solitude and
snorting at the sight of a dwelling, and Cafour's predilection for
pestilence? &c. &c. I am quoting now from memory, and have not the
patience to look at the book to see if I am right.

A learned English reviewer is not less severe upon this lauded
production of juvenile years. After quoting Lord Byron's eulogy upon
the work, he says--

Vathek is, indeed, without reference to the time of life when the
author penned it, a very remarkable performance; but, like most of the
works of the great poet who has thus eloquently praised it, it is
stained with some poison-spots--its inspiration is too often such as
might have been inhaled in the "Hall of Eblis." We do not allude so
much to its audacious licentiousness, as to the diabolical levity of
its contempt for mankind. The boy-author appears already to have
rubbed all the bloom off his heart; and, in the midst of his dazzling
genius, one trembles to think that a strippling of years so tender,
should have attained the cool cynicism of a _Candide_. How different
is the effect of that Eastern tale of our own days, which Lord Byron
ought not to have forgotten when he was criticising his favorite
romance. How perfectly does _Thalaba_ realize the idea demanded in the
Welsh Triad of "fulness of erudition, simplicity of language, and
purity of manners." But the critic was repelled by the purity of that
delicious creation, more than attracted by the erudition which he must
have respected, and the diction which he could not but admire:--

  "The low sweet voice so musical,
   That with such deep and undefined delight
   Fills the surrender'd soul."

It would argue a great decline in the moral feeling of our country,
and a most adulterated literary taste, if such works as "Vathek" could
be generally admired.

       *       *       *       *       *

SCRAPS, by John Collins McCabe. Richmond: J. C. Walker. 1835.

This little volume from the Richmond press, consists of various poems
and half a dozen tales and legends in prose. The pieces, though of
unequal merit, are upon the whole decidedly creditable to the author;
who is not only a young man, but as we are informed, has been denied
the advantages of a liberal education. His productions are vastly
superior to those of many a college dunce, upon whose vacant cranium
the heritage of wealth has been expended; and their author holds a
much higher grade in the scale of intellect than many of that snarling
tribe, who can discern neither talent nor genius, unless allied with
some ideal advantage or accidental distinction. We nevertheless hope
that Mr. McCabe will continue to look ahead, and contemplate the
highest standards of excellence in composition. The most acute
observation of men and things, or the most delicate perception of
poetical imagery, will avail but little without profound mental labor,
and the assiduous cultivation of taste. We select the following as a
favorable specimen of his poetry.

LINES

On hearing the song "Sweet Home," and reflections during the same.


  O breathe again, that touching strain
  Which comes like winds o'er waters stealing;
  Its fall, its swell, like vesper bell,
  Its full rich notes in rapture pealing,
  Bids the lone heart, rejoice again
  In music's all subduing strain.

  O Music! rapture's in thy chords!
  Now gushing soft like moon-beams streaming
  On quiet spot, on rural grot,
  On mossy couch, on infant dreaming,--
  Or rising into raptures wild,
  It fills with wonder nature's child.

  The Exile lone, no land to own,
  Lists to thy soft and touching numbers,
  And _dreams_ he sees the cot, the trees,
  The scenes of youth, (how sweet his slumbers!)
  Nor dreams when thy bright spell is o'er
  His happy "Home" he'll see no more.

  The sailor boy, bereft of joy,
  Looks on the stars above him glowing;
  The big tear steals, his bosom feels
  As troubled as the waters flowing,
  And while the billows round him foam,
  He faintly murmurs, "Home! sweet Home!" {387}

  The warrior stern, whose feelings burn
  To meet the foe, his rights defending,
  When war is o'er, sweet home once more
  Its rainbow colors round him blending,
  Invites him from the bloody plain
  Back to its quiet hearth again.

  The christian warm, round whom the storm
  Of opposition wildly rages,
  Beholds the prize beyond the skies,
  Reflected on the glowing pages
  Of God's own book, and with a tear
  Of joy, he "reads his title clear."

  O! onward press, life's wilderness
  Will soon be past; where spirits linger
  Round flowing streams in rapt'rous dreams
  And golden lyres, softly finger,
  We all shall meet, no more to roam,
  And dwell in an eternal home.




EDITORIAL REMARKS.


We continue the interesting "_Sketches of Tripoli and the Barbary
States_." We believe that when completed, they will constitute the
most authentic record extant, of the military and diplomatic
transactions of the period referred to. Besides the author's access to
correct sources of information, he has the taste and talent to impart
peculiar grace and interest to his narrative.

"_Berenice_," a tale, by Mr. Edgar A. Poe, will be read with interest,
especially by the patrons of the Messenger in this city, of which Mr.
P. is a native, and where he resided until he reached manhood. Whilst
we confess that we think there is too much German horror in his
subject, there can be but one opinion as to the force and elegance of
his style. He discovers a superior capacity and a highly cultivated
taste in composition.

The "_Extract from the Reminiscences of a Western Traveller_,"
proceeding as it does from the pen of a practised and polished writer,
has the additional advantage, as we are assured, of being founded in
strict truth.

We are sorry that we are not permitted to announce the source from
which we derive the original story or apologue of "_Jonathan Bull and
Mary Bull_." Its own merit however, and its obvious application to
events of the time at which it was written, will attract a due share
of attention.

We especially recommend to our female readers, particularly the young
and lovely who are just entering into the flowery but deceitful paths
of worldly pleasure, to read the original narrative which is headed
"_Marrying Well_."

The "_Letters from a Sister_" will amply repay the reader; so also
will the article on the "_Fine Arts_"--and the "_Persian Story_,"
translated from the French of Florian.

The "_Scene in Paris, by a Virginian_," we have no hesitation in
particularly recommending. It is an admirable and graphic description
of what the writer saw with his own eyes,--and the excellent
delineation of the French character, comprising its extremes of energy
and weakness, will forcibly strike the reader. With us the whole
narrative possesses powerful interest.

It is but sheer justice to insert the letter from "_Larry Lyle_,"
(printed by mistake in our last "_Zarry Zyle_,") in answer to the
criticisms of our Shepherdstown correspondent. Mr. Lyle defends his
muse with spirit and ability.

We also insert from a sense of duty, a letter from the author of a
"_Note to Blackstone's Commentaries_," accompanied by the expression
of our regret that he should have considered himself somewhat unkindly
treated by the gentleman who furnished a reply to that article. We
think we can vouch for it that the gentleman referred to, _fully
intended_ to restrict himself within the bounds of fair and honorable
discussion, and if we had thought differently, his article would have
been excluded.

We must be excused for saying a word or two in respect to the
_poetical_ department. Unless the reader is very fastidious, he must,
we think, be pleased. We read "_Young Rosalie Lee_" more than once,
before we could fully perceive the exquisite beauty and delicacy of
the mind which produced it,--and we venture the prediction, that
unless the author is divorced from the society of the sacred _nine_ by
paramount duties, he is destined to no ordinary celebrity. We dare say
that for the expression of this opinion, we ourselves shall not be
spared, for we confess there is a quaintness in the style which will
be repulsive to most readers.

In the "_Stray Leaves_," there is something which reminds us of
Waller's beautiful lines beginning, "Go lovely rose," &c. and we
almost regretted that the author should have so suddenly glided into
the genuine Anacreontic.

Our readers will agree with us that the remaining pieces, particularly
the "_Extract from an Unfinished Poem_"--the lines "_To Hope_"--"_To
the Bible_"--"_Moonlight_"--and "_Hopes and Sorrows_," have each more
than ordinary claims to admiration.

The "_Lines on Barlow's Monument_," by the celebrated Helen Maria
Williams, and now published for the first time, need no praise from
our pen; neither do the two original productions of Mrs. Sigourney,
which we take great pleasure in inserting.

It would be doing us much injustice to suppose that the pieces which
we do not particularly notice, are for that reason lightly esteemed.
Whilst there are, it is true, degrees in the pleasure with which we
regard the favors of contributors, their insertion ought to forbid the
idea that any are unwelcome.




TO CONTRIBUTORS, CORRESPONDENTS, &C.


We thank our correspondent C. W. L. for pointing out the resemblance
between the little epigram entitled "_The Mistake Corrected_," in our
last, and the "_Surprise_," in Little's poems, which he quotes. The
resemblance is certainly strong, and it is quite probable that the
former if not borrowed was at least suggested by the latter. We cannot
agree however, that it is a "plagiarism," in the proper sense of that
term; for we know too well the personal and literary character of the
gentleman who presented us with the trifle referred to, to suspect him
for a moment of so paltry a proceeding. We rather conclude therefore,
that its resemblance to Moore's bagatelle, is either the result of
casual coincidence,--or more probably, perhaps, of an accidental
mistake of the product of memory for that of fancy; a kind of mistake
which those who have read much are very liable to make.

We assure our correspondent B. R. B. that we have carefully compared
the lines published in our last with his manuscript, and find them to
correspond _verbatim_. He wrongs us much if he thinks we would do him
wilful injustice; and if one word has been substituted for another in
the lines referred to, so as to change their sense, he must ascribe it
to himself. We hope with this explanation he will excuse us from
inserting his letter at full length.

There is a great deal of feeling in many of the communications sent to
the publisher by T. H. C., M.D.; but to our poor taste, there is not
much _poetry_. We question whether the Doctor will not find the lancet
and pill box of more profit in that warm region to which he has
emigrated, than the offerings of his prolific muse. The poetical
manufacture depends more upon the _quality_ than the _quantity_ of its
fabrics, for success.

We have received the following communication since the publication of
our last number, from "_Fra Diavolo_," (_Horresco referens!_) which,
as it is brief, we spread before our readers. His sneers at our
"literary morality" and "critical acumen," we receive with great
composure. Perhaps indeed, our vanity might be wounded if we had a
tithe only of what seems to belong to the writer himself; but as our
pretensions are very humble, we care not a farthing whether they are
disputed or not. His request not to publish his poetry, (except on his
own terms) shall be complied with; and should we consign his impure
effusions to the flames, as he also desires, the world will have
little or no cause to regret it. So long as we can secure the rich
contributions received from other quarters, we shall console ourselves
with the loss of "_Fra's_" favors, and even endeavor to survive his
unprovoked resentment. To "give the devil {388} his due," however, we
shall continue to lament the downward flight of our correspondent's
muse; and uninitiated as we profess to be in the sublime mysteries of
the school to which he belongs, we shall even be so perverse as to
prefer the "modest mien and plain attire" of mediocrity, to the more
flashy but less useful adornments of brilliant but misguided genius.
One word in justification of ourselves. We did not admit the "_Doom_"
into our columns without reluctance; a reluctance which nothing would
have overcome but the conviction that a useful moral might be deduced
from the fate of the "_Lover Fiend_," who figures as the hero of the
story. As to the "_Passage of the Beresina_," whether it be
"balderdash" or not, is matter of taste and opinion. One thing is
certain; it is from the pen of a highly accomplished scholar.

Mr. White,--_I have just seen your sixth number of the Southern
Literary Messenger, and shall decline having my contribution published
on condition of any improvement of the poetry by your most chaste and
wise editor. The admission of such balderdash as the "Doom" and "The
Passage of the Beresina," is quite enough evidence of his literary
morality and good taste. I require no further token of it; least of
all in my own case, where I am to be martyred at the shrine of such
critical acumen--God save the mark! Put the manuscript into the fire,
and oblige yours,_

FRA DIAVOLO.

_March 25, 1835_.

       *       *       *       *       *

_From the author of the "Note to Blackstone's Commentaries."_

You judge rightly that I have no call to answer my censor. I have no
pride of authorship in the affair. I wished to awaken the public mind,
and he has aided me, for which he has my thanks. I have no controversy
with him. He argues against opinions I have not advanced, and, in his
last paragraph, comes in aid of that I had endeavored to maintain. By
his own showing a _quasi_ war exists _among ourselves_, under
circumstances which render any nearer approach to peace impossible. We
have the alternative of "a war-like peace, or a peace-like war," and
he wisely prefers the former. He predicates this decision on the only
principle for which I contended, viz: the effect of a continuing
necessity. I only suggested the _possibility_ of such a case. _He_
finds it existing _in fact_. It doubtless _might_ exist in various
ways. _Destruction_ is the precise object of _savage_ warfare. With
us, it is the _means_ to an end. With savages, it is the _end_ itself.
Had he seen, as I have, a few individuals of once powerful tribes,
escaped from massacre, and saved from utter extinction only by finding
shelter among the whites, he would not have to learn that _bellum ad
internecionem_ is not unknown among savages.

The style and matter of his essay both show an education which should
have taught him that a supercilious tone should find no place in a
controversy between an anonymous and an avowed author. _He_ wears
defensive armor. _I_ am naked. Is it chivalrous; is it manly; is it
fair, in a contest which should be conducted "as if a brother should a
brother dare to gentle exercise and proof of arms," to thrust with
"unbated point?" His point indeed is not envenomed, nor does he stab
malignantly, but he should have touched my scutcheon with the reverse
of his lance. To strike with the point, however gently, is a challenge
to combat of _outrance_. I decline it.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Extract of a Letter from the Reviewer of Messrs. Adams' and Everett's
Orations_.

You say, "The most sublime events and the most heroic actions have
generally found some poet or historian of sufficient qualifications to
record them with dignity and effect." Granted, but what is _dignity_?
Does it consist in that sort of declamation which is meant to "split
the ears of the groundlings?" What is _effect_? Is it _stage effect_?
Is it made up of "gun, drum, trumpet, blunderbuss and thunder," and
images placed by the speaker's side to be apostrophized? The example
that you give illustrates the maxim that "the language of eulogy is
misapplied to transcendant greatness. It weakens and dictates the
truth of history."

You say "even the most exalted truths which have ever dawned upon
mankind,--the facts and doctrines of revelation,--have lost none of
their grandeur in the simple narratives of plain and unlettered men."
Most true. The _simplicity_ of the narrative is its excellence. But
what should we say to a Gospel after the manner of Mr. Adams, or even
of Mr. Everett?

       *       *       *       *       *

_Mr. White_:--The legitimate aim of criticism is, as you yourself have
more than once remarked, to point out the proper path towards
excellence. A true critic effects this by gently and courteously
exposing error, and lauding beauties where beauties are to be found.
So far as I can judge, neither gentleness nor courtesy can be said to
characterize the critique of your "Shepherdstown friend." The want of
these qualities would certainly have induced me to pass over the
letter in question, had it not received honorable notice from
yourself. In the pamphlet war between Matthew Carey and the
redoubtable Cobbett, the first apologizes for his own rudeness, by
quoting the old proverb, "fight the devil with fire," or something to
that amount. But this is bad philosophy; and in my brief answer, I
will endeavor as much as possible to observe that courtesy which your
correspondent has forgotten.

In the "Song of the Seasons" quaintness was aimed at, and aimed at
only because I thought the subject called for it. One part of my
object was to depict the minute relations existing between the human
heart and earth itself. Minuteness was necessary, and to be minute
without quaintness, would render any piece dull and pointless
analysis. With regard to obscurity, and the use of terms, I would ask
your critic, if when he had "_studied the song_," obscurity did not
disappear, and if the terms are not in keeping with the quaintness
aimed at. Indeed, I would ask him, if the terms used are not just such
as should have been used in any case. Beams _are_ "amethystine." We
will find an admirable application of the word in Keates' "Eve of St.
Agnes;" and Mrs. Hemans sings very prettily of the drowsy "Bugle-Bee."
By the way, let me in this last phrase, adopt the change recommended.
The stanzas quoted is the second of the "_Song_."

  "A white roe wandered where sweet herbs and tender grass were
         peeping;
   His snowy head was poised in pride, his chainless heart was
         leaping:
   The '_bumble-bee_' had called the herd from icy solitude,--
   And he had come at '_bumble_' call--fleet centaur of the wood!"

A vast improvement i' faith. The term "_gauze wing_," is as common as
the rhymes _love_ and _dove_. "_Soughing blasts_" are frequent in
_Wyatt_, and more frequent in _Shakspeare_. An amethystine beam thrown
on a red body produces a glittering gold, and thus the red breast of
"poor robin" was metamorphosed into one of gold. So much for the
criticism. As for the critic, he has most unequivocally proved
himself, by these syllable censures, to be one of the _anceps
syllabarum_ tribe. As such I wonder that you, who have so often
expressed your contempt for the whole race, should have opened your
columns to his communication. Is not his letter a specimen of "the
carpings of illiberal and puerile criticism?" Is not the writer one of
the "little great men in the world, who have the vanity to conceive
that their taste and judgment, (if they have any) is the standard for
all mankind, and who snap and bark like the curs which infest our
streets and annoy the by-ways?" I have used your own words, and ask if
they are not applicable.

The Song of the Seasons (though never so little deserving,) has
received praise from a higher quarter than Shepherdstown. My home is
not very far from that village--near enough to know the character of
its people; and in truth, gentlemen of talent and distinction are
there with whom I have ever held it an honor to be acquainted. But it
is plain that the critique could not have been written by any one of
them. If I had no other reason for thinking so, I would say, "because
it is not in keeping with the good sense, accurate taste, and elevated
candor which I know these to possess." As for their townsmen, I have
never heard of any Longinus among them, whose praise would not be
disgrace. If your "friend" thinks an answer to this necessary, let me
hope that his name will accompany the communication; or if he is
unwilling to annoy, with private concerns, the public "upon whom Larry
Lyle has [already] inflicted the _study_ of his song," his
communication may be directed, not to yourself, but to his very humble
servant,

LARRY LYLE.

_Winchester, Va._


{389}


SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. I.]  RICHMOND, APRIL 1835.  [NO. 8.

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




We regret that from the late period at which the sixth number of
"Sketches of the History of Tripoli" was received, it has been
impossible to present it to our readers this month. It will appear in
our next.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

INFLUENCE OF FREE GOVERNMENT ON THE MIND.


Human society, from the nature of its formation, is governed in all
its multifarious movements, however majestic or delicate, by mind.
There are no changes, nor revolutions in society, that do not
acknowledge its influence. It is the all-pervading, all-exciting cause
of human action. Its power on the social system is similar to that of
gravitation in regulating the magnificent and rolling orbs of space;
the great centre of attraction, holding together and preserving in
harmonious order the thousand relations of life. Physical force, which
to the superficial eye appears to have swayed the destinies of mankind
in all ages of the world, will be found on examination to be only a
mean, enabling it to wield with greater skill and force the sceptre of
its power. The conquering legions of Cæsar or Bonaparte would have
been a useless pageant, deprived of this active, governing principle.
This exciting principle of society reaches its maturity and power by
gradual developement. In the first stages of civilization its strength
is that of an infant, afterwards that of a giant; and the spheres of
its action are as various as its powers. We behold it soaring on the
shining wings of imagination to the fields of fiction; calm,
comprehensive, searching in philosophy and science; animated and
exalted on the noble theatre of eloquence; pure and humble in the holy
aspirations of religion. Such being the nature of mind, we are led to
the irresistible inference, that the state of communities or nations
will be low or elevated in proportion to its neglect or cultivation.
The conceptions of mind form the mirror of national character. If
there be a want of mental cultivation, as a consequent, the numerous
attractions which hold in harmony and union the relations of society
will be destroyed; and general darkness and misery prevail. On the
contrary, if there be an expansion of mind, these ties so necessary,
so sacred, will receive new strength; and a universal joy, and beauty,
and brightness, pervade the whole social compact.

Many and various causes tend to the development of mind. It varies in
every nation and under every form of government. We read of the
majestic melancholy, the lofty passion, the stern intellect of the
_North_; of the mental effeminacy, of the exuberant fancy, beneath the
sunny skies and amid the olive groves of the _South_. We read of the
effects, natural advantages and impediments; how inaccessible barriers
may raise their Alpine heads, and prevent the light of one nation from
beaming on another; thus destroying the interchange of kindred
thoughts and obstructing the growth of mind; how nature's works, her
forests, rivers, lakes, groves, and water-falls in their original
grandeur and sublimity; how art's works, shining in their new
splendor, or fallen from their primitive state, cities and towers
lying in the crumbling embrace of time, stir up the sympathies,
enliven the emotions, and arouse the imagination to high exertion; how
the resources of the earth, her rich mines, her quarries of marble,
stimulate the spirit of improvement in the arts and sciences. We read
too, how the mind wastes away under the influence of despotic
institutions, and how ignorance reigns shining in purple and gold;
lastly, how the mind attains its full developement, and is ever active
in its native strength, and power, and greatness, under the pacific
and stirring effect of free principles. Each of these causes which may
advance or retard the growth of mind, afford themes worthy of
investigation. That of the influence of free institutions, having a
bearing on the destinies of American mind, we have selected as the
subject of this essay.

A ceaseless activity is the original characteristic of all material
creation. All matter, whether on the surface, or in the centre of the
earth, is imperceptibly undergoing a continuous change. To-day, we
gaze with delighted eye on the loveliness and grandeur of nature, lit
up by the smile of heaven; to-morrow, they have passed away. We only
look upon a clear blue sky, to behold it the next moment hung with
dark and angry clouds. The sun and the moon ever pursue their same
eternal tireless course. Nature has likewise created an undying active
spirit in the mental world. Activity is the earliest intellectual
developement. The many imperious duties, connected with the stupendous
relations which the individual members of society sustain to each
other, prove that the mind was destined for action. The different
natures, and the beautiful adaptations of the intellectual powers,
prove it. Their native elasticity, their quick excitability, prove it.
Curiosity, that key which unlocks the sanctuaries of knowledge, is
seen from the days of childhood to silvery age. A desire of society, a
commune and interchange of thought and feeling, has ever been a
distinguishing characteristic of mankind in all ages and in all parts
of the world. The sublime summits which the mind has reached, and the
perennial glories which have crowned its efforts, are evidence
unanswerable of the vastness of its power. But there cannot be full
powerful mental action without mental freedom. Freedom is incident to
action mental or physical. Observe the king of birds as he spreads his
majestic wings on high; mark his swift flight, his strength and vigor;
then behold him shut up within a cage, how weak, how lifeless, how
nerveless! The same is true of mind; unrestrained, its powers
transcend all limits, but fettered, they dwindle away--are powerless.
The mind then is both naturally free and active. Such being the case,
free institutions are founded in nature; and, therefore, their
influence on the mind arises from a natural and mutual relation: this
relation cannot be otherwise than efficacious in its tendencies on the
mind.

What is the nature of free institutions? Founded in {390} man's free
active nature, their tendency is to develope his powers and dignity.
Their permanency, depending on the mental part of man, their chief aim
and policy are his moral and intellectual elevation. Universal mental
cultivation is the enduring basis and majestic pillar of their
structure. As the effulgent life-giving orb of day brings forth the
hidden beauties and treasures of nature, they draw out to the light
the powers and faculties of every member of society. They bring mind
in competition with mind; thus striking out the "celestial spark,"
they recognise no mental indolence; they afford means suited to the
growth of all kinds of mind; they hold out the same common inducements
to all; they reward with immortality noble intellectual action. Their
true prominent feature is the collision of minds.

Let us examine their influences. All legislation, all governmental
measures and operations, originate in the chosen intellect of the
people, assembled in free deliberation. No single will creates a law.
Many cultivated thinking minds coming together in close discussion,
strike out the great principles of political science. And the minds
thus exercised are not confined in their illuminating influence to the
legislative hall, but go abroad, brilliant and powerful, awakening to
thought, and enlightening millions of minds. Whatever the legislators
conceive and create, affords a theme on which a thousand other
eloquent minds among the people concentrate their talents, and shine
forth in bright display. Thus we perceive that the splendid and
dazzling theatre of eloquence is opened, inviting the exertions of
bold, persuasive, original intellect. Eloquence is one of the
characteristics of free governments. It requires free action. Its
nature is to thrill the feelings, to awaken the fancy, to exalt the
thoughts of a nation. It is the mind speaking forth its native
inspiriting thoughts. It is the rapid flow of deep excited feeling. It
is the natural influence which one mind exerts over another. It is the
unbridled intellect, clothed in shining and magic forms. Can it exist
under a despotism? The bird that dips its wings in the heavens does
not require more freedom. It is opposed to tyranny of any kind. What
is the history of eloquence? We behold it in unrivalled brilliancy and
power in the Republican of mighty Rome. Rome's eaglet of conquest
canopied the world under his expanded wings; but the genius of her
eloquence, peaceful, but powerful, moulded and swayed the mind of her
people and raised her to matchless grandeur.

In free governments, new occasions are continually arising for
intellectual action. It is the inevitable result of that freedom they
give to the mind. The free mind is ever active and progressive, ever
soaring to lofty heights. The free mind disdains to follow the beaten
track, and marks out an original, a more elevated path. The free mind
experiences the full efficacy of all the stimulating feelings of our
nature. Can such a cast of mind do otherwise than open new fields for
high action? or produce other than wonderful and glorious results?
Animated by an unconquerable love of action, all obstacles and
difficulties vanish before it. It overthrows old systems, and erects
new ones more dazzling in splendor. It revolutionizes all unsound
associations, political, social, religious and literary. It fully
developes and explains the existing relations of life, and unfolds
hitherto unfelt ones. It thinks and feels more exaltedly, more deeply,
more strongly. Lethargy never steals upon such a mind. Now a mind thus
exercised, thus unlimited in its action, must shine forth in its
original beauty and might, must attain all that is noble or sublime in
intellectual achievement. This mind does not exist under despotic
institutions. It could not. The restrained mind is ever retrograding.
The restrained mind, aimless and unambitious, pursues the old path and
never thinks of seeking a new one. The restrained mind never feels the
irrepressible delight of a superior thought, never the exhilarating
influence of deep and lofty meditation. Is it wonderful that despotic
governments never attain a high degree of intellectual eminence? Or is
it wonderful that free governments should know no barriers too great,
no limits too extensive, no summits too elevated; should send forth a
living increasing light of mental glory over the world?

In free governments "capacity and opportunity are twin sisters."
Development of mind being their chief aim, they afford every proper
means to this end. The genius of learning is brought down from her
high abodes, and caused to walk radiant with beauty, through every
grade of society. Education, the soul's strength, is disseminated with
a liberal hand to every portion of the community. Intellectual
illumination is made universal, as extensive as the circling canopy of
the firmament. The inferior and superior mind drink at the same
fountain--aspire to the same immortal renown. For while they thus
develope the mind, they open to all the bright halls of eminence,
offer to all _fame's_ brilliant diadem. Glorious is the effect! The
principles of science are seen shining in increased brightness in the
work-shop; eloquence, deep and overwhelming, full of heavenly fire and
pathos, arises from the shades of obscurity; the lyre of poetry
touched by the spirit of song, sends forth its melodious and inspiring
strains from the deep valley and the mountain top; in truth, the great
mass of society is moved and agitated by an active untiring spirit,
even as the waters of Bethesda were wont to be moved when visited by
the angel of the skies. Do we behold such an aspect under despotic
institutions? Do they encourage the universal growth of mind? Do they
hold out a common inducement to eloquent and lofty effort? or insure
to superior genius an enduring fame? Impossible! when all intellectual
influence is confined to the palace. Impossible! when learning in its
effect on society is no more than the light of the moon, shining by
the side of the noonday sun.

But free circulation of thought and feeling composes the chief
influence of free institutions on the mind. The beauty, union, and
elevation of society depend upon the action and re-action of mind.
Indeed, this reciprocal influence of mind is the final cause in the
formation of society. Where it is unfelt all relations, political and
social, are frail and disregarded. If we look through society we shall
find that all national mental greatness and power, originates in the
influence which a few mighty minds exert in setting the great mass of
mind to thinking and feeling. How great have been the effects of the
minds of the Newtons, Bacons, Ciceros and Luthers on the world! How
many millions of minds have they not excited to strong and elevated
{391} action! Now, free governments, from their very nature, encourage
this interchange, this mutual action of mind on mind. And mark the
results. The original brightness of one mind throws new light on the
path of another. A superior thought, like the blast of the Highland
warrior's trump bounding from crag to crag, and causing, quick as
sound, a hundred minds to beat for action, spreads with electric
rapidity through every nerve of the social frame. Thoughts once
clouded in darkness assume a blinding brightness. Thoughts once
confused and incomprehensible are mastered and imbodied in enchanting
forms. Patient and ambitious investigation, surmounting every
obstacle, and penetrating to the lowest depths of knowledge, brings
forth its rich treasures; truths, brilliant and irresistible. Free
discussion is awakened, eliciting talent, intellectual energies and
glories. Nor is this all. In philosophy, a few mighty minds arise and
unfold new principles in human nature; and, immediately, a spirit of
revolution, rapid but glorious, rages through society, destroying
false and unnatural relations, and strengthening those that are
genuine by holier and imperishable ties. In literature, a few mighty
minds arise, profound in thought, imperial in fancy and conception,
which like so many meridian suns, casting their beams upon the mental
world, draw forth the native graces, and beauties, and grandeur of
mind, and disseminate through every department of letters an influence
enlivening and beautifying: an influence, which arouses the slumbering
spirit of poetry, and throws an immortal radiance over the Elysian
realms of fiction. In science, a few mighty minds arise, expose old
fallacies, explore the rich mines of the earth, develope the
mysterious principles of matter, explain the nature of their
application, and suddenly an unusual mental splendor encircles the
temple of learning. Art wields her sceptre with greater skill and
precision, improving and adorning every branch of mechanism, that
administers to the uses and comforts of society. And this influence of
these few mighty minds on the general mind of society reacts in
resilient bounds, again acts, and again rebounds, continually
increasing in vigor and majesty. Thus the powers, passions and
emotions of the mind, are developed to their full stature. Thus, that
mind gains its natural ascendancy, crowns itself with unfading
laurels, erects its throne, all magnificent, far above human thrones,
and wields an overpowering influence over the destinies of mankind.
Thus, all nations either in the ancient or modern world, where mind
has shone in its brightest forms, have gained their immortality. From
a want of this mutual influence of superior and inferior minds,
despotic nations have ever remained in superstition and ignorance. For
the sake of mind, who will not hail with delight the day when the
genius of liberty shall canopy the world with her guardian wings!

But the friends of monarchical governments tell us that Republics do
not encourage high intellectual developement, because they do not
stimulate the mind to exertion by liberal rewards. In a triumphant
air, they point us to the munificent era of Augustus, when genius
bloomed amid kingly splendor, to the profuse liberality of _Eastern_
kings; to the generous age of Leo X, when Italia's mind shone in
rivalry with her own bright and lovely skies. We grant that the mind
in free governments is deprived of this influence. Does it thereby
sustain any loss? Let us examine this point. Will the mind whose only
stimulant are the smiles and pecuniary emoluments of kings, exhibit
its native strength and grandeur? or will the Muse that sings to
please the whims and caprices of a court, soar on eagle wings and to
mountain heights? He who depends on another for support, must
necessarily so shape his actions as to gain the good will of his
patron. It is familiar to every one, that they who live in the
sunshine of a palace, and from whom the mind in monarchies receives
its patronage, are no more nor less in their characters than a
composition of vanity and pride; of vanity and pride demanding
deification. The mind then that acts under courtly favor must bow in
lowly adoration and flattery. The scholar mourns over this defect in
the writings of Horace: he wrote to please the wily and arrogant
Augustus. If we turn over the productions of modern ages, when
monarchy has reigned, we shall find the same grovelling slave-like
spirit. Can such an influence develope the real beauty and sublimity
of mind? No! For the mind that would attain a full growth, a growth
noble and dignified--must mark out a course of its own, must move
forward with a fearless, unbending step.

But because the mind in free governments does not enjoy the influence
of princely favor, (which in our humble opinion is rather an injury
than a benefit,) it is not therefore deprived of every other
stimulant. In a Republic, mental influence is not confined to any one
particular sphere, but illumines by the same beneficent rays the
summits and the depths of society. It is sound reason, that the
motives to intellectual action will bear a character corresponding to
the influence of that action. If its influence be noble and extensive
the stimulus of mind will be strong and awakening. How great then the
motives to mental effort in free governments! There the mind acts not
to please a crown, not to scatter flowers for courtiers to walk over,
but conscious of the weight of its responsibility, and the boundless
extent of its power, thinks and feels, that its thoughts and feelings
may mould and sway countless other minds. There is an indescribable
glory in such a stimulus. It not only purifies and elevates the mind
which it arouses, but prospers and ennobles the condition of mankind.
Still further--The mind whose theatre of action is thus extensive, and
that looks up to no living being for aid, will in most instances, be
excited to action by the idea of a virtuous immortality. And say,
friend of monarchical munificence, is not the mind that conceives this
idea in its pure genuineness, actuated by a stimulus more powerful
than all the smiles of all the kings, than all the gold of all the
Perus in the world could create? Analyze this idea. It combines
benevolence and sublimity of feeling. It raises the mind above earthly
scenes to the contemplation of the ineffable brightness and goodness
of the Creator. Its great end is the promotion of the happiness of
coming ages. Who will compare the action of the mind thus stimulated
with that of the mind, whose only stimulus is present selfish
enjoyment? As well may we compare the anthill to the "cloud-crowned
Andes."

What says biography of those superior minds that have shone as lights
to the world. Did they grow to their full power and greatness under
the influence of {392} monarchical institutions? Did they arouse the
mind of Homer, the immortal bard of antiquity? Or the eloquence and
moral sublimity of Cicero? Or the unrivalled philosophy of Socrates?
Who has not lamented over the severe fate of modern genius? Danté,
Petrarch and Ariosto, minds resplendent in imagery and conception,
wrote their best works when friendless exiles on a foreign shore.
Cervantes wrote his Don Quixotte of undying fame, in a dungeon.
Shakspeare, rightly styled the great magician of human nature, was
often obliged to act parts in his own plays. Milton, who in thought
and conception dwelt in the home of angels, sold his Paradise Lost for
five pounds; lived the disgrace and glory of his age. These minds were
the subjects of monarchies. Others might be mentioned. Surely then
this patronage of kingly governments is but an empty name. It will not
stimulate the noble mind, for such a mind creates its own stimulus.
Let no one say then that the mind cannot ascend to lofty heights
without its aid. But rather let us exclaim with the poet,

  "'Tis immortality should fire the mind."

In looking over the pages of history, no fact strikes us more
perceptibly than that all greatness of mind has ever been
proportionate to its enjoyment of civil liberty. In vain do we look
for universal education, either in ancient or modern times, among the
numerous kingdoms of the East; in vain for a philosopher, poet or
historian. The story of Grecian mind in its full maturity and
superiority is known to every scholar. He there beholds mind in its
real glory and power, shining under diversified forms; in imaginative
brilliancy; in philosophic research; in the highest spheres of
literature and science. But her freedom departed. The voice of
eloquence was no longer heard in her forums, or in her beautiful fanes
and groves; her Muses were cold to the embraces of her poets; in
short, her intellectual greatness was gone. Behold her now! How
striking the contrast of her former and present condition! And how
appropriate the line of Byron--

  "'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more."

The history of Roman mind does not differ from that of Grecian mind.
Who would ask for stronger illustrations of the argument in favor of
free principles on the mind.

But the influence of free institutions on the mind is not confined
purely to the intellectual, but extends to the moral nature of man.
They blend strength and splendor of intellect with the soft and beamy
radiance of moral feeling. This is a natural consequence. For as a
general rule, where there is an expansion of intellect, there will be
a similar growth in morals. As intellect expands, as its perceptions
become keener and surer, the relations and duties of life are
perceived in a stronger and clearer light. Deprived of intellect,
morals and principles lose their efficacy. We speak now of unperverted
intellect; not of that kind of intellect which blasted the hopes of
revolutionary France; not of that kind of intellect which
characterized a Mirabeau or a Voltaire, but of such as free
institutions in their purity would create--an intellect pure and
exalted. Such an intellect cannot fail to strengthen our obligations
as public and private men.

Indeed, one of the fundamental principles of free governments is
founded in man's moral nature, the equality of mankind. For from this
principle flows a spirit of peace, of love and kindness. Cherish the
idea that men are by nature possessed of equal rights, and you destroy
that coldness and selfishness which corrupt and debase the moral
affections. Cherish it, and benevolence reigns queen over the heart,
dispensing far and wide her refreshing benefits. Cherish it, and every
member of society feels himself drawn towards his fellow by heavenly
attractions. Cherish it, and the springs of sympathetic feeling rise
to overflowing. In fine, cherish it, and the virtues of the heart
increase in beauty and holiness, and run out in gladdening streams.
Destroy it, and general morality is gone forever.

Thus we perceive that free governments tend both to growth of morals
and intellect; that the developement of the one is not attended to and
the other neglected, but that they unfold, bloom and mature in union.
Thus too, we perceive that free governments do not unfold half of
man's powers or strength, but that under their influence the whole
mind expands, full, bright and lovely, as the "bloom of blowing Eden
fair."

We have now finished an imperfect view of the influence of free
principles on the mind. Beautiful is their application in our own
country. Here they exist in their pure original character. Here, their
influence is beyond calculation--over an extensive territory,
abounding in every variety of interest and advantage. Here the press
is free, and the thoughts and feelings of one section of the land may
enlighten another section; this section may throw new light and
splendor into another, this into another and another: thus creating a
chain of mental influence, which will extend from one extremity of the
country to the other. Here there is every civil advantage; numerous
theatres for the display of eloquent mind. Here there is every natural
advantage; numerous theatres for the display of literary and
scientific mind. Let the discerning traveller perform the tour of our
land, and there is no beauty of nature, no charm of landscape, no
majesty of forest, no grandeur or sublimity of mountain or water
scenery, that will not meet his delighted vision. Every state
possesses materials sufficient to create a literature of its own. The
Baronial castles and lofty hills of Scotland, together with their
incidents, penciled by the graphic hand of Walter Scott, gained him a
deathless name. Every state, and we assert it without fear of
contradiction, has more of the interesting, the romantic and
picturesque in incident and scenery than Scotland. It is our own fault
then if our literature is not immortalized by more than one Scott. Add
to these the great variety of mind which characterizes our land. Let
the traveller go through the south, and he will behold mind glowing,
impetuous and brilliant; let him go through the north, and he will
behold mind, more systematized, profound in reason, silent, deep in
feeling; let him go through the west, and he will behold a
comminglement of every variety of mind. Besides, there are peculiar
thoughts and feelings which belong to each state. Now consider all
these advantages joined together, mingled as the colors in the
rainbow, by one grand powerful feeling, which characterizes the whole,
a feeling of union, a common American feeling: and let our free
institutions act upon them in their full vigor and power, and we will
{393} have a mind presenting every variety of interest, beauty,
strength and brightness--all eloquent, all sublime--a sun illumining
the world.

H. J. G.

_Cincinnati, Ohio, April 1835_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A few weeks since D. D. Mitchell, Esq., a resident for many years
past, near the falls of Missouri, in the vicinity of the Rocky
Mountains, was in this city, on a visit to his native State, and it
was my good fortune to become personally acquainted with him. He has
been an enterprising and successful adventurer in the American fur
trade, and is now in command of a fort and trading establishment in
the neighborhood of the _Black-feet_, a nation of Indians with whom
the whites have had but little intercourse, and whose peculiar
character and manners we have had few opportunities of knowing.
Besides being a bold and active participator in many of the bloody
conflicts of various tribes, Mr. Mitchell has been a keen observer of
Indian customs, traits, and superstitions; and so great a favorite was
he among the powerful tribe of the Black-feet, that they created him a
chief, with the title of the _Spotted Elk_. Mr. Mitchell did me the
favor whilst here, to submit some of his manuscripts to my inspection.
They contain sketches of the Indian character, and of the country, on
the head waters of Missouri, hitherto almost unexplored by the white
man, and also various interesting anecdotes and observations, highly
creditable to the intelligence, discernment and enterprise of the
writer. I cannot withhold from the patrons of the Literary Messenger,
some share of the pleasure I have myself experienced, in reading these
valuable papers, and, for the present, I send to the publisher, a
remarkable Indian love tale, which Mr. Mitchell, besides his written
testimony, privately assured me was _founded on fact_.--Washington
Irving, in his recent "Tour on the Prairies," makes the following
remark: "As far as I can judge, the Indian of poetical fiction, is
like the shepherd of pastoral romance, a mere personification of
imaginary attributes." It may be so, and perhaps most heroes and
heroines of novels and romances, are principally creations of fancy;
but if the author of the Sketch Book, meant to assert, that the
children of the forest were altogether unsusceptible of some of the
noble and tender emotions of our nature--he stands opposed by
undoubted evidence to the contrary. Who does not believe, for example,
what our own history has taught, of the matchless purity and guileless
simplicity of Pocahontas--the lofty spirit of Totopotomoi, and the
rare magnanimity of Logan? The passion of love indeed, as modified and
refined in civilized life, has not often been found in the breast of
the Indian warrior, but even to this general truth, there have been
numerous exceptions, and among them, I have never met with one so
marked and striking, as that which is recorded in the following story.

H.


THE WHITE ANTELOPE;

OR, INDIAN LOVER.

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


Some time during the autumn of 1832, a young blood Indian (of the race
of the Black-feet,) arrived at the fort all alone. He had no furs, or
other articles of traffic with him, and was not equipped in the usual
style for war. His pale haggard appearance, and deep settled
melancholy, attracted the observation of all who saw him; but as a
residence of several years among the Indians, had taught us something
of their rules of politeness, I forbore to question him as to the
cause of his grief, more especially as he did not seem to be in a very
communicative mood. I ordered him something to eat, but he pushed the
proffered repast aside, and refused to partake. Our interpreter then
handed him a pipe, which he received in a cold mechanical manner,
appearing scarcely conscious of what he did; and instead of sending up
dense columns of smoke in rapid succession, as is usually the case, he
sat with the pipe extended across his knees, absorbed in a deep
reverie, and now and then heaving profound sighs, which appeared to
arise from the inmost recesses of his soul. The pipe having gone out,
the interpreter relighted it, and again placed it in the young
Indian's hand. He started up, and after a few hasty whiffs, seized his
bow and arrows, and walked hastily out of the fort. Our curiosity
having been excited by his mysterious conduct, several of us followed
in order to watch his motions. He went to the river bank, and having
thrown off his robe, which he fastened to the back of his head, in
order to keep it dry, he deliberately plunged into the river and swam
for the opposite shore. I called to him through the interpreter,
promising if he would return, to send him over in my skiff, reminding
him at the same time that the current was wide, and the water
extremely cold--but he only turned his head around, and with a bitter
smile, exclaimed, "the fire which is burning in my heart, will keep me
warm!" He spoke no other word, but dashing through the waves, which a
keen October wind had lashed into motion, we saw him presently ascend
the rocky cliffs of the other side, and striking into the path which
led to the mountains, he disappeared, with the speed and agility of an
antelope. Several conjectures were made among us, respecting the
singular conduct of this seemingly unhappy youth; but as none could
furnish an explanation entirely satisfactory, the affair in a few
days, ceased to be the subject of inquiry or conversation.

On a cold stormy evening, about the middle of the following February,
I was standing on the bank of the river, giving some directions to the
men engaged in constructing a kind of harbor or basin, to secure our
boats, on the opening of spring, from the drifting ice, when I was
startled by the quick report of a gun, and a loud shout of triumph,
which proceeded from the opposite shore, and were echoed in long
reverberations from the rocky cliffs of the Missouri. Broad flakes of
snow were falling around me, and whirling in every direction, so that
I was prevented from perceiving objects on the opposite side; but I
supposed that some war party was probably returning from a victorious
campaign. When about to return to the fort, I discovered two Indians,
a young man and woman, crossing the river on the ice; they both
approached the spot where I stood; the youth holding his hand towards
me, in a manner which denoted confidence and friendship. Though
actually shivering with cold, his countenance seemed to beam with joy
and animation, and pointing my attention to the comely girl, at his
side, he exclaimed, whilst his dark eyes sparkled with triumph, "Now
she is mine, for I have fairly won her in battle!" and at the same
moment {394} he cast a glance at two bloody scalps, which hung
suspended from his ram-rod. I now recognised the mysterious young man,
who had visited the fort in October; but his manner and appearance
were altogether changed. His step was now buoyant and elastic, and in
place of the gloomy silence and mental agony which marked his previous
deportment, he was now gay and talkative, indulging in the light laugh
and ready jest. Being anxious to know something of his story, I
invited the lover and his young Indian maiden into the fort, an
invitation which they readily accepted. After a hearty meal, and a few
whiffs of the pipe, the warrior swain, drawing his Indian beauty
closer to his side, and assuming as much gravity of feature, as his
thrilling sensations of happiness would allow, related in a very
circumstantial manner, the following story:--

"I have loved this girl," said he, "as far back as I can remember;"
and at the same moment, as he laid his hand on her shining dark hair,
the black eyed damsel of the Prairies rewarded her lover's confession
with a smile of approbation. "I loved her," he continued, "long before
I knew the meaning of love; for when a small boy, I once shot my arrow
at her mother for striking the daughter. I afterwards wondered at
myself for doing so, especially as my father talked to me _angry_, and
said that the girl was no relation of mine. I remember too, when we
played at ball on the ice, if we happened to be opposed in the game, I
would not win from her, though every thing I had was staked. Those
were happy days. In the winter, we made snares for rabbits and foxes,
or climbed to the top of some high hill, and amused ourselves by
rolling the snow down its sides, which, as it rolled, grew bigger and
bigger, until it reached the bottom, where it lay till the warm sun in
the spring melted it away to fog, and raised it again to the clouds.
Even so has it happened to us. We continued to roll down the stream of
life, increasing in size and in love, until now we have reached years
of maturity; and we will continue to love each other, until time
wastes us away like the snow ball, and the Great Spirit takes us up
into his own land.

"Last summer we were encamped by the side of the chief mountain, and I
saw Sinepaw (the name of the Indian girl,) almost every day. Often
have I wandered from the camp, and hiding myself behind some tree,
have watched the whole day in the hope of seeing her pass that way. If
I could but get a glance at her, I was satisfied, and returned quietly
to the lodge; but if it chanced that she did not make her appearance,
I then sat me down and wept; but during my sleep I was always happy,
for in my dreams I was never separated from her. You know that,
according to the law of our tribe, none but a warrior can dare to
think of a wife; and as I was nothing but a youth, and had never taken
a scalp, I was therefore ashamed to speak even to _Sinepaw_, much less
to her father and mother. One day, whilst preparing to go out to war,
where I panted to perform some exploit which should rank me amongst
our braves and warriors, and entitle me to the privilege of marrying
the girl of my choice, the whole camp was suddenly thrown into an
uproar, and I learned that eight of our women who were gathering wild
turnip in the prairies, had been captured and carried away by the
_Flat-heads_. Sinepaw was one of the eight. A war party, myself among
the number, was immediately despatched in pursuit. We followed for
several days, but we lost the trail of our enemies in the mountains,
and our leader commanded us to return. I thought that my heart would
burst with grief; but as yet I had no trophy in battle, and I dared
not utter a complaint. When I returned to the camp, my heart was very
heavy. I believed that it was dead. I could neither eat, nor sleep,
nor join in the merry song or dance, as it was my custom to do. My
only pleasure was, to climb to the top of the mountain, seat myself on
a bank of snow, and looking to the country of the Flat-heads, pray the
Great Spirit to give me the cunning and courage to recover my lost
Sinepaw. Once when I had remained in that dismal spot three days and
nights, taking neither rest nor food, on the fourth morning the sun
drove away the mist from the mountain, and warmed my veins with its
beams. I fell into a sound sleep, and the Great Spirit came down and
told me to go in pursuit of the _Flat-heads_; that he would take pity
on my grief, and restore Sinepaw to her lover. I awoke from my
pleasant dream: the Great Spirit was gone, but I remembered his words.

"The next day I started all alone. You saw me when I passed your fort,
and you pitied my distress. For thirty-four days I travelled through
the mountains, before I found the camp of the _Flat-heads_. The Great
Spirit had caused them to place it in the only spot where it was
possible I could ever succeed in recovering Sinepaw. It was just at
the foot of a high rocky cliff, on the banks of the Snake river.[1] On
the top of the cliff, I found a hole in the rock, which served as a
hiding place, and from which I could easily see all that passed in the
camp. For seven long days I kept a constant watch, before I could once
get a glimpse at my girl. At last I saw her, and I thought that my
heart would leap from my mouth. My limbs trembled so violently, that I
could not stand, and the tears gushed from my eyes, causing the
prairie beneath me to look like a vast lake, whose waves were
troubled. Soon, however, I brushed away my tears, the lake
disappeared--and I again beheld the camp, and Sinepaw standing in the
same spot. She was employed in harnessing two dogs for the purpose of
assisting the squaws to haul wood from a little island in the middle
of the river. She did not return until nearly sun-set; but when she
did, I was lucky enough to see the lodge into which she went. I
examined that lodge particularly, and all the others around it, so
that I should know it again. When it was dark, I spoke to the Great
Spirit; told him he promised I should have my Sinepaw again, and
begged him not to deceive me. I resolved to carry her off that night,
or leave my scalp to be danced in the camp of the Flat-heads!!

[Footnote 1: A small stream that falls into the Columbia.]

"The night was very dark and stormy; the wind mourned around the top
of the cliff, and the snow flakes whirling through the air, seemed to
me like so many ghosts. Three ravens fluttered up the side of the
rock, and lighting on a stunted pine, which grew near my place of
retreat, uttered a dismal scream, as if scenting for something to eat,
and waiting to feast on my carcass. Beneath me lay a thousand enemies,
who would in a moment have cut me into pieces, and given my body to
their dogs. My teeth chattered with cold and fear, and I felt like a
woman. The cliff was steep and {395} overhung with shelving rocks. It
was so dark that I could not see my hand before me; and if I made one
false step, I should be dashed to pieces among the rocks, and Sinepaw
would remain a slave among my enemies. When my courage was about to
expire, this horrid thought revived it, and I immediately commenced
sliding down the cliff, holding on the points of the rocks, and
grasping the pine bushes which grew in my course. Several times my
foot-hold crumbled beneath me, and I fell from rock to rock, but there
was always something to stop my descent and prevent my destruction. At
length I reached the bottom, and stood on the level prairie. The camp
was but a short distance from me, and I walked towards it slowly and
cautiously. Every thing was solemn and silent, and the stillness was
only broke by the hollow wind whistling through the prairie glass, or
by the howl of some dog who could find no shelter from the storm. When
I entered the camp, I drew my robe over my head, and boldly stepped
forward. Several young men were standing near the different lodges,
perhaps to get a sly look at their sweethearts, but they took no
notice of me. Once I thought that a dog, belonging to the camp, would
have ruined me: he made for the spot where I was, snapping and
barking, and running around me several times; but, luckily, an old
squaw came from a lodge hard by, and drove him off. No doubt the Great
Spirit sent her, for had it been a man, he would have come towards me,
and spoken, and all would have been lost.

"When I came to the lodge I was seeking, I knew it by a large white
wolf skin, which hung on a pole at the door. I stood a few moments,
and prayed the Great Spirit to pity me, then ventured to raise the
skin and look into the lodge. A small fire which was burning in the
centre, cast a pale and sickly light all around me, and I saw that all
who were there, were asleep. Several times I tried to go in, but as
often felt as if something was pulling me back; but looking around and
beholding nothing, I knew it was the evil spirit, so I raised the skin
once more, boldly stepped forward, and stood in the same lodge with
Sinepaw. My heart beat so loud, I thought it would wake all the
sleepers. At the first glance, I knew it was the lodge of a chief, for
over the spot where he lay, hung his medicine bag, his bow and arrows,
and immediately under them, two scalps of my own nation. At the sight
of the scalps I drew my knife, intending to kill him, but I thought of
Sinepaw and stopped. Where was she? Fifteen men and women lay sleeping
on the ground, and all so wrapped in their robes, that I could not
distinguish them; so I drew my own robe over my face, and sat down to
listen to their breathing, for I knew there was music in the breath of
Sinepaw, different from that of all other women. I was not deceived: I
found that she lay just behind me: so I turned and took the robe from
her face. She still slept; a tear was glistening on her eyelash, and
her cheek was thin and pale. She murmured something which I could not
hear, but, stooping down, I kissed away the tear, which was even
sweeter than the blood of my brother's murderer, which I had tasted.
She opened her eyes, looked up, and saw me, but thought it was a
dream. She looked again, and when she saw that it was really me, she
would have screamed, but I laid my hand on her mouth, and whispered in
her ear, 'Rise, let us fly from the camp!' She gazed wildly around the
lodge, and seemed as if her senses would fly from her. At length I
raised her up, and led her to the door, but she stopped and turned my
face to the light, as if to be assured that it was me. She hesitated
no longer: we both sprung from the lodge, and Sinepaw threw her arms
around me!

"Oh, my friend!" exclaimed the impassioned lover, addressing himself
to me, whilst his eyes sparkled with extraordinary brilliancy, "at
that moment I looked around on the camp, and laughed at all its
dangers. I felt as if I should not fear to meet a hundred enemies. It
was the first time that Sinepaw ever embraced me, and it kindled a
feeling, such as I shall never experience again. I believe when I am
dead and mouldered into dust, the parts of my body which her arms
encircled, will never be corrupted.

"A number of horses stood tied around the lodge, and Sinepaw cut loose
the cords of two of the best, which we quickly mounted. I drew my bow
and arrows, and rode slowly forward, making as little noise as
possible; but a young man soon discovered us, and gave the alarm!
Laying whip to our horses, we soon cleared the camp, dashed down the
bank, and crossed the river on the ice; but the uproar which we heard
behind us, and the thundering of horses' feet over the frozen prairie,
too plainly told that we were closely pursued. The storm continued to
roar, and the darkness was greater than ever. Sometimes I heard a shot
behind us, and a hundred voices calling out loudly to each other; but
we still kept on our way, at the full speed of our steeds, and in
about two hours from the time we started, the tempest had spent its
rage, and daylight began to dawn. At sun-rise I rode to the top of a
hill, in order to survey the country and the better to shape my
course, when I spied two _Flat-heads_ on horseback, not far to my
right, who, seeing me also, raised a shout of triumph, and immediately
rushed forward in pursuit. I knew it was in vain to fly; our horses
were already weary and faint, and could hold out no longer. I made
signs to Sinepaw to come to the top of the hill, when seizing her
horse by the rein, I sheathed my knife blade in his throat, and dealt
the same fatal blow at my own. Their lifeblood gushed as a spring, and
as they staggered and fell, I placed their bodies around us, to form
an entrenchment for defence.

"The warriors soon rode up, and discharged their guns, but their balls
fell harmless, or lodged in the carcases which protected us. They
fired again and again, but I still lay motionless, for as I had but
nine arrows left, I had not one to throw away. At last they began to
conclude that I had no arms, and they ventured to ride still nearer. I
heard the trampling of their horses a few steps off; my bow and arrows
were prepared, and I raised my head, but withdrew it as quick as
lightning. They fired at once, but their fire came too late: I sprang
upon my feet, and before the _Flat-heads_ could either reload or
retreat, I sent two arrows through the body of one, and one through
the head of the other. They attempted to fly, but both were brought to
the ground. I raised the war whoop of the Spotted Eagle, and rushing
down the side of the hill, I secured their scalps and guns. Here they
are!" he exclaimed, exhibiting his spoils in triumph; "who can now say
that the White Antelope is not a warrior, or who can refuse him his
daughter as a wife?"


{396}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

_Mr. White_,--The following spirited lines, evidently composed on some
occasion of serious import, together with a gold ring broken into
several fragments, were accidentally found in my neighborhood about
two years ago, enveloped in a neatly folded sheet of letter paper,
without date, seal, or superscription. I send you a copy of them,
hoping that by the aid of your very good "Messenger" they may meet the
eye of poor "Corydon" again, or if you please, that of his "faithless
one." Should you deem them worthy of publication, they are now at your
service. Yours, respectfully,

AGRICOLA.

_Albemarle, March 25, 1835_.


THE LAST GIFT.

  When I sit musing on the chequered past,
    (A term much darken'd with untimely woes,)
    My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flows
  The tear, tho' half disown'd, and binding fast
  Pride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart;
    I say to her she robbed me of my rest,
    When that was all my wealth. 'Tis true my breast
  Received from her this wearying, lingering smart,
  Yet, ah! I cannot bid her form depart:
    Tho' wrong'd, I love her--yet in anger love;
    For _she was most unworthy_. Now I prove
  Vindictive joy; and on my stern front gleams
  The native pride of my much injured heart.--_H. K. White_.


  I said to Love's accursed art,
    Behold this broken ring!
  Thus thou hast broke the bruised heart,
    As 'twere some worthless thing.
  But tho' it bleed at every pore,
    Crush'd by the reckless blow,
  My spirit still shall triumph o'er
                          The tide of wo.
  I said to Friendship's lifted hand,
    Smite on--my bosom's bare--
  Deep didst thou plunge the fatal brand,
    And left it rankling there.
  But still there throbs within these veins,
    The spirit's manliness,
  That scorns, amid its keenest pains,
                          To seek redress.
  I said to Treachery's cunning dame,
    Come on--I dread thee not;
  Thou may'st pursue me till my name
    And being are forgot.
  But still my spirit ne'er shall weep,
    Tho' driv'n to Ocean's farthest Isle,
  I'd rather brave the angry deep,
                          Than thy _cold smile_.
  I said to Mammon's golden store,
    Shine on--thou art but dust;
  I covet not thy worthless ore,
    Tho' by Misfortune crush'd.
  For deep within this bosom's shrine,
    There lives a spirit still,
  (More costly far than wealth of thine,)
                          Thou canst not kill.
  I said to Earth's unstable ball,
    Roll on--it matters not;
  A few more suns will rise and fall,
    And I shall be forgot.
  But still the spirit in its bloom,
    Tho' oft by sorrow curs'd,
  Shall yet from thy sepulch'ral gloom
                          With rapture burst.
  I said to Her, the faithless one,
    Who vow'd to love me best,
  Smile on--thy friendship I disown,
    And spurn thee from my breast.
  But still the spirit thou hast crush'd,
    The secret ne'er shall tell,
  And tho' thou tread it in the dust,
                          'Twill say--FAREWELL.
  I said to Him, the mighty Lord,
    Who reigns above the sky,
  And governs by his sovereign word,
    Man's darkest destiny,--
  Father, I kiss thy chastening rod,
    In love I know 'twas given,
  For while it smites me 'neath the sod,
                          It points to Heaven.

CORYDON.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

APOSTROPHE

Of the Æolian Harp to the Wind.


  "Wind of the dark blue mountains,
    Thou dost but sweep my strings,
  Into wild gusts of mournfulness,
    With the rushing of thy wings.

  When the gale is freshly blowing
    My notes responsive swell,
  And over music's power,
    Their triumphs seem to tell.

  But when the breeze is sighing,
    Then comes 'a dying fall,'
  Less--less indeed exalting,
    But sweeter far than all.

  It sighs, like hapless mortals,
    For youthful pleasures fled,
  For hopes and friends once cherished,
    Now mingled with the dead.

  And oh! how sweetly touching,
    Is the sad and plaintive strain,
  Recalling former pleasures,
    That ne'er can live again.

  Once more thy breezes freshen,
    And sweep the Æolian strings,
  And again their notes are swelling,
    With the rushing of thy wings.

  They seem to cheer the drooping,
    To bid the wretched live,
  And with their sounds ecstatic,
    His withering hopes revive."

  Alas! and in life's drama,
    Howe'er we play our part,
  Hope is forever breathing,
    On the Lyre of the Heart.

  Hope is forever touching
    Some chord that vibrates there,
  While bitter disappointment
    Mars the delusive air.

  Alternate joys and sorrows,
    Obedient to her call,
  Now breathe a strain that's flatt'ring,
    And now "a dying fall."

  Yet how unlike the measures
    Of the sweet Æolian string!
  These soothe the heart that's wounded,
    Those plant a deeper sting.

  Then wind of the dark blue mountains,
    Still sweep these trembling strings
  Into sweet strains of mournfulness,
    With the flutter of thy wings.


{397}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ENGLISH POETRY.

CHAP. I.


"Every modification of a society, at all lettered, works out for
itself a correspondent literature, bearing the stamp of its character
and exhibiting all its peculiarities."[1]

[Footnote 1: Sir J. Mackintosh's History of England, vol. I.]

It is thus that we see among the simple progenitors of a now polished
race, a simplicity of literature in extreme accordance with their rude
and unsophisticated manners. Yet when I speak of a rude literature, I
am not to be understood as implying want of merit. On the contrary,
the unpruned freedom of thought and unextinguished fire of feeling, so
essential to true poetry, are chiefly to be found among a people
martial and but little cultivated. Nor is this all; we often discover
a beautiful tenderness, breathing of the primeval simplicity in which
it has been nurtured. The dangers and hardships of severe employment,
were sometimes forgotten in intervals of rest, and at such times, love
ditties were made and sung. All natural beauties--the mountain--the
waters of the valley--the dingle--the mossy wood, peopled by its
vagabond essences and strange spirits--were inexhaustible food for
poetry. This love of gentleness was the stronger for its contrast with
the tone of feeling which preceded it. There are many instances of
"the soft" to be found amongst the mutilated scraps and scattered
records remaining to us from the numerous races usually called
Barbarians. Montaigne somewhere quotes an original Caribbean song,
which he pronounces worthy of Anacreon:

"Oh, snake stay; stay, O snake, that my sister may draw from the
pattern of thy painted skin, the fashion and work of a rich riband
which I mean to present to my mistress: so may thy beauty and thy
disposition be preferred to those of all other serpents. Oh, snake
stay!"

If this had been the song of a Peruvian or a Chilian, it would have
been less singular. As it is, it was probably sung by a savage Carib
in a moment of that rest, of which I have spoken as the season for
"love ditties."

The curious student who searches into the authorities of our
historians, will find that they are chiefly made up of legends
imbodied in the songs of coeval bards and minstrels. This was the
source of historical knowledge to the Danish writers, more than to
those of any other country; indeed the scald was as well a chronicler
as a singer. Nor is this historical foundation to be despised. Those
who sung were most frequently eye witnesses of the occurrences
celebrated in their songs. Men in those early ages had not so
thoroughly learned the art of misrepresentation. Manly openness was a
virtue: cunning was scarcely known in action or narration: or, if
known, despised. Consequently we find that in many or all cases where
other proofs are to be had, the legends of the bards are
substantiated.--The chief source of our information with regard to the
Saxon rule in the island of Great Britain, is the Saxon Chronicle--a
kind of journal or annual, kept by the monks of early ages. This
extends considerably beyond the era of the conquest, and is often spun
into verse. Indeed the first instance of the use of rhyme in the Saxon
tongue, is to be found in this chronicle--I will not however
anticipate my subject by quoting the lines in this place.

The materials with which English antiquaries build up their historical
creeds, are so slender, that the very existence of the minstrel, as
distinct from the poet, prior to William's coming, has been matter of
controversy.--After close examination, I am inclined to side with
those who maintain that minstrelsey--like the feudal system--was no
more than improved by the Normans; that it had accompanied the Saxons
from Germany.

We are told that, Colgrin, a Saxon prince, gained access to his
brother Baldulph, while the latter defended York against Arthur and
his Britons, by disguising himself as a harper.[2] Likewise that the
great Alfred stole forth in the same disguise from the Isle of
Athelney--whither Guthrun the Dane had driven him--and that in such
plight he entered the enemy's quarters unhindered. Another story of
the same nature is told us of Anlaff, a Danish chief, who explored the
camp of king Athelstane.[3] The learned bishop of Dromore, after
quoting these several stories at full length, remarks: "Now if the
Saxons had not been accustomed to have minstrels of their own,
Alfred's assuming so new and unusual a character would have excited
suspicions among the Danes. On the other hand, if it had not been
customary with the Saxons to shew favor and respect to the Danish
scalds, Anlaff would not have ventured himself among them, especially
on the eve of a battle. From the uniform procedure then of both these
kings, we may fairly conclude that the same mode of entertainment
prevailed among both people, and that the minstrel was a privileged
character with each."

[Footnote 2: Geoffrey of Monmouth.]

[Footnote 3: Vide Rapin.]

This proves, to me, that a plant from the same root whence sprung the
Danish scald, grew and flourished in England. This idea is farther
strengthened by the fact that Saxons and Danes were of one and the
same origin--both swarms from the same northern hive--and that the
scald retained by the Danes[4] was an important personage among the
Teutonic tribes; and nothing can be more natural than for men to recur
to the customs and usages of their parent-land.

[Footnote 4: Sir W. Temple.]

It seems therefore that minstrels constituted a privileged race among
the Saxons. Yet poetry was not meanwhile confined to their vocal
performances. Alfred himself was the author of several written pieces
of considerable merit. Among other ballads, one descriptive of the
battle of Brunnenburgh, is still extant. This battle--fought between
Athelstane and a confederacy of Danes and rebel Britons--was well
drawn in the original, and has been translated by a school boy at Eton
with unrivalled beauty and truth.[5]

[Footnote 5: Frere.]

Song was used likewise on the field of battle. Many instances of this
are on record, but I shall select no more than one for the sake of
proof.

When Harold the last Saxon king, drew up his army against the combined
forces of Tostigg--his rebel brother--and Harold Hardrada, the
Norwegian king, Tostigg rode out upon a hillock, and _after the
fashion of the day_, began a war-chaunt. While thus engaged, a herald
came from Harold, his brother, greeting him, {398} and offering
reconciliation. "The dukedom of Northumberland shall be given thee,"
said the herald. "And what reward has he for my friend and ally?"
replied the haughty rebel. "Seven feet of English ground, or as men
call him a giant, perhaps eight." And the herald finding his attempt
at reconciliation futile, put spurs to his horse. Tostigg rode
backward and forward, tossing his bare sword into the air and catching
it as it fell. Meanwhile his brother's archers came within bow-shot,
and their arrows whistled from the string. Tostigg fought beside his
ally, in a blue tunic and shining helmet. He was yet chanting to his
army, when a shaft pierced his throat and ended song and life
together.

Thus do we see that poetry existed in three shapes; in the songs of a
privileged order, called by the various names of _joculator_,
_minstrel_, &c. &c.; in writing; and in the martial chaunts of heroes
"bowne for battelle."--And what were the subjects of these several
species of poetry? The last explains itself. The first two were
probably on martial topics; so we may infer at least from the
specimens which have reached us, and from the situation of England,
even for centuries after its union under Egbert. Swept by the repeated
inroads of the Danes--harassed and ground by the never-ending feuds of
the great nobles, "ye might (in the strong words of an old historian,)
as well plough the sea."--Thus with warlike customs--the last half of
Sir J. Mackintosh's remark, quoted in the beginning of this paper,
being at all times a consequent on the first--literature grew up in
more harsh strength than graceful beauty. Society was little better
than a confederacy for joint defence against watchful foes. The air
was redolent of strife and contention. The "clash of armor and the
rush of multitudes," mingling _minaci murmure cornuum_, were imitated
on the harp's string, and enthusiastic damsels sung the deeds of their
lovers, or so far forgot the more tender affection which would prefer
the life of its object, to that object's death and after-honor, as to
mingle the _io triumphe_ with the burial song; thus giving way to the
fierce joy, which weakness, when excited by thoughts of great deeds
denied itself, conjures up--the _gaudia certaminis_, ever strongest in
the weakest. I have already remarked, that "during intervals of rest,
love ditties were sung." We have remnants enough to know that the
Saxon poets were not forgetful of all gentler feeling, though these
too were most often mingled with alloy. There were not wanting those
willing and eager to embalm the names of the beautiful and great.
There were not wanting bards to sing of the _loves_ of these.

Elgiva, who drew her royal lover from the board where his nobles, and
the sage Dunstan, had met to do him honor. Editha, the lady of the
swan-neck, who recognised the body of Harold though mangled and
disfigured wofully "for that her eyes were strong with love." These
have had their good qualities and misfortunes immortalized by men,
who, in the pauses of the bitterest strife, turned to admire beauty
and unyielding affection, and to lament the evils brought upon
innocent heads.

They sung too of Elfrida, who stabbed young Alfred while feasting in
Corfe-castle--a deed "than which no worse had been committed among the
people of the Angles, since they first came to the land of Britain."
And in this we perceive the alloy, as in their praise of the masculine
Ethelflida, "the lady of Mercia," daughter of the great Alfred.

I have barely glanced over the Saxon literature from the middle of the
fifth century, to that of the eleventh, without entering into a
careful and accurate detail of the changes which must have occurred,
and which probably by a closer examination than I have thought
needful, might be spread open. One great change occurred about the end
of the eighth century. Egbert--Bretwalda, or king of Wessex, one of
the seven principalities forming the Heptarchy--long lived at the
court of Charlemagne, then the most polished court west of Italy. He
united the seven petty kingdoms into one, and as their single head,
had an opportunity of using effectually the information gathered
abroad.

Several additions were made to this, but the one most worthy notice,
was more than two centuries after. Edward the confessor, passed
twenty-seven years, from boyhood to middle age, at the court of Rouen;
indeed (according to Ingulphus,)

  "Paene in Gallicam transierat."

He therefore added to the polish, introduced by his predecessor,
though at so late an hour that the change for the better was scarcely
perceptible, before it merged in the more important one, introduced by
the Norman invasion.

I now proceed to an examination of poetry through ages of comparative
light. Although from the gradual intercourse between the two nations
prior to their amalgamation, no alteration of feeling or manners had
taken place, extensive enough to mark the "conquest" as a grand and
important era in the history of national customs, still many and
subtle changes were produced, bearing in no small degree upon the
subject before us.

The poetry of the Saxons was without rhyme, and the author of "an
essay on Chaucer," says, "without metre." The learned antiquary must
have attached a meaning to the word _metre_, wholly at variance with
that now and usually received. Metre (from the Greek [Greek: metron]
and Latin _metrum_) has several meanings, but scarcely distinct ones:
all may be included in that of 'an harmonious disposition of words.'
It is not enough to say that it differed from prose in being the
language of passion. The general rules by which we judge poetry, are
immutable, and equally applicable to that of Greeks, Saxons, and
modern English. Dr. Blair and his authorities, define poetry to be
"the language of passion metrically arranged," (I quote from memory)
and supported so ably, I will not consent to a halving of the
definition. The before mentioned Essayist on Chaucer, adduces the
"vision of Pierce Ploughman" as a specimen of the Saxon style of
poetry. And herein it becomes evident that he mistakes the meaning of
the word _metre_. For those old lines, composed about the middle of
the fourteenth century, are, notwithstanding the ancient mode of
writing without breaks or division into lines, beyond doubt capable of
being arranged in separate and distinct verses. I am not without
support in the opinion here given; Dr. Hickes[6] maintains that the
Saxons observed syllabic quantities "though perhaps not so strictly as
the Greek and Latin heroic poets." {399} It may be asked how this
comes to be at all a question, since monuments of Saxon poetry still
remain by which we can judge. But it is no such easy matter to judge
correctly. Syllables were accented much at the whim of the versifyer;
so much so that general rules for the disposition of accent are little
less than useless. Add to this the common custom, before mentioned, of
writing poetry and prose alike; and when we remember that the object
in view is to ascertain the number and accentuation of syllables, the
wonder will disappear.

[Footnote 6: Pref. Sax. Gram.]

One among the earliest specimens of the use of rhyme in the Island of
Great Britain, is to be found in the Saxon Chronicle. The author says
that he himself had seen the Conqueror, and we may thence infer that
the lines were written in the reign of William Rufus, or at farthest
in that of his brother and successor Henry. It may be as well before
quoting this literary curiosity, to notice a distich in itself
trifling, and only worth noticing as the very earliest specimen of
Saxon Rhyme, on record.

Aldred, Archbishop of York, threw out two rhyming verses against one
_Urse_, sheriff of Worcestershire, not long after the conquest:

  "_Hatest thou Urse--Have thou God's curse._"
  _Vocaris Ursus--Habeas dei maledictionem._

William of Malmsbury, who has preserved this precious morsel, says
that he inserts this English, "_quod Latina verba non sicut Anglica
concinnati respondent_." The _concinnity_ I presume consisted in the
rhyme, and would scarcely have been deemed worth repeating if rhyme in
English had not been a rare thing. It is quite apparent that rhyme and
an improved metre were introduced by the Normans, among whom
composition in their own dialect had been long before attempted in
imitation of the jingling Latin rhythm.

The lines in the Saxon Chronicle to which I have referred, are a
comment upon the changes effected by William. I will set them down in
legible characters.

  Thet he nam he rihte
  And mid mycelan un-rihte
  He foette mycel deor-frith
  And he loegde laga therwith--
  He forbead the heortas
  Swylce Eac tha baras;
  Swa swithe he lufode the hea-deor
  Swylce he waere heora faeder,
  Eac he sætte be tham haran,
  That hi mosten freo faran.--

This may be translated after somewhat the following fashion: "He took
money by right and unright--He made many deer parks and established
laws by which," whosoever slew a hart or a hind was deprived of his
eye-sight--"He forbade men to kill harts or boars, and he loved the
tall deer as if he were their father. He decreed that the brindled
hares should go free."

In addition to these, Matthew Paris mentions a canticle which 'the
blessed Virgin' was pleased to dictate to Godric, a hermit near
Durham.

From this time to the reign of Henry II, which began in 1154, we find
no records of rhyming poetry. In that reign, one Layamon, a priest of
Ernleye, near Severn, as he terms himself, translated from the French
of Wace, a fabulous history of the Britons, entitled, "Le Bruit;"
which, Wace himself, about the year 1150, had translated from the
Latin of Geoffrey of Monmouth. This poem is for the most part after
the Old Saxon fashion, without rhyme, except so far as a jingle at
intervals may be so called. We next, if guided by the actual records
of written poetry, are forced to pass over an interval of 100
years--to the middle of Henry the third's reign. The reasons of this
gap are perhaps these--

The[7] scholars of the age affected to write in Latin--which they
called the universal language. The more skilful poets who lived, as is
usual with the race, upon the bounty of the great nobles, out of
compliment to these their Norman benefactors, framed their verse into
the Norman French; while the low and popular singers--then the only
true _English_ poets--left nothing worth preservation. I will pass on
hurriedly through this uninteresting portion of my slight history of
written poetry, to the nearest resting-place, and thence take a back
view of minstrelsy as nourished in the courts of the English Kings,
and principally in that of Richard Coeur de Lion.

[Footnote 7: The poems of this interval have been translated into the
English of Elizabeth's time, when the rage for gathering scraps of
ballad into "garlands" was at its full. It is, however, impossible to
distinguish them from the numerous pieces, really French--i.e. written
not only in the French language, but in France, bearing similar date,
and translated at the same time. It is impossible to draw hair lines
or any kind of lines between these; or if possible, needs a more
skilful antiquary, than the author of these cacoethes scribendi.]

In the reign of Henry III, we find that one Orm or Ormin, wrote a
paraphrase of the gospel histories, entitled, Ormulum. Hickes and
Wanley have both given large extracts from this, without discovering
that it was poetry. But a close examination will render evident to any
one, with any ear for metre, that the Ormulum is written very exactly,
in verses of fifteen syllables[8] without rhyme, in imitation of the
most common species of the Latin, tetrameter iambic. Another piece, a
moral poem on old age, bears date about the same reign; it is more
remarkable for a corrupt MS., from which the only print of the poem at
all common, seems to have been taken, than for any thing else.

[Footnote 8: This metre is the same metre with that of the Modern
Greeks, which Lord Byron tells us, shuffles on to the old tune: A
captain bold of Halifax, &c.]

The next interval from the end of Henry the third's reign, to the
middle of the fourteenth century, when Chaucer came upon the _dais_,
was filled up with a swarm of 'small poets.' These were principally
translators of popular poems from the Roman or French authors, and
their compositions were thence called _Romances_. They neither
improved on the material before gathered, nor added anything of value
to the store. And so we come to Geoffrey Chaucer--whence, let me recur
to another branch of the subject in hand.

I have said that minstrels were known among the Saxons before the
conquest, and that these were in high repute at the Saxon courts. That
Alfred himself was a poet, and on one occasion, a minstrel. The
Normans brought with them their harpers and troubadours[9] and the
profession received a great acquisition of strength and honor. Every
Baron had his own joculator, and we find amongst the records of the
Old English families, items of _largesse_ to wandering harpers. Such
were at all seasons welcomed by the feudal nobles--perhaps for the
same reason that our modern aristocrats of {400} Virginia were
hospitable--from a love of news. Minstrels as news-gleaners--often
coming too from the royal court--were a source of entertainment to the
lords, who, immured in their solitary castles among swampy moors, or
perched on hill-tops almost inaccessible to man, seldom heard other
than an enemy at their gates.

[Footnote 9: Vid. the story of Taillefer--Du Cange.]

At the court of Henry I,--to whom Sir Walter Scott refers in those
lines of his rambling epistle to George Ellis--

  "But who shall teach my harp to gain
   A sound of the romantic strain,
   Whose Anglo-Norman tones whilere
   Could win the royal Henry's ear,--
   Famed Beauclerc called, for that he loved,
   The minstrel, and his lay approved?"

Minstrels and minstrelsy were especially favored.

Beauclerc--the most accomplished monarch of his day, so far as letters
were concerned, became by fellowship of feeling and taste, the patron
of all the caste. The court-fed minions, like the lizard whose color
depends on the species of grass or plant of which it eats, became of
course completely Norman in their feelings. Indeed the greater number
were Normans by birth and education, lured to the English court by the
ever ready bait of patronage; and those that were not, seeing that
these met with favor, imitated them in style and every thing else. The
'_Anglo_' might with propriety have been dropped in Sir Walter's verse
just quoted.[10]

[Footnote 10: It is a melancholy sight to see so exalted a class of
human beings, whether from necessity or not, forever debasing
themselves into servile dependency. Even Dante, whose lament that he
had to climb another's stair would seem the outbreak of an independent
spirit, could humble himself before a Guido.]

That the six kings following the conqueror were, with an exception,
completely Norman in their habits and predilections, we may easily
discover in the history of English law, traced back to its foundation
among the very roots of the feudal system. It was against Norman
innovation that the independent Barons of the thirteenth century
arose, and held John Lackland in duress until his name was affixed to
Magna Charta--a paper purporting to restore affairs to the state in
which Edward the Saxon left them. It was this same fondness for French
men and French rules that forced from Henry III a signature to the
same paper,--John having evaded his on plea of compulsion.

But, although extremely opposed to those principles of freedom which
Hengist and his followers had brought from the woods of Germany, and
which ages after marked England as a great and prosperous nation,
Norman ideas and sentiments were a southern sun to the growth of
poetry and other literature.

I have mentioned Henry Beauclerc's love for these. After him, in the
struggles of the heroic Maud or Matilda, and in the turbulent reign of
the ill-fated Stephen, neither party had leisure for literary
pursuits. But in the reign of Henry II, love and poetry both received
countenance from that gallant monarch. His amours with Rosamond
Clifford of Woodstock, have been the theme of many a popular ballad.
Richard Coeur de Lion, the knight errant king,[11] and king of knight
errants, invited the most famous of the Provencal bards to his court.
_Ubi mel ibi apes_, and London was soon a theatre crowded with
troubadours warm from the feet of the Pyrenees and banks of the Rhone.
The whispers of the sunny Provencal love-ditty were breathed upon the
rough ballad spirit of an earlier time,--mellowing that spirit, and
adding to its former dauntlessness the gloss of polish and
refinement.--Richard was himself a troubadour; and though at the
present day his deeds of verse would damn a schoolboy, they were then
thought worthy of being coupled with his deeds in arms.

[Footnote 11: Richard was truly a king _errant_,--for he spent
scarcely one out of the ten years of his reign, in England.]

Many romantic traditions have been handed down to us of that
adventurous monarch and Blondel de Nesle, his favorite minstrel. We
read in the records of our ancient chroniclers, a simple tale of the
latter's long pilgrimage in search of the captive king his master. How
Blondel came one evening as the sun went down among the hills of the
Rhine, to the solitary castle of Trifels, where the monarch lay in a
damp cold dungeon. How he seated himself at the dungeon grate, and
taking his harp from his shoulder, began a song which Richard and he
had made together in Palestine; and how the overjoyed king took up the
words as they reached his ear, and chanted to the top of his full
voice in answer. And farthermore, how Blondel returned to England, and
went 'shoonless and unhooded' through all parts of the land, until the
captive's loyal subjects were aroused; and until the great ransom was
gathered together by which those subjects bought his freedom. Many
such stories are told of the time of the chivalric Richard; and the
devoted fidelity of his dependents will ever be a bright spot on the
page of that history into which their names have stolen, and through
which they are now receiving--reward dearest to noble
spirits,--virtuous and stainless renown.

In the reign of John Lackland, the minstrels were the means of saving
the life and fortunes of an Earl of Chester, by stirring up the
rabble, who had gathered to a fair in the border of Wales, to go to
his rescue. This they did under one Dutton, at sight of whom and his
followers, the Welsh besiegers retired from before the Earl's castle.

In the time of Edward I, "a _multitude_ of minstrels attended at the
knighting of his son."

Under the reign of Edward II, such privileges were claimed by this
class, that it became necessary to restrain them by a particular
statute. Yet notwithstanding this, towards the latter part of this
reign, we find that the minstrels still retained the liberty of
entrance at will into the royal presence, and were still remarkable
for splendor of dress.

During the short rule of Richard II, John of Gaunt instituted a court
of minstrels at Tutbury in Staffordshire. They had a charter,
empowering them variously, and bestowing _inter alia_ the right of
appointing "a king of the minstrels with four subordinate officers."

Under the usurper Bolingbroke--Henry the Fourth--the profession
maintained its dignity and importance, and met with favor from king
and noble, notwithstanding the contempt of the stuttering Hotspur.

  I had rather be a kitten and cry--mew,
  Than one of these same metre ballad mongers;
  I had rather hear a brazen canstick turned
  Or a dry wheel grate on an axletree, Etc.

Alcibiades cried down lute playing--because, though {401} he excelled
his comrades in beauty, eloquence, and gallantry, in this one little
thing his skill failed him. Percy "spoke thick" and so song did not
suit him. Even as late as Henry VIII, we find minstrels attached in
licensed capacities, to the households of the great nobles. But the
profession was fast sinking into disrepute; and in the great
entertainment at Kenilworth Castle in 1575, a caricature copy of the
old minstrel appeared among the sources of amusement prepared by the
gallant Leicester for his royal mistress.

Thus had the profession completed a circle, and, in name at least,
returned to its primitive state. Centuries before among the Saxons the
singer was called _mimus_, _joculator_, _histrio_, indiscriminately.
And though these words, like _parasite_, _demagogue_, _tyrant_,
_sophist_ and others, bore a respectable meaning at the period of
their first use, the minstrel in the course of time adapted himself to
the meaning which time and change had given them, and in the reign of
Elizabeth had become a mere '_jester_.' He turned the circle and went
back to the titles of his progenitors, adding to the ignominy of those
titles by wearing them. An act was at length passed, in the
thirty-ninth year of the queen just mentioned, classing "all wandering
minstrels, with rogues, vagabonds and sturdy beggars," and ordering
them to be punished as such. From this severe judgment, however,
those, attached by peculiar circumstances to the house of that Dutton
spoken of above as the preserver of Ranulph the last Earl of Chester,
were particularly excepted. This statute was the death blow to the few
remnants of the genuine old minstrelsy.

I can now proceed undividedly in tracing out my slight sketch of
English classic poets and written poetry.

Before I end this chapter, however, let me make a few remarks upon the
spirit prevalent among the English after the conquest.

In the scrap of Saxon poetry quoted above, the reader will perceive
that the chronicler mentions William's severe restrictions upon the
exercise of woodcraft in the wide waste lands of the escheated manors.
Following the same lines farther, we find in the old chronicle the
winding up words, which I will translate from the original. After
remarking that "he forbade men to kill harts or boars," the chronicler
adds, "Rich men bemoaned it and poor men shuddered at it. But he was
so stern and hot that he recked not the hatred of them all."

In consequence of these laws, Robinhoods and Littlejohns gathered in
the matted thickets, and among the oak glades on the banks of every
obscure lake and river, from the Thames to the Tweed. There was
something alluring in the romantic life of an outlawed forester, and
many a tall deer and bristling boar, died on the 'green shawe,'
against whom that law, intended as a shield, pointed the arrow.

Thus sprung up a race of men of whom the ballad makers delighted to
sing--coupling their names with 'Hereward the hardy outlaw' and the
patriot heroes of the ground and trampled Saxons.

That the introduction of Norman manners brought with it more
softness--a fact mentioned more than once--we may discover by
comparing the productions of those bards who in the same age, sung in
the rugged north country, and those who grew up in Kent and on the
Thames. These latter were for years before the Norman's coming,
receiving polish from their neighborhood, while those of
Northumberland retained much of their early rudeness ages after. The
bard who sings of the reyde on which

  "The Perse out off Northumberland"

went to be killed among the Cheviot hills, has more roughness as well
as more strength than any of his compeers on the Thames. This old poem
is an important stone in the temple of English literature, and I will
treat of it in due season, as coming within the pale of English
classic poetry. This polish and increased softness introduced by the
Normans, opened the eyes and ears of all to "the soother and
honeyeder" style of poetry. And, indeed, unless Lord Bacon's
remark,--that verse is a better balm than any the Egyptians knew, "for
that it not only preserveth the stateliness of the form and the color
of the face--which the Egyptian preservative doth not--but giveth to
the one tenfold stateliness and borroweth from the rose for the
other,"--be true, their women were passing stately and very beautiful.
There were the three Mauds, all queens and all heroines. There was the
proud yet "fair Rosamond," who forgot her pride in the arms of a royal
lover; and many another fitting sharer in immortality with the Elgivas
and Ediths of an earlier time.

Superstition too gave a tinge to poetry.--The Druids had left their
foot marks upon the soil, and the ancient rites and feelings cherished
in Wales--the last place of refuge for the injured Britons--still held
an undefined influence over the hearts of their neighbors. This
feeling blazed out for awhile, when the partisans of Henry slew Thomas
a-Becket, the "child of love and wonder,"[12] before the altar of St.
Bennet. And the murdered Archbishop was doubly canonized, in the holy
ritual of Rome, and in the songs of those whom his death had made
worshippers.

[Footnote 12: Sir J. Mackintosh tells an odd romance of the mother of
the celebrated Archbishop, whom he calls the "child of love and
wonder."]

But the greatest characteristic of the ballad, as used among the
Norman successors to the Saxons in England, was a love for the
legendary. Britagne--that country lying between the Loire and the
Seine, had been peopled by a body of British emigrants about the time
of the Saxon invasion under Hengist, and these calling themselves
_Armoricans_, settled quietly down in a strange land. They retained
many of their old British feelings, and when in the course of time
they became nearly amalgamated with their Norman neighbors, and
followed them into England, the old love of country revived and they
sung of King[13] Arthur and his knights as champions of their
forefathers. The strange legends of the early contests between Angles
and Britons, were mere clews to the discovery of a thousand others,
wholly unfounded in truth, yet none the less palatable to the
ignorant. This love of the legendary remains to this day among the
descendants of these people, and will, perhaps, never be obliterated.

[Footnote 13: "The words _Konung_, _Kyning_, _King_, _Kong_, _Koenig_,
and others like them in the Teutonic languages, denoted every sort of
command from the highest to that of a very narrow extent. It would be
a gross fallacy to understand these words in their modern sense, when
we meet them in Anglo-Saxon history."]


{402}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MR. WHITE,--I offer a very threadbare excuse for the publication of
the following verses. They are published "at the request of a friend,"
for whom, indeed, they were written. You have accused me of obscurity,
and to prevent a repetition of your censure, I will here add a scrap
of explanation. "The Last Indian" is something of a Salathiel; he has
survived his whole race. Stanza VI, refers to the Aztecs and other
tribes long ago extinct, and supposed to have lived once upon a time,
among the higher valleys east and west of the Mississippi. A second
and more hardy people, referred to in stanza V, perhaps drove the
Aztecs, as the Huns drove the Goths, southward, upon the rich regions
of Mexico. These dead Mexican tribes are described on their
return--led by a kind of _amor patriæ_ instinct--to their early homes
in the north.

Before ending this scrawl, I would correct an error into which you
have fallen with regard to my signature. "Zarry Zyle" should be

LARRY LYLE.


THE LAST INDIAN.

    Once more, and yet once more,
  I give unto my harp a midnight-woven lay;
    --I heard the ebon waters roar,
  I heard the flood of ages pass away.--_Kirke White_.


I.

  I slept beneath a tree one Summer eve,
  My couch a bed of blossom-beaded thyme,
  My roof the bough which spirit fingers weave,
  My slumber-song a brooklet's mellow chime:
  I dreamed--and far away thro' space and time,
  My liberated spirit joyfully
  Forth went--a pioneer well skilled to climb
  The cloudy crags and cliffs of mystery.
  I dreamed--I speak my dream; and canst thou read it me?

II.

  On the jagg'd summit of a mountain range,
  More azure than the blue sky, sternly stood--
  Like Sathanas of old--a wanderer strange,
  Drinking deep grief, as one who meets the flood
  Of bitterness in some parched solitude;
  Before him spread, in undulations vast,
  A Prairie sea, all isled with rock and wood;
  And young winds closed their wings above its breast,
  As faint bees close their wings when Summer days have passed.

III.

  The Sun had come--a weary traveller--
  Up o'er the hills of ether, for methought
  'Twas many thousand years since Lucifer
  Fell from his glory, and, with trial fraught
  And leaden labor, Time had weakness brought
  To Sun and Moon. Men saw the Sun upcome,
  And marvelled at its lustre: Sages sought
  That lustre's source, and said "at point of doom
  Mysterious fires full oft the closing eye illume."

IV.

  Methought a change came o'er the face of earth;
  Hill, plain, and hollow shook as with the throe
  Of mortal agony. The mountain girth
  Shrunk, heaved, then burst asunder. In mad flow
  The waters of great lakes foamed, battling through
  Far scattered crags; and mighty rocks, down hurled
  From mountain tops, laid bare the volcano--
  The great volcano! and its flame unfurled,
  Streamed redly, wrathfully, above the reeling world.

V.

  A voice went forth, far louder than the roar
  Of bounding rivers; and the summons broke
  The deep sleep of earth's dead. Each burial shore
  And tree-robed mound in groaning travail shook,
  And giant skeletons from death awoke.
  Barbarians seemed they, armed with spear and bow;
  And thro' their ribs as thro' the winter oak
  Winds whistled; while from bone lips evermo'
  Uptrembled hollowly, horn murmurs, faint and low.

VI.

  And, from the charnel valleys of the South,
  A multitude, vast, vast beyond compare,
  Moved darkly onward. Song and shout uncouth,
  Betokened their wild joy; while on the air,
  Forgotten instruments breathed music rare--
  Sweet unknown tunes, as soft as hymn of rills.
  The Mammoth and the Mastodon were there,
  All yoked;--and then I heard far-groaning wheels:
  The tomb had gaped--the dead tribes sought their early hills!

VII.

  Amid the groan and rumbling heave of earth,
  And noise of waters, came each silver tone.
  But ere my wonder ceased, a storm had birth,
  And rattling thunder mingled with the moan
  And sob of nature. O'er car--skeleton--
  A cloud-veil passed and hid them from my sight;
  While o'er that cloud, far on a mountain throne,
  A city rocked--illumined by the light
  Of its own burning towers--fit type of frail man's might!

VIII.

  And then the Sun waxed dim. The red Moon rode
  Above the trembling nations, with an eye
  Of wrath and anguish, and a brow of blood--
  While one by one, afar, in the dun sky
  The stars went out, as dew-drops, when winds sigh,
  From grass and flower and thin leaf disappear.
  Then no man saw the Sun! but still on high
  The great Moon rode; and, ever redly clear,
  Glared thro' thick fog and mist, till men grew dumb with fear.

IX.

  The wanderer looked forth tremblingly, and lo!
  A wide winged Eagle on the darkness came.
  Her brood had died,--all died! and wild with wo
  And reckless wrath, that terror might not tame--
  Chasing the swart cloud from her eye of flame--
  She sought the summit of that lonely peak.
  She saw the Red Man, and with joyous scream,
  Claimed fellowship; but to her iron beak
  A single death-flash leapt, and wreathed her scornful neck.

X.

  Innumerable mounds belched lurid streams,
  And poured, in hot black showers, the cinder-rain;
  I gazed and saw, as high the forked gleams
  Sprang piercingly thro' volumed smoke again,
  Earth's wan-faced myriads. From the Ocean-plain {403}
  Her living tribes had flown, to seek the light
  And safety of that adamantine chain,
  In shivering crowds; and wildered with affright,
  They toiled in throngs to reach the mountain's farthest height.

XI.

  And one, more daring, stood upon the brink
  Of a volcano,--and his scathed hand raised,
  Dripping with hissing lava. Some would shrink;
  And many called on God; while some, amazed,
  Stood statuelike: and some in madness seized
  With Vampyre tooth, and laid their full veins bare.
  And one--a blue-eyed maiden--upward gazed
  In speechless wo, while gleamed her long fair hair
  And ghastly cheek, beneath that flame's unearthly glare.

XII.

  Methought, pale girl, that thou wert of the line
  Of her I loved; and tears flowed full and fast,
  To see a form so beautiful as thine
  In the Volcano's death-light. This soon passed!
  Again with strength I heard and saw. A blast
  From unseen horn, rang wildly o'er the herd
  Of dead and living men: The myriad vast
  Wailed moaningly when each the strange blast heard,
  And dead and living stood with stony brows upreared.

XIII.

  Earth heaved anew, and toppling crags fell down
  In darkness. Rivers turned and fled the main--
  And galloping--like startled steeds back thrown
  By some strong rampart--rushed in fear again
  To their far founts, o'erwhelming rock and plain.
  The fiend Tornado shrieked and wrung the wood,
  Old Earth's scorched locks--until her ory brain
  Lay shelterless and bare: while beryl-hued
  And bubbling streams, breast, cheek, and cloven brow imbrued.

XIV.

  Mine eye waned slowly into wakefulness;
  The wild forms of my dream waxed faint and dim;
  But ere they fled, methought the pallid race
  Had crumbled into ashes; while o'er him,
  Last of the injured, twin in death with time--
  A strong joy swept. Woe's furrow had been ploughed
  Deep in his heart; he was avenged!
                                     As swim
  O'er Autumn skies the fleets of shattered cloud,
  So swam those scenes and passed. I turned and sobbed aloud.

XV.

  A purfled Oreole sate upon a bough
  Above me, and with gentle carollings
  Shook the still air; e'er raining on my brow
  The dewy globules, with her restless wings:
  I love the bird,--I love the song she sings!
  For that I heard it by a lonely stream
  In days, when love and hope were rainbow things:
  The sweet bird soothed me, but my brain will teem
  Full many a mirthless eve, with fragments of that dream!

_Winchester, Va._




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

WILLIAMSBURG BIRTH NIGHT BALL.

MR. WHITE,--From all I can learn, your "Messenger" seems to give
general and increasing satisfaction in this quarter: to use a French
phrase, _tout le monde en dit du bien_. Though it is not probable any
thing so light and playful, (and particularly at this late period of
the month,) should obtain admission into its columns, yet, as one or
two stanzas of the annexed _metrical_, have some how or other found
their way into the newspapers, I have at last succeeded in procuring a
copy of _the whole_, that you may exercise your own discretion in
respect to its insertion. It originated as follows: Some young ladies
of your place, during a visit to Williamsburg to attend the
_Birth-night Ball_, &c. received from an accomplished female friend at
Richmond, a charming poetical letter, describing _a musical party_ at
which she had assisted; and narrating in a familiar, agreeable manner,
the principal incidents that had occurred in their absence. The
following lines were composed, as a _response_ to this lively and
entertaining communication:--


WINTER SCENES AT WILLIAMSBURG.


  Your letter, dear Mary, tho' resting so long,
    Without a response, gave us infinite pleasure;
  For seldom indeed, in the language of song,
    And verse of so beautiful, smooth-flowing measure,
  Have we met with the news and events of the day,
  Reported and told, in so pleasing a way--
  Is it _thus_, that the _Muses_ to each other write,
  And render e'en _absence_, a source of delight?

  _Euterpe_, perhaps, (ever partial, they say
    To a _musical_ fête,) your concert attended,
  And pleased with your talent to sing and to play,
    Thought _music_ with _poetry_ happily blended--
  And so, when you took up the pen to prepare
  An account of your party, to make it more rare,
  Bade you write it _in verse_--and _assisted_ you too,
  To get up a style, so romantic and new.

  Be this as it may--'tis certain that such
    As have been indulged with a sight of your letter,
  _Sans compliment_, all, have admired it much,
    And say, of its kind, that they never read better.
  But how can _we_ answer, in similar style,
  A missive like yours?--we are sure you will smile
  At our awkward and feeble attempt to compose,
  An answer in verse, in our accent of prose.

  But smile, if you please--even laugh, if you choose--
    We _must_ make an effort to put rhymes together,
  To give you some _items_ of Williamsburg news,
    And tell you how well we got thro' the cold weather:
  In converse and reading, we passed with delight,
  The keen winter morning, the long winter night,
  With a family never surpassed upon earth,
  In kind hospitality, virtue and worth.

  'Tis said, this _old city_ has seen its best days--
    We cannot think so--its present possessors
  Are subjects of just admiration and praise--
    Whether _Judges_ or _Lawyers_, or learned _Professors_--
  All mingle with freedom and ease in the throng,
  And move in the current of fashion along;
  At the _ball_, or the _board_, or the cheery _fire side_,
  Society's ornament, pleasure and pride.

  "And are there no _Doctors_ (perhaps you exclaim)
    Distinguished by talents and virtues and merit?"-- {404}
  O yes, there are several; whom if we but _name_,
    Or mention their liberal and generous spirit,
  "The Messenger's" Critic may cry out--"O fie!
  _Who ever blamed Hercules?_" Subjects so high,
  Like Washington, need not a line to exalt
  Their virtues and worth--_Who ever blamed G----?_

  The fear we suggest, of the "Messenger's" lash,
    As you well may imagine, is merely pretension;
  Its _Critics_ at monarch-like _Hickories_ dash,
    And smile at _flowret_ or _shrub's_ apprehension--
  _Palmettoes_ escape too! but, _Party_, away!
  'Tis time, to the _birthnight_ our homage to pay;
  E'en _the Critic_ himself, we hope may agree
  To spare our "_Sic semper_--PATRI PATRIÆ!"

  The ball of the _birthnight_, on Monday took place,
    And, once more, the hall of the _ancient Apollo_,
  Assembled a train of youth, beauty, and grace,
    In which, well escorted, we ventured to follow:
  _Professors_ and _students_, the _bench_ and the _bar_,
  The _single_ and _married_ of both sexes, _there_,
  In mirth and good humor, the hours employed,
  Partook of the _dance_, or the _music_ enjoyed.

  The _supper_ was _superabundant_--in fine,
    No _gourmand_ complained of a scanty provision
  Of flesh, fish, or fowl--or of excellent wine,
    Which _Bacchus's_ tribe thought a charming addition;
  But the _nymphs_ and the _graces_ impatiently flew
  To the ball room again, the _dance_ to renew;
  And thoughtless of sleep or repose, in their glee,
  Kept it up, it is said, till full _two_ or _three_.

  Of the cake, fruit, and wine, there yet was such store,
    Laid in and prepared for the festive occasion,
  That the Managers thought of _a hop or two_ more,
    As a matter of justice and easy persuasion;
  So, on several nights, the beauty and grace
  Of the young and the old that distinguish the place,
  With music and dancing enlivened the hall,
  Till the close of the week, gave repose to us all.

  All needed it much; for a deep fall of snow,
    Fatigued as we were, to _sleighing_ invited--
  And who could refuse, pray, a gallant young _beau_,
    _Alcibiades_ like, with _driving_ delighted?--
  Thro' the streets, and _around and around_ on the _square_,
  For the _belles_ and the _bells_, were all gathered _there_,
  What racing--what contests _Olympic_ were seen,
  On the snow-white expanse of the _cidevant_ green!

  We have not half finished the _sleighing_ affair,
    With some other topics of social diversion,
  But here we must stop--as we now must prepare
    For a trip to old _York_, on a pleasure excursion--
  We _wish_ you were with us. Your eloquent pen
  Might _there_ find a scene to amuse us again,
  With lively description of things "old and new"--
  But the carriage is waiting; so, dear girl, _adieu!_




UNREASONABLE WISHES.

The subjoined _morceau_ is worthy notice. Many grave essays have been
written upon the vanity and unreasonableness of human wishes; but it
would seem, without much effect. The rhapsodies of lovers in the olden
time were thought sufficiently extravagant, and their wishes have been
quoted as the very essence of inordinate imaginations: in fact,
Shakspeare has classed the lover and the madman together:

  "The lunatic, the lover and the poet,
   Are of imagination all compact:
   One sees more devils than vast hell can hold--
   That's the madman--the other all as frantic
   Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt," &c.

Yet the old fashioned lovers kept some rule in their imaginary
desires, when compared with the vast conception of our correspondent.

  "Ye Gods! annihilate both time and space,
   And make two lovers happy"--

and the passionate exclamation of Romeo,

  "Oh that I were a glove upon that hand!
   That I might kiss that cheek!"

were thought wild enough for those more stoical times. But it seems
that the march of improvement is onward in love-making, as well as in
road-making, as we will trust our correspondent's effusion to show.

       *       *       *       *       *

  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MISS S---- S----


  Would that thou were some isle, my love,
    And I the wave that bound thee,
  With naught but Heaven's pure sky above,
    And I sole guard around thee.

  Then in one fond and long embrace,
    Through calm and storm I'd cheer thee,
  And bless the wind, that face to face,
    Had brought me still more near thee.

_Norfolk, April 9, 1835_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE BROKEN HEART.

  I come, a stricken Deer,
  Bearing the heart midst crowds that bled,
  To bleed in stillness here.--_Mrs. Hemans_.


  I come to my home in the forest shade,
  By the summer boughs in their minglings made,
  To my own bright hills and their clear blue sky,
  With a broken heart in their stillness to die.

  I come from the midst of a changing world,
  And the banners of Hope in my bosom lie furled;
  I bring from the spoiler a mournful token,--
  The unfledged wing of my soul is broken.

  There is weight on my spirit too painful to bear--
  A feeling of gloom that corrodes like despair;
  And the Rose's rich hue and the Violet's bloom,
  Whisper we're nursed but to fade at thy tomb.

  And there comes a sound on the murmuring breeze,
  As it creeps thro' the boughs of a thousand trees,
  And it echoes back from the stars of night
  And the placid lake, like a mirror bright,

  "Thou art not for earth! thou art not for earth!
  And thou bearest no part in its gladness and mirth;
  Its moments of pleasure have ages of care!
  And the love which thou seekest is never found there!"

  And Spring shall return with its leaves and flowers,
  And the song of birds to the woodland bowers;
  To me they shall be as to one that's departed--
  There is rest in the grave for the broken hearted.

S. W. W.

_Raleigh, N. C._


{405}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A DISCOURSE

On the Progress of Philosophy, and its Influence on the Intellectual
and Moral Character of Man; delivered before the Virginia Historical
and Philosophical Society, February 5, 1835. By _George Tucker_,
Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Virginia.


_Mr. President, and Gentlemen of the Society_:--

I feel the weight of the task I have undertaken to perform, the more
sensibly, when I recollect the brilliant qualifications of the
member[1] who was the first choice of the society, and that I must
disappoint the expectations which that choice so naturally raised. The
grave and sober speculations which I am about to submit to your
consideration will, I fear, but poorly compensate those who hear me,
for the graces of elocution, the rich, but chaste imagery, and the
rare felicity of diction by which that gentleman is distinguished; and
I regret on your account, as well as my own, that he has thus
unexpectedly failed to fulfil the wishes of his associates.

[Footnote 1: James McDowell, Esq. of Rockbridge.]

I have thought it would not be unappropriate to the occasion, to
present to the society some views of the influence which philosophy
has exercised, and must continue to exercise, over civilized man.
Amidst the din of political controversy, and the bustling concerns of
life, it is well sometimes to withdraw our thoughts from the
tumultuous scenes around us to the calm views of rational speculation.
Our minds may be not merely refreshed by the change, but they are
likely to acquire elevation and purity in being thus severed from
sordid and selfish pursuits, and made to contemplate human concerns in
the transparent medium of truth and philosophy.

_Philosophy!_ a term to which some attach a mysterious import, as
implying a kind of knowledge unattainable except by a few gifted
minds--whilst others regard it as more an object of aversion than of
affection,--inculcating a system of thought and action equally at war
with nature and common sense,--as a perversion of human reason and
feeling, at once cold and repulsive to others, and profitless to the
possessor. This is not the philosophy of which I propose to speak, but
her counterfeit; which, being as bold and forward as the other is
modest and retiring, has made herself more known to the world than the
character she personates, and has thus brought discredit on the name.

By philosophy, I mean that power of perceiving truths which are not
obvious--of seeing the complicated relations of things, and of seeing
them as they really are, unperverted by passion or prejudice. So far
from being repugnant to nature and common sense, it constantly appeals
to these for the justness of its precepts. It is indeed _Reason_,
exercising its highest attributes in the multifarious concerns of
human life. Such was the philosophy of Newton and Locke, and of our
own illustrious Franklin.

It will be the object of the following remarks to show, that this
philosophy is gradually increasing and diffusing itself over the
world; that it now mingles in all human concerns, and gives to the
present age its distinguishing characteristics; that its progress must
still continue, and more and more influence the character of man and
civilized society; and that in no country is its influence likely to
be more extensively or beneficently felt than in this.

The most superficial observer must be struck with the prodigious
advancement of the human intellect, when he compares the opposite
extremes of society. The savage, when his mind is roused from a state
of apathy, passes into one of strong emotion; for he is capable of
intense feelings, but not of profound and comprehensive thought. He
knows but few facts; and they have not that variety and complexity
which distinguish the knowledge of the civilized man. All that he sees
and hears, is heard and seen by the men of civilization; but to this
the latter is always adding the perception of new and intricate
relations, of which the former is incapable. Thus, compare the
knowledge of the relations of numbers possessed by one who barely
knows how many fives there are in twenty, with that of him who can
mark out the paths of the planets, calculate their mutual attractions,
and predict a distant eclipse to a minute; or the few and simple rules
of justice among a tribe of savages, to the intricate and multifarious
codes of civilized society; nay, extend the comparison to any other
department of human knowledge, and there will be found the same
difference between the two, as exists between the wigwam of mud or
bark, without a door, window or chimney, and the solid and spacious
hall in which we are assembled. Nor is this all; for as the reason, in
common with every other faculty, is strengthened by exercise, the
severer and more incessant exercise to which it is subjected by the
multiplication of new relations, is constantly increasing the
authority of reason, and weakening the dominion of the passions and
prejudices.

The mind therefore becomes, with the progress of civilization, more
capable of perceiving relations--more imbued with a knowledge of these
relations--more comprehensive--more capable of making remote
deductions. It perceives more truths that are complex and
difficult--and has more capacity to detect illusion and error. We thus
see human reason gradually extending its empire, successfully
assailing former prejudice, and fashioning human institutions to
purposes of utility. We see men more and more inclined to value every
object only in proportion as it conduces to the happiness of the
greater number; and to {406} consider nothing as permanently connected
with that happiness, but what gives gratification to the senses
without debasing them; to the intellect without misleading it; and to
the passions when fulfilling their legitimate objects. It is thus we
see each succeeding generation regarding with indifference, and even
with contemptuous ridicule, what commanded the veneration of a former
age.

It would exceed the limits of such a discourse as the present to give
even an outline of the advancement of reason, as exhibited in the
various branches of science. Nor is it necessary. It will be
sufficient for us to give our attention to some few striking facts in
the progress of science and art, especially in those cases which being
more recent, are at once better known to us, and have a nearer
relation to our interests. Let us turn to any department of human
knowledge or inquiry, and we see the clearest manifestations of the
growing philosophical spirit of which I speak.

If we look at the character of civil government, we find that every
revolution--every important change--is the result of the progress of
philosophy--of the extension of the empire of reason. Once kings were
regarded as deriving their power not from the consent of the people,
but immediately from the Deity. They were said to be the Lord's
anointed; and implicit obedience--unresisting submission to the
mandate of the sovereign, was enjoined not merely as a civil, but as a
religious duty.

In two out of the four quarters of the world, we all know how much
these opinions are changed; and that there, with the thinking portion
at least, government is now regarded as an institution created solely
for the happiness of the people; that they are the judges of what
constitutes that happiness; and that government may be changed, either
as to its form or agents, whenever it is proved incapable of
fulfilling its main purpose. This principle of reason and common sense
caused and justified the establishment of the Commonwealth in England;
the restoration of the monarchy; the subsequent revolution in 1688;
the American revolution in 1776; the French revolution of 1789, under
all its various phases; and that which produced a change of dynasty in
1830. We have seen the operation of the same principle in separating
the Spanish provinces on this continent from the mother country. We
have seen it in the separation of Belgium from Holland, and in the
liberation of Greece from the Turkish yoke.

Every subordinate institution too, is now judged according as it tends
to promote the welfare of the community; and the notion of rights of
particular classes and orders of men, farther than they can be shown
to rest on this foundation, is deemed presumptuous and absurd. Even
the rights of property itself, the most sacred of any, because they
are the most obvious and are possessed by a greater number, are
derived from the same source, and are regulated and controlled by it.
Every tax in a popular government--every restriction on the free use
of one's own,--whether it be in the form of a prohibition against
gaming, or of laying out a new road, or of an inspection law,
recognizes this principle. It governs legislatures in conferring
rights as well as abridging them. They all find their authority and
justification in the public good; nor does any one now attempt to
resist a tax or defend a privilege, but by appealing to this great
test of right, the interests of the community.

You see too in jurisprudence, that all those principles which grow out
of barbarous usages, or were the result of accident, or of mistaken
theory, are gradually made to give way to the light of reason and the
spirit of philosophy. They conform more and more to the common sense
and common feelings of mankind. Crimes which once incurred the
severest penalties of the law, are crimes no longer; modes of trial
originating in superstition have been abolished; many of the frivolous
niceties of pleading, or rules founded on a state of things which no
longer exist--such as that which excluded written testimony from the
common law courts, and which, like noisome weeds, choked up the
administration of justice, have been eradicated, in spite of the cry
which always will be raised against innovation, and which some of our
best principles, as well as our weakest prejudices, concur in raising.

Nor have we yet reached the end of this course of salutary reform. The
administration of justice may be still more simple; and though the
rules of property and of civil rights must always be numerous and
complicated in a civilized community, yet this necessity furnishes a
further reason why the modes of investigating truth and the rules of
evidence should possess all practicable simplicity. The spirit of
philosophy has been actively at work here. In some instances, perhaps,
it has been too far in advance of the age, and under the influence of
the pride of discovery and reform, or provoked by opposition, it may
have been urged farther than reason and propriety would warrant. It
has, however, arraigned the whole system of judicial evidence, and
endeavored to show that the rules for the examination of contested
facts are so erroneous or defective, that the truth is commonly
discovered better out of court than in it; and that questions about
which all the world is satisfied, when technically examined by
tribunals created purposely for their investigation, either receive no
answer, or a wrong one. The official expounders of the law, partaking
of the liberal spirit of the age, have of late years greatly narrowed
the objections to the competency of witnesses; but it is only the
legislature and public opinion which are adequate to a complete
reform, and they will one day assuredly bring it.

{407} There is much seeming force in many of the other objections of
the reformers to the present very artificial and complicated system of
jurisprudence; but whether their views are satisfactory or otherwise,
they equally serve to show the prevalent disposition of men to bring
all human concerns to the bar of reason, and make them submit to her
decrees.

There is nothing in which the progress of reason and philosophy are
more shown, than in the subject of religion. A large part, perhaps I
may say, the best part of religion, as it is most productive of good
results, is the religion of the heart; and consists in a profound and
thorough sense of the wisdom and beneficence of the Creator--of
thanksgiving for the blessings he has vouchsafed to frail and humble
beings like ourselves--to vigorous self-examinations by our own
conscience--to fervent aspirations after moral excellence in this
life, and a purer and higher state of existence hereafter. But all of
these are impulses of the feelings, rather than the cold dictates of
the reasoning faculty; and being dependant on the laws of our
emotions, which are as unchangeable as our forms, and probably as much
the result of organization, are the same in character, if not in
degree, in every stage of society.

But while philosophy has not altered, and could not alter these
impulses of the heart, we may see here also its benignant operations.
It has driven away from religion the superstitions which fraud and
credulity combined had gathered around it. Man no longer imputes to
the Deity the same violent and ignoble passions by which the baser
part of his own nature is agitated; and instead of regarding cruelty
and vengeance as attributes of the Supreme Being, he is invested with
those qualities which appear to our feeble conceptions more consonant
with divine perfection. Thus mercy to human frailty and pity for human
suffering, are regarded as divine attributes no less than wisdom and
power. On the part of its votaries, humility is invoked to take the
place of pride; forgiveness of injuries to supersede resentment;
meekness and patience and long suffering are held to indicate a truer
devotion than pompous rites and vain ceremonies; and instead of
incense and sacrifices, good deeds to his fellow mortals, and a lowly
and penitent spirit, are deemed the most acceptable offerings which
man can make to his Creator. In this transformation, Mr. President,
you recognize the leading precepts of christianity, which may well be
called the most philosophical of all religions.

It is true that after this religion became the creed of those northern
barbarians, who poured like an avalanche over the south of Europe,
christianity became greatly perverted from its original simplicity and
purity; but it was not destined to remain forever shrouded in these
mists of barbarism. After the growing spirit of philosophy prepared
men's minds for its reception and welcome, it broke forth in its
pristine beauty and splendor. The further continuance of the abuses of
the christian church was inconsistent with the increase of general
intelligence; and the reformation must have taken place had Martin
Luther never existed, or had the Dominican friars never carried on the
traffic in _indulgences_; though it might not have happened at the
precise time, or in the precise manner in which it did occur.

In truth, man's religion, as well as every thing else relative to his
opinions and feelings, partakes of the character of the age; and we
are warranted in saying, that the christian religion in the middle
ages must as necessarily have been subject to its corruptions, its
superstitions, and its persecutions, among a people so rude as that
which then swayed the destinies of Europe, as that after the discovery
of the art of printing, the revival of letters, and the general
progress of science and philosophy, these foul exhalations should
disappear.

It has been supposed, that the spirit of philosophy which has been so
hostile to superstition, is also unfavorable to true religion; and
many, listening to their fears rather than their reason, have readily
yielded to that opinion. But they have been too hasty in drawing
general conclusions from particular facts. It is true that many of the
philosophers of France, and some of those of Great Britain, during the
last century, were not only opposed to the prevailing creeds of their
country, but seemed to have no very fervid religious feelings of any
kind; but they were led first to make war on what they regarded as the
abuses of religion, and then their attacks appear to be levelled
against every thing which bore its name. It is highly probable that,
by a natural process of the mind, from coming to hate the corruptions
of christianity, they felt a prejudice against every thing which was
associated with it. But on the other hand, we have seen some,
occupying the very highest places in the scale of philosophers, who
were sincere and zealous christians. Besides, the present age, which
is the most philosophical the world has ever seen, is also the most
generally and ardently devoted to christianity, as is evinced by the
extraordinary number of Churches, Bible Societies, Missionary
Societies, Sunday Schools, &c. Let then the sincerely devout and pious
dismiss their fears. The foundations of religion are seated in the
very nature and constitution of man; in the deepest recesses of his
heart. It is a want of his moral nature, as indispensable as food to
his physical; and philosophy tends only to separate it from a part of
the dross with which every thing earthly more or less mingles, and to
leave its own pure essence undiminished and untouched.

Let us now pass to the subject of literature, where we shall see the
same evidences of the {408} growing influence of philosophy and reason
over the minds of men. Thus poetry, in its efforts to please and
elevate the mind, by exciting the imagination and feelings, now never
addresses us unattended by philosophy. Her favorite occupation of late
has been to delineate the dispositions and characters of men; to
reveal the secret workings of the passions and the sources of human
sympathy; to exhibit the human mind, in short, under its most
impressive phases. The prevalent taste of the age is for metaphysical
poetry; by which I mean, poetry imbued with philosophy,--poetry which
lays bare the anatomy of the human heart, and discloses all the
springs and machinery by which it is put in play. Those who are gifted
with this beautiful talent, have conformed to the ruling taste, and
their success has been proportionate. It is to this circumstance that
Byron owes part of his popularity; for in exhibiting the most subtle
processes of human passion, its energies and its susceptibilities, he
is superior to any of his predecessors; though in the mere
embellishment of smooth and felicitous diction, and of agreeable and
varied rhythm, or even in the higher attributes of lively imagery and
lofty conception, he can boast of no superiority. Perhaps it would be
more correct to say, that the metaphysical character of his poetry
proceeded not so much from his wish to adapt it to the public taste,
as because he himself partook of the character of his age; that he
wrote metaphysically and philosophically because he spoke and thought
in this way, and he so spoke and thought from the very same causes as
his contemporaries.

This inference is the more warranted, when we find the same tincture
of philosophy in the poetry of his contemporaries,--Southey,
Wordsworth, Campbell and Coleridge.[2] Even Moore infuses into his
amatory poems as much philosophy as the subject will admit, though it
is of the sensual school of Epicurus. Sometimes we see the spirit of
philosophy controlling the poetic spirit, as was the case with
Shelley, Coleridge and some others, in whose poetry the precepts of
philosophy were more obscured by the restraints of verse than aided by
its ornaments. It is an unnatural alliance, and both the poetry and
the philosophy are the worse for the union.

[Footnote 2: The recent poetry of continental Europe exhibits the same
psychological character; as for instance, that of Alfieri and Monte in
Italy, of Goethe and Tieck in Germany, and of Beranger in France.]

In other works of imagination, those intended for the stage, and in
the region of romance, we see the same proofs of the progress of
philosophy. Walter Scott's novels are, throughout, the same
exhibitions of man, whether acting, speaking or thinking, which a
philosopher would take. We are made to see, not by the formality of an
instructor, or the impertinence of a _cicerone_, but by the consummate
fidelity and skill of the representation, every motive and passion of
the actors laid open to our view, and in strict conformity to what we
had often previously observed, though we may not have made it the
special subject of reflection. There never was before so much
philosophy taught by one writer, or taught in so pleasing a mode, or
taught to so many disciples.

Such a gallery of moral pictures could not have been created before
the nineteenth century; and though they had been, they would not have
met with the same unbounded popularity, but, like Milton's Paradise
Lost, would have been in advance of the spirit of the age.

In the drama, the plays of Joanna Baillie, and of Byron, are the most
metaphysical of all dramatic productions--so much so, as to make them
unsuited either to the tastes or capacities of a promiscuous audience.
The tragedies of Voltaire are of a more philosophical character than
those of Racine or Corneille, and these again more philosophical than
the earlier productions of the French drama.

But it is in history that we most clearly perceive the spirit of the
age. Formerly it consisted in little more than a recital of the
actions of princes, public or private; and no occurrence in the annals
of a nation was deemed worthy of commemoration, except battles and
conquests, revolutions and insurrections--with now and then the notice
of a plague, famine, earthquake or other general calamity. Now,
however, the historian aims to make us acquainted with the progress of
society and the arts of civilization; with the advancement or decline
of religion, literature, laws, manners, commerce--every thing indeed,
which is connected with the happiness or dignity of man; he does this,
not only because he deems these subjects more worthy the attention of
an enlarged and liberal mind, but also because we can, from a faithful
narrative of these events, traced out from their causes, and to their
effects, learn the lessons of wisdom--and seeing the approach of evil,
be better able to avert or mitigate it. It is in this spirit that all
history must now be written, to be approved or even read.

In the study of language, we perceive the same evidences of our
intellectual advancement. By arranging the elements of speech
according to the physical organs employed in their utterance, great
light has been thrown on etymology, and in this way, affinities have
been traced, first among languages, and through them among nations
apparently unconnected. And as all language consists of _signs_ of our
mental operations, the general principles of grammar have been sought
in the laws of the mind; while language in turn, has been sometimes
successfully invoked to explain those laws; and thus philology and
mental philosophy have assisted in elucidating each other.

This branch of philosophy (which treats of our {409} mental faculties)
has not indeed made as much progress as many others; for it admits not
the discovery of new facts. But neither has _this_ been stationary.
Great improvements have been made in analyzing its compound states; in
separating its original from its derivative properties; in tracing
many seemingly diverse operations to one simple principle. To be
convinced of this improvement, we have only to regard the theory of
associations as it now is, compared with the slight and vague notice
of it by Locke; or advert to the opinions of the same eminent man on
the foundation of morals. He maintained that there was no original
propensity in mankind to approve one action as virtuous, and another
as vicious; and that there was no practical principle which was
approved or condemned by all nations. He even denied that parental
affection, the strongest feeling in the maternal bosom, was an
original feeling. He refers to the inventions of travellers in support
of his theory, and was as credulous of the anomalous facts they
related, as he was skeptical of innate propensities. Thus he says: "It
is familiar among the Mingrelians, a people professing christianity,
to bury their children alive without scruple; he asserts that the
Caribbees were wont to fat and eat their own children;" and that a
people of Peru who followed this practice, used, when by the course of
nature they no longer had a prospect of more children to eat, "to kill
and eat the mothers."

A more intimate acquaintance with the people of this globe, and juster
modes of reasoning, have dissipated these illusions; and if I mistake
not, the laws of the mind will, in no distant day, be traced with an
accuracy and precision little inferior to those which prevail in most
branches of physics.

In the science of political economy too, we see the advance of the
light of philosophy. The errors which were the result of general and
deep-rooted prejudices, have yielded to the force of reason; and all
enlightened men now agree that nothing is so injurious to national
prosperity as too much regulation; and that the desire which mankind
have to increase their means of enjoyment, operates more unceasingly,
and sagaciously, and beneficially, than any schemes of the government,
however vigilant, intelligent and free from bias; since governments at
best can operate only by general rules, which injure some in
benefiting others,--while the sagacity of individuals, with few
exceptions, devises the best rules for each particular case.

It was for philosophy also to discover the connection between good
government and the national prosperity, and that a community will have
the most industry, skill and thrift, where property is best
protected--where every one can freely exercise his talents or his
capital, and securely enjoy the fruits they have yielded. Philosophy,
or unprejudiced reason, if you prefer it, also refuted an error once
prevalent, that one country, or one part of a country, was injured by
another's welfare; and proved both by reasoning and example, that
every accession of wealth or prosperity, experienced by one portion,
radiates light and heat to all around it.

If the progress of philosophy, or human reason, has done so much in
the moral sciences, it has done yet more in the physical branches of
knowledge for the material world--more invites our attention and
speculation--is more within the reach of experiment, and the benefits
it confers are more direct and obvious. It would be foreign to my
purpose, if I were competent to the task, to mark the steps by which
man has passed from conjecture to certainly--from rash hypothesis to
theories founded on cautious observation and experiment--from
inquiries which, if successful, had only gratified curiosity, to
discoveries and improvements immediately conducive to the benefits of
society. To enable us to appreciate the advance of science, it is
sufficient for us to look at what the condition of man now _is_,
compared with what it _was_.

In whatever direction we turn our eyes, we behold some triumph of mind
over matter. We cannot see a ship, a book, a gun, a watch--scarcely
the commonest implement or utensil--without being made sensible of the
wonders achieved by human science and art,--the result of the combined
efforts of a thousand minds and ten thousand hands, embodied in a form
that has added incalculably to man's power and enjoyment. If we take
the departments of knowledge separately, we are filled with admiration
at the labor by which it has climbed, and the elevation it has
attained. Astronomy, not content with teaching us the motions of the
planets and moons of our system, and by them, enabling us to traverse
the pathless ocean with the certainty with which we travel by land--of
itself a glorious achievement of science--now undertakes to estimate
the weight and density of these bodies--their influence on one
another--of the smallest on the largest--the flight of comets, and
even some of the changes of position in the stars themselves. Optics
has taught us new laws of light, and has subjected the most subtle and
the most rapid body in nature to measurements, of as much certainty as
the gross portions of matter. We now know the weight, density,
motions, elasticity of the air we breathe, and which encompasses the
earth; the laws of sound--its velocity, force, repercussion, musical
tone. By electricity, magnetism, galvanism, are revealed to us new
fluids of the existence of which we did not formerly dream. Their laws
have been investigated with all the accuracy, acuteness and unwearied
diligence which belongs to modern science; and though this branch of
physics is every day {410} receiving new accessions, it already forms
a copious science of itself. While yet in the full career of
discovery, it affords persuasive evidence of the close affinity if not
identity of light, heat, magnetism, electricity and galvanism.

The progress of chemistry, shows us the growth of the human intellect
in its numerous useful results. In the power it has acquired over
brute matter, it has added infinitely to our means of comfort or
enjoyment, by improving the useful arts of husbandry, metallurgy,
dying, bleaching, tanning, brewing and medicine. Some of these
improvements have, indeed, been the effect of accident; but many, nay
the most of them, have been the result of human inquiry and sagacity.
And the _atomic theory_, which gives us an insight into some of the
primary laws of matter, is a pure deduction of reason.

By chemical discoveries, useful processes which once required months,
or even years, are now effected in a few days. The chemist has found
means to separate one of several properties from a drug, so that its
medicinal effect may be undiminished and unaffected by other combined
properties originally with it. Light, which formerly was furnished
only by the valuable substances of wax, tallow, spermaceti or oil, has
been supplied of a better quality, from the cheapest and most abundant
objects in nature; and these improvements are but the precursors of
the more splendid retinue which are hereafter destined to make their
appearance. This science gives us assurance that all those substances
which are most indispensable to man, because they repair the waste
which is unceasingly going on in his bodily frame, are dispersed in
boundless profusion throughout the universe, but under forms and
combinations which conceal them from our unassisted senses; and that
it may be within the scope of human art to separate those which are
nutritious, and assimilate with our system, from those that are of a
noxious or neutral character, and thus to modify the law which has
hitherto limited the numbers of mankind. It is now thought whatever
vegetable substances can be made soluble can be made digestible, in
proof of which, a German chemist[3] has already succeeded in
converting ligneous substances into wholesome aliment; and it has long
been known that sugar may be made by a similar chemical conversion.
What would have been the transmutation for which the alchemist of
former days consumed so many anxious days and sleepless nights,
compared with these? Gold owes its extraordinary value to its
scarcity, and had the adept succeeded in making it at pleasure, he
would have lessened its value in the same proportion as he increased
the quantity. If he could have converted copper into gold, the gold
would have been worth no more than the copper, except for the expense
of the transmutation. And if society had gained some advantage in
being able to substitute it for metals that are liable to rust, yet it
would have lost as much by the destruction of its property of
containing great value in a small bulk, and its consequent unfitness
to perform the functions of money.

[Footnote 3: Professor Autenrieth of Tubingen.]

It is not improbable that some of these splendid visions of science
may never be realized: but then other discoveries and improvements may
take place of equal and greater importance; and should those hopes be
verified, would they exhibit a greater triumph of art than has been
witnessed in our day? they are certainly not more beyond the bounds of
seeming probability than balloons, and diving bells, and rail roads,
would have appeared to a former age.

The most extravagant fancy in which the man of science has indulged
would scarcely exceed the wonders now wrought by steam, whether we
consider the simplicity of the means, or the magnitude of the results.
When in every vessel of heated water mankind had always seen a vapor
arise, who could have supposed that in this simple fact, nature had
furnished an agent, which by skilfully managing, he could multiply his
natural strength a thousand fold, and move from place to place with
the swiftness of a bird? By the alternate production and condensation
of this vapor, which he is able to do by the very common agents of
fire and water, he is able to extract the ponderous minerals from the
bowels of the earth, having made it previously drain off the water
which put them out of his reach. By the same power he fashions the
metal he has made, into bars, or sheets, or rods, according to his
various purposes. By it he performs all those operations which require
incessant action as well as preterhuman strength; and thus it is made
to spin and weave, to saw and bore and plane. By this he grinds his
flour, cuts and polishes marble, prints newspapers, and transfers both
himself and his commodities from place to place, by land or by water,
with a rapidity which had existed only in the creations of an eastern
imagination; and what is no less admirable, with a diminution of
fatigue equal to the increase of speed.

The kindred sciences of geology and mineralogy have undergone the same
improvements as that of chemistry. And by a course of inductive
reasoning, founded on careful observation, the changes which the outer
crust of our earth, to the small comparative extent that we are able
to penetrate it, have been most satisfactorily shown, and referred to
their several chemical or mechanical agents. It has also afforded data
from which important facts in the history of organized beings have
been deduced, and thus it has shed a light on a branch of knowledge
from which it seemed most remote. The notion which once prevailed,
that no species {411} of animals is extinct, has been incontestibly
disproved; and it has shown not only that there were many species
which not only do not now exist, but which could not subsist in the
present state of the world. Where important facts have not been
discovered by human reason, we see its power exerted in profiting by
those which accident has suggested; as in Galvani's discovery and that
of Haüy in crystallography, of vaccination and many others.

Of all the branches of human knowledge there is no one which sooner
exercised the understandings of men than that of medicine, first as a
practical art, and then as a science, as there is none to which he is
impelled by stronger motives; and accordingly we find it practised by
a separate clan, in some of the rudest nations. Yet long and
diligently as it has been cultivated, it has made prodigious advances
of late years, and human reason has here too achieved its accustomed
triumphs. In the surgical branch diseases are cured every day, often
too by young and inexperienced operators, that were once deemed
immedicable, and often proved fatal. The materia medica has been
improved both by happy accidents, and the scientific labors of the
chemist--and the science, trusting only to cautious observation and
experiment, has profited as much by what it has rejected from the
catalogue of sanative remedies, as what it has added. Reason has here
taken the place of superstition and blind credulity, and few
prescriptions are now made on purely empirical grounds. We have the
most conclusive evidence of the advance of the medical science, in the
greater average length of life now, compared with former periods. It
has in England increased in 31 years from 1 in 33 to 1 in 58. A
similar increase has been found to have taken place in every nation of
Europe. In Great Britain, France and Germany, the average increase has
been from 1 in 30 to 1 in 38 in less than two generations. And if a
part of this melioration may be attributed to the moral improvement of
men, to the greater wealth and comfort of a greater number, the
diminution of intemperance and other vices, a part also seems fairly
attributable to the medical science; but in either way it attests the
progress of reason and philosophy.

The progress of those sciences which exercise no other faculty but the
reason, also attest the increase and vigor of the human faculties.
Algebra is not only more generally cultivated than in a former age,
but it is now applied to every species of regular form and motion that
matter can assume, and has thus reached conclusions which seemed
unattainable by human skill; and the calculus which one generation
readily performs, was scarcely intelligible to that which preceded it.

Even our most familiar and household concerns show the increased
influence of reason over our actions. The dress of both sexes is more
conformable to nature than formerly, and less biassed by caprice and
arbitrary or accidental forms. I need only, by way of proof, refer to
hair powder and buckles, and the tight ligatures which once bound our
limbs or bodies, but bind them no longer. Forms have been discarded or
abridged and made subservient to convenience--our modes of eating,
drinking and sleeping--all the ordinary habits of social life prove
the growing ascendancy of reason over habit and prejudice. Though in
all of these we may occasionally see some retrograde steps.

The more philosophical spirit of modern, compared with ancient times,
is illustrated by what was then considered as the seven wonders of the
world. They boasted of magnitude or costliness--of some enormous
expenditure of human labor in a pyramid, a statue or temple, which was
fitted to make a strong impression on the senses. But what are the
objects which now fill men's minds with admiration and astonishment?
They are such as are addressed to their powers of reflection--great
moral changes like the American or French revolutions; the liberation
of Greece or of Spanish America; or if they be of a physical
character, then they are of some successful effort of science and art
which directly conduces to the benefit of mankind; such, for instance,
as the application of steam to manufactures and navigation--the New
York Canal, the Manchester Rail Road, and the Thames Tunnel. These,
and such as these, are the world's wonders in our day.

Such then, Mr. President, is the character of the changes which the
mind of man has wrought on physical nature, as well as in the
improvement of his own condition; and these in turn have effected an
immense change in the character of his mind. _He has become less
subjected to the dominion of his senses and more to that of his
reason._ He is necessarily made to perceive an infinite number of new
and intricate relations, which the progress of knowledge and
civilization are ever adding to those which previously existed, and
his reasoning faculties have acquired strength in proportion to their
exercise. From particular facts he is continually deducing general
laws; and from those general laws, laws still more comprehensive. The
consequence of which is, that the elaborate deductions of one age
become the obvious truths of that which succeeds it, and each
succeeding generation is more capable of intricate processes of
reasoning than its predecessor.

In the same proportion too, as reason acquires strength, the dominion
of the passions becomes weaker. They are less likely to be excited by
unworthy causes, and less violent when excited. Reason obviously tends
to prevent those mental perturbations which arise from false views of
things, as from mistaken notions of right--from the exaggerations of
future good or evil, and {412} wrong estimates of their probability.
Many objects which a more ignorant age has deemed important, the light
of philosophy exhibits in their real insignificance. And in addition
to all these direct causes, it seems not improbable that our minds
being now so much more occupied in noticing causes and effects, and
other important relations, will be less prone to strong emotions,
except so far as they may have the sanction of reason. Let me not be
understood to favor the dream of some speculatists, that philosophy
will ever eradicate the passions. This result is neither possible nor
desirable. It is in their proper indulgence that consists all that is
called either happiness or virtue, and all that deserves to be so
considered by a moral and intellectual being. They are

  "The lights and shades, whose well-accorded strife
   Gives all the strength and color of our life."

The passions have been aptly compared to the winds which impel the
ship on the ocean of life,[4] but reason performs higher functions
than "the card." It sits at the helm, and guides the course of the
bark when the gale is not too strong, and takes in sail when it is.

[Footnote 4: On life's vast ocean diversely we sail,
             Reason the card, but passion is the gale.--_Pope_.]

One of the consequences of this growing ascendancy of reason is, that
there will be less inequality in the civil condition of mankind; and
happy are they whose political institutions enable them to accommodate
themselves to the change, without going through the process of blood
and violence. Whatever may be the advantages, real or supposed, of a
difference of ranks, the institution originated in accident, and is
supported by illusions, which natural enough in a certain stage of
society, the light of philosophy tends to dissipate; and as ghosts,
witches and other shadows of the night have vanished at the
approaching dawn of reason, the further progress of day will
extinguish hereditary rank, which, when it does not, like faux-fire,
shine by its own corruption, emits an ineffectual ray at best.

If the preceding views are correct, it would follow that in our
reasonings from the past to the future we must take these changes of
the human character into account, and if we do, that they would
sometimes lead us to expect different results hereafter from those
which formerly took place under similar circumstances. The failure to
make allowance for these changes, has produced much groundless
_apprehension_, much _mistaken confidence_, and much _false
vaticination_.

In thus speaking of the gradual progress of reason and philosophy, I
do not mean to say that the advancement is uninterrupted. Far from it.
Though the tide may be rising, each individual wave does not always
reach as far as that which preceded it: so man, in his onward progress
to a higher state of existence, does occasionally make oblique and
even retrograde steps. By the influence of those prejudices which have
not yet been dislodged from their strong holds--under the sway of our
passions, which indeed may be regulated, but can never be
extinguished, reason for awhile succumbs and philosophy disappears.
Thus, in the Reformation, the struggle between those who sought to get
rid of the ancient abuses, and those who endeavored to maintain them,
was accompanied with ferocity, cruelty and injustice; and men were
often hated and persecuted in proportion to their sincerity in avowing
their real sentiments, and their firmness in maintaining them. Then
too, we beheld those who had been the victims of oppression, when
power changed hands, becoming persecutors in turn; and this, not on
the principle of retaliation, but because the new persecutors were
impelled by the same blind fury as their predecessors, in regarding a
mere difference of opinion as synonymous with crime.

Philosophy had not then advanced far enough to teach them that men
were responsible only to their own conscience and their God for their
modes of faith; and that punishment tended to make hypocrites of the
bad and martyrs of the good, but converts of none. They had yet to
learn that the unadulterated common sense of that portion of mankind,
who were less frenzied by zeal, revolted at such injustice; and that
their sympathies acted more powerfully in favor of the sufferer, than
their fears in favor of their persecutors; a truth which has suggested
the maxim that "the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church."

The French revolution also furnished a signal instance of the
retrograde steps of philosophy. The oppressions, the injustice, the
absurdities of the French monarchy, and above all, the incongruities
of many of its institutions with the state of knowledge and of private
society in France, could not be corrected without calling forth all
the strongest impulses of our nature--the worst passions of the worst
men, as well as the nobler feelings of the best. The advanced state of
reason and philosophy among the educated classes, acting on the sense
of justice, indelibly stamped on the heart of man, made the mass of
the nation see and feel the odium of their civil institutions, and
determined them to attempt a remedy. They were prompted in their
schemes, and quickened in their sensibility by the superior social
condition of their neighbors, the English, and yet more by the
American revolution and its happy issue. Before this great event,
their notice of the defects or abuses of their government was confined
to philosophical speculatists--to rhetorical declaimers--or to those
who wielded the lighter, but no less efficient weapons of ridicule--to
all of whom many of those classes who most profited by the existing
{413} abuses, bowing to the resistless force of truth, and not
foreseeing the danger to themselves, gave their cordial support.
Public opinion was thus gradually gaining strength and unanimity; and
when accident afforded a favorable occasion for the _reformers_ to
act, every one was astonished at the rapidity and force with which
they acted. But there were strong interests and passions arrayed on
the other side, and the shock of the conflict was violent in
proportion.

As soon as the cry of reform and change was sounded, every furious and
ignoble passion--every sordid and profligate and depraved motive,
hoping to profit by the confusion, entered into the strife, and
corrupted the whole mass. Then it was that in the heart of
Christendom, we saw a city, associated in our minds with every
refinement of civilization--the emporium of science, literature and
the arts--suddenly transformed into a moral desert. The annals of
mankind had recorded no such metamorphosis. To the _senses_ indeed,
all the monuments of science and art and social improvement remained,
but they seemed to belong to other times. Every thing relative to the
human character was forcibly overturned, or wrested from its natural
position. Women without humanity or timidity, at one moment braving
death, and at another thirsting for blood. Science and practical art
employed in devising new modes of taking away life. Statesmen and
legislators engrossed by the one great subject of how they might
exterminate citizens no less than foreign enemies. Speculative minds
racking their inventions to frame excuses for these enormities, or in
making frivolous changes in the names of streets and provinces--of the
months and days--while _Religion_, finding nothing congenial to her
own mildness and purity, fled from the country, and the infuriated
multitude hallooed and exulted in her retreat: and in the metropolis
of fashion, which had given the laws of dress to all Europe, and one
of whose most distinguished literati[5] had asserted that the apparel
was a part of the man, an attention to outward appearance was deemed
presumptive evidence of aristocracy. Nor was there a more certain mode
of awakening suspicion of _incivism_, than to seem to be devout, or
moral, or gentlemanly, unless these obnoxious qualities were redeemed
by some accompaniment of crime.

[Footnote 5: The Count de Buffon.]

There have been those who would make philosophy responsible for these
extravagances and excesses, because it had been assiduously cultivated
in Paris, just before the Revolution, and some of its maxims were
appealed to in justification of the excesses. But nothing can be more
unjust. There was mingled with the enlightened part of the Paris
population, a far larger portion which was immersed in the grossest
ignorance. They had been brought up as it were in a prison house, into
which the surrounding light of heaven could never penetrate; and, when
set free from the restraints of law, they were powerful instruments of
mischief in the hands of those who were at once skilful and
unscrupulous in using them. There were also those who partook of the
intellectual light of the age, but who from a faulty education, or
accident, or the unjust institutions of society had not proportional
moral improvement--men who saw the inequality with which the goods of
life were distributed; that those who had the smallest share were the
most numerous; and that they might be prompted to the inclination, as
they already had the ability, to be their own carvers. An alliance was
thus formed between cunning and ignorance--the cunning few and
ignorant many--and no wonder that in a short time, all that was
venerable and virtuous and generous, as well as all that had been
tyrannical and oppressive, were furiously assailed and beaten to the
ground. The progress of knowledge had no other agency in producing
this result, than that a portion of society borrowed its _intellectual
light_ without approaching near enough to profit by its _moral
warmth_: and it is as unreasonable to blame philosophy for these
outrages, as to blame religion for the bloody massacres and merciless
persecutions which were perpetrated in her name. With far greater
reason may the moderation observed by the mob of Paris, in the three
day revolution of 1830, be ascribed to the influence of the liberal
and philosophical spirit, which had been gaining ground throughout the
civilized world, and particularly in France for twenty years before:
and it deserves notice, that this moderation, as well as the occasion
on which it would be exercised, was confidently predicted in this
country, by a French gentleman,[6] now enjoying an elevated rank in
France; and he founded his prediction on the improved character of the
population of Paris.

[Footnote 6: General Bernard, whose anticipations of the leading
events of that revolution, in a conversation with the author, had all
the accuracy of history.]

Having thus taken a view of the past effects of the progress of
philosophy, let us now look before us, and endeavoring to scan the
future, learn what are hereafter to be its effects on the world,
especially on that portion of it, in which we are most interested.

We are sometimes reproached with being more disposed to look at what
our country will be, than at what it is; but when the changes are so
rapid and great, we should not only betray a strange insensibility to
our future destiny, but be grossly wanting in prudence, not to keep
the fact constantly present to our minds. It should affect our policy,
legislation, and even our individual contracts and schemes of profit;
and while we do not object to other nations seeing, in the {414}
mirror of the past, interesting memorials of their former glory, they
may suffer us to look at ours, through the prism of hope, in which
objects are a little distorted without being exaggerated, and appear
in hues delightfully gay and diversified. Let us see then how the
certain progress of population, and the probable progress of reason
and philosophy are likely to affect us.

Of the rapid advancement of the United States in numbers, powers and
wealth, we have now a moral certainty. After the lapse of forty years,
we have seen that their population continues to double at the rate
which Franklin long ago assumed, and we have full confirmation of the
views taken by Malthus more than thirty years ago, and by Franklin
long before him, that mankind continue thus to increase where the
means of subsistence are easy. There will hardly be any change in this
particular here, before our numbers have reached 60 persons to a
square mile. Perhaps when we consider the remarkable fertility of the
larger part, not before we have reached 100: but with the former
limit, our country would contain 100 millions of inhabitants, in three
periods of doubling, or in 75 years. Some doubts have been entertained
whether our future increase will not diminish in an increasing ratio;
and a very general error as to the rate of increase, exhibited at the
last census, has favored that opinion. But in point of fact, the
increase for the ten years ending in 1830, was a fraction more than 34
per cent., instead of a fraction more than 33 per cent., as our
almanacs and other periodicals have stated, because they did not
attend to the fact, that the last census shewed the increase only for
nine years and ten months. This result is so unexampled and so great,
that it requires an effort for us to conceive its reality; yet it
rests upon as satisfactory grounds as any future event whatever: and
it is not a remote improbability, that some who now hear me will live
to see our population amount to 100 millions.

For our political organization we have nothing to desire, if our
present government continues. The self-healing power, which more or
less pervades all bodies, politic as well as natural, has unrestricted
vigor here, and may be expected to bring an adequate remedy for every
political disease likely to arise.

But one of the evils apprehended by some, is a dissolution of the
Union; and it is asked, if this has already been seriously threatened,
how will it be when the sources of collision and rivalship shall be
multiplied--when all fear of foreign aggression, which now operates as
a band to keep us together, shall be removed--when personal ambition
shall seek, by a separation, that field for its enterprises which the
Union does not afford--and the natural increase of an indigent and
ignorant class shall furnish him with ready tools for his selfish
projects?

But I do not see the probability that the proud hopes, which dictated
a perpetual league among the states, are to be disappointed. It seems
to me that the occasions in which their interests clash are few,
compared with those in which they coincide, and that one of the
strongest ligaments of union is the diversity of pursuits among the
states, by which they are all benefited by a free commercial
intercourse. Thus, some produce grain and cattle, others, fish, or
sugar, or rice and cotton: some are exclusively agricultural in their
pursuits, and are of course venders of raw produce, whilst others are
manufacturing states, and purchasers of raw produce: some are largely
concerned in navigation, whilst others are inland. Thus all are
gainers by an interchange of their respective commodities and species
of industry; and this mutual commerce, founded in mutual interests,
will less and less require aid from the government.

We may, moreover, reasonably expect, that these sources of mutual
benefit and intercourse will increase, and that new products of
agriculture and manufactures will arise under some propitious accident
or kindness of nature, will extend the mutual dependence of the
states, and proportionally multiply the bonds of union. Each state
will be important to the rest for its useful products, and they in
turn will be valuable to it, both for affording a market, and for the
products they give in exchange. The commerce, too, will be the more
profitable, and likely to be the more extensive, by its being free
from imposts or vexatious restrictions. Under the fostering care of
this freedom, we may expect that wine, and silk, and the olive may be
added to the products of the south--and that whenever labor shall fall
to the point of merely earning a subsistence, tea may be also
cultivated; as no doubt some part of our country is similar in climate
to China, since it is not only in a correspondent latitude, but on the
same side of its continent.

The time will come when most of our manufactures can be procured from
the northern or middle states cheaper than from Europe, and when those
states will also furnish a larger market for the products of the
south. The time has already come when cotton, and rice, and tobacco,
if that pernicious weed shall always constitute one of man's
artificial wants, can be procured more cheaply from the southern
states than elsewhere; and though there is not, within the present
limits of the United States, as much land adapted to the cane as will
supply its future inhabitants with sugar, without that increase of
price which must greatly diminish its rate of consumption, yet the
trade in this useful commodity will not therefore be less important,
either to the states which sell, or those which purchase it.

This commercial intercourse will be greatly extended by the numerous
canals and rail roads, {415} which are destined to intersect our
country in every direction. By the greater cheapness of
transportation, the commerce will be extended, not only because more
distant points will be brought into connection, but also because there
will be a greater number of articles which may be advantageously
transported. All the canals and rail roads from one state to another,
which shall be sufficiently used to compensate for their construction,
will be so many sinews to knit together our wide spread and
diversified republic. New York and Pennsylvania have already thus
bound themselves to the west. Maryland and Virginia, and, without
doubt, Georgia and the Carolinas, will follow the example.

When we shall be thus connected by the golden chain of mutual
interests instead of the iron fetters of power, and by that
homogeneousness of manners which an increased intercourse will
produce, what will be likely to effect a separation? Let us suppose
any state, considering itself aggrieved by some measure of the federal
government, was to withdraw herself from the confederacy, and that the
other states were to acquiesce in her course, either because they felt
no interest in the matter, or because they were willing to surrender
up those interests to a claim of right. It can scarcely be doubted
that such seceding state would find the disadvantages of its new
situation so great, surrounded by rival and hostile and taunting
neighbors--attended with so much contingent danger and certain
expense, that after the first irritation had passed away, it would sue
to be re-admitted.

But when it is recollected that, in no distant day, every state will
either be an outlet for other states to the ocean, or the medium of
communication for those lying on each side of it, it would be
according to all experience to presume that they will not regard a
question thus directly affecting their _interests_, as one also
affecting their _rights_, and will vindicate both, by an appeal to
force, if necessary: and thus the question of _separation_ will always
be a question of _war_. The _constitutional_ question, which may have
been previously agitated, will be drowned in the din and tumult of
arms, and finally decided by the issue of the war. _Victory_ is the
great arbiter of right in national disputes, and that scale of justice
on which she happens to light, is almost sure to preponderate.

I have been supposing the case of a single state, or even a small
section of states to desire a separation. But it may be asked whether
all the states may not voluntarily consent to a dissolution; or at
least so large a portion as to make resistance on the part of the rest
hopeless. I answer that I am not able to conceive any such general and
powerful cause, nor do I know of any example of a similar voluntary
disseverance in history. In every case in which an integral community,
whether consolidated or confederate, has been separated, it has been
by violence, and commonly external violence--either by one nation,
subjugating another, or by some successful leader succeeding by his
arts and talents in arraying one part against the rest: or the parts
of a great empire have been partitioned among the descendants or
legatees of the last occupant--none of which causes of separation can
be expected to operate here. It is indeed a conceivable thing for some
prominent and popular individual to excite a particular state to
discontent, and finally to civil war; and although we have happily had
no example of such flagitiousness, we have seen enough to make us
think it possible: yet whatever may be the supposed success of such
men at home, there will always be many counteractions to their
influence in the adjoining states, and in the same degree that the
agitator is a popular idol in his own state, he will be an object of
suspicion in the adjoining states, who will judge of him by his
actions, unaffected by his arts or the imposing lustre of his personal
qualities.

Our own past history affords some confirmation of these views. It is,
for example, now seen, since the veil which once concealed the acts of
the Hartford Convention, has been partially raised, that the power of
the agents in that combination to separate the union was far less than
had been supposed, and that they could not have led on the states
there represented to make that shew of resistance to the general
government which excited apprehensions for the union, if they had
professed any other than the moderate and legitimate objects of making
their peculiar interests more respected, and of providing additional
guards against the invasion of those interests in the time to come. It
now appears, that however we may disapprove the _means_ used to
effectuate their objects, the _ends_ were blameless; and there is much
reason to believe that the moment the separation of the states had
shewn itself to be the ultimate object of their leaders, that moment
they would have been deserted by the larger part of their followers.

The case of him whose history has been so pregnant of instruction to
lawless ambition, and who eighteen years ago was arraigned in this
very capitol for the highest of all crimes, affords another
instructive example. So long as his object was believed to be the
settlement of the Washita lands, he may have ranked among his
followers the most honest and patriotic of the land. So long as he
merely proposed to emancipate the Mexicans from the Spanish yoke, the
generous and enterprising youth of the west, as unsuspicious of guile
in others as they were incapable of it themselves, might have flocked
to his standard, and even gloried in the act of self-devotion: but no
sooner was it known that the infatuated man was pursuing the phantom
of individual aggrandizement, at the expense of his country's peace
and in violation of her laws, than he was "left alone in his glory."
{416} Most of his followers abandoned him from principle, and the few
who were without principle, deserted him from cowardice. It is
peculiarly gratifying that both of these examples so strikingly
exhibit the attachment of the American people to the union, as it will
probably be only in one or the other of these modes that its integrity
will ever be assailed.

The event by which the union was still more seriously threatened, has
been too recent for me to say much of it on the present occasion. Yet
I may be permitted to remark, without opening wounds hardly yet
cicatrized, that both those who apprehend disunion and those who dread
consolidation may draw salutary lessons from that event; and that each
party may, by a course of imprudence, promote the very evil of which
it is most apprehensive. I will add, that it affords additional
evidence of the strength of the ligaments which bind us together, for
if those who felt themselves aggrieved by the general government, had
been less sensible of the _value_--of the _necessity_ of the
union--then the master pilot,[7] who at the critical moment seized the
helm, and steered the ship of state through the breakers that
threatened her on either side, had interposed his consummate skill in
vain.

[Footnote 7: Henry Clay, who was thus thrice mainly instrumental in
giving peace to his country.]

But when it is considered that the continuance of the union is
indispensable to our peace, prosperity, and civil liberty--that on it
rest our hopes of national greatness, it would hardly seem consistent
with prudence to rely altogether on the natural securities I have
mentioned. We should also sedulously guard against whatever may tend
to weaken our attachment to it; and should therefore confine the
functions of the general government to those objects which are most
indispensable to the prosperity of the whole, and to which the powers
of the separate governments are incompetent. And while it should
exercise no power which was not clearly beneficial, as well as
constitutional, it should forbear to exercise such powers as come
under this description, when they may prove sources of discontent, or
of collision with local feelings and interests. The advantages of such
a course will be to give the federal government greater efficacy in
the execution of its remaining powers, and especially in our foreign
concerns; and it will afford us the best security, not only against
disunion, but the opposite danger of consolidation. The continuance of
our present complex system of government--the only one in which the
highest degree of civil liberty can be reconciled with the greatest
extent of territory--depends on its maintaining a just equipoise
between the general government and the governments of the separate
states; and that equipoise may be disturbed no less by enlarging the
capacity of conferring favors than that of doing mischief--of
appealing to the hopes no less than to the fears of the community.

There is another safeguard against both disunion and consolidation, to
be found in the diffusion of instruction among all classes of people;
to which object all the states have given encouragement. Besides the
general moral effects which such mental culture is found to produce,
wherever it has been tried, it will make the mischiefs of a single
national government or of several disunited governments, which are
already so obvious to those who have reflection and forecast,
intelligible to all. The diffusion of intelligence will operate
advantageously to the same end in another way. It will raise the
self-respect and honest pride of the indigent classes, and these
sentiments afford the best security against an over-crowded population
and its deleterious consequences, for they naturally tend to raise the
ordinary standard of comfort, and the higher _that_ is, the sooner do
the checks to improvident marriages begin to operate.

Supposing our federal union to be thus enduring, the progress of
philosophy may be expected to continue with our advancement in numbers
and wealth, and to exhibit itself in the increased vigor of the
reasoning faculties; the greater purity of religion; the better
government of the passions; an enlarged dominion over physical nature;
a deeper insight into the multifarious laws of mind and matter; and a
general amelioration of our condition, social, intellectual, and
moral. But dangers and evils are apprehended by some, when we shall
have a large class of manufacturers. This must eventually be the
condition of the greater part of the population of every civilized
country, since in no other way can the greater part of a dense
population find employment. A small proportion of the community is
sufficient to cultivate the soil, especially with so fertile a
territory as the greater part of the United States; and the rest must
be employed in manufactures, or starve. Besides, the products of this
species of industry are as essential to our comfort and enjoyment, if
not to our subsistence, as raw produce. We must have clothes,
furniture, utensils, and books, as well as food: and when our numbers
shall be sufficiently great to consume the whole of our raw produce,
as in time it certainly will be, we shall cease to export; and the
great mass of its consumers here, must fulfil the inevitable ultimate
destiny of man--he must labor for his subsistence, either in tilling
the earth, or in giving to its products some new form, which by
ministering to the wants of others, may enable him to satisfy his own.
The people of the United States must therefore become a manufacturing
people, as well as their progenitors, and that too at no very remote
period. At present, most of our citizens are agriculturists, {417}
because they find a ready sale for their redundant products; but while
it may be easy to obtain a market for the surplus produce of fourteen
millions of people, it may not be equally easy to find a vent abroad
for the products of the one hundred millions before spoken of; or even
of the fifty millions which our numbers will certainly reach in less
than another half century. It must be recollected that while we
increase at the rate of three per cent. per annum, our customers do
not increase beyond the rate of one per cent., and some scarcely
increase at all. Those therefore, who will be thus spared from
agriculture, must be employed in manufactures.

The political effects of so large a class of manufacturers in our
country, has suggested two very opposite theories. According to one,
the influence of property will be increased by the change; according
to the other, its rights will be endangered. The advocates of the
first opinion say, that capital has the same relation to manufactures
that land has to agricultural labor; for it is only large capitals
that can be advantageously employed in the principal manufactures; and
that the laborers in both species of industry, will feel their
dependence on their employers. It will therefore happen that the votes
given immediately by the laboring class, will be substantially the
votes of the rich landlord or capitalist.

But on the other hand, it has been apprehended, and not without some
show of reason, that the working class, having the power in their own
hands, by the preponderance of numbers, need only to act in concert,
to control the course of legislation. It is further urged, that if the
means of popular instruction can become general, or though that should
be found impracticable, if the intelligence of the community should
increase with the progress of society, that this class will more
readily feel its power, have stronger inducements to exercise it, and
be better able to devise the means. Admitting concerted action
practicable, as it would be obviously desirable, what, it is asked, is
to hinder these men from ridding themselves of their proportion of the
taxes?--of appropriating to themselves the property of the rich by
various legislative devices, as in limiting the prices of provisions,
in planning expensive schemes in which the utility would be
exclusively to themselves, or not in proportion to the cost,--or even
in some moment of madness and reckless injustice, of passing an
Agrarian law? It is vain to urge that as such a violation of the
rights of property would have the ultimate effect of injuring all
classes, or at least a far greater number than it would benefit, it is
contrary to the general instinct of self interest to suppose the
greater portion of the community would pursue it; for these remote
interests might not be perceived, and though they were, they would not
prevail against the force of present temptation.

But the argument assumes that there will be a majority of the
community who will feel a present interest in such violations of the
rights of property, and this proposition may well be questioned. In
our country, where industry and capital are free to exercise
themselves in any way, there will always be a gradation of classes
from the richest to the poorest, so as to make the line which
separates them an imperceptible one. We have no political
institutions, and few prejudices to make such a separation. Every one
is estimated according to his individual merits, little affected by
those of his ancestors: and although somewhat of the honor or
discredit of parents attaches to the child, yet it is probably little
more than is warranted by the presumption that there is a resemblance
between them. We are not distinguished into castes as in India, where
one portion of society engrosses all the more honorable and agreeable
employments of life, and the other is allotted to its most irksome and
debasing offices; nor into Patrician and Plebeian, as in Rome; nor
into lords and commons, as in England; nor _noblesse_ and _canaille_,
as formerly in France and the rest of Europe; distinctions which at
once provoke combination and make it more practicable.

Nor is the indigent class likely to be as large in this country as in
most others. Our institutions, in many ways, favor both the
acquisition and the diffusion of property. In the first place, by
their being more exempt from restrictions. No trade or occupation is
fettered by monopolies or corporation laws, or laws of apprenticeship,
so that industry and talent being free to act, wherever and however
they please, are likely to find the situations in which they can be
most profitably exerted.

In the next place, all offices and professions which are means of
acquiring property, or are of themselves a valuable property, while
they last, are thrown open to the competition of all; and we see them
as often, or more often, won by those who were born in poverty, and
who have been accustomed to rely on their own resources, than by the
pampered sons of wealth and luxury.

And lastly, the diffusion of property is the greater by the practice
of dividing an estate among all the children of a family; which,
either by the act of law, or the will of the deceased proprietor, has
become almost universal. The law of primogeniture, by artificially
damming up property to prevent its natural diffusion, must increase
the number of the poor in the same degree that it increases the number
of the rich. The estate which remains in the same family in England
for three generations, and continues throughout the property of a
single individual, is here distributed among twenty or thirty, and
often a far greater number. _This single change_ in our municipal law,
would necessarily have the effect of converting the {418} property
holders into a majority of the community.

Whenever, then, the line between the rich and the poor is drawn in
this country, it will always comprehend a far smaller proportion of
the last class than in any other, so long as our civil institutions
retain their present character; and the number of people who have
property to some amount, and who have the hope of acquiring it, will
always be much greater than those who have none. When it is further
recollected that those who have made their own fortunes--a very
numerous class in all free countries--are likely to possess energy and
intelligence; they may also be expected to possess an influence more
than proportionate to their numbers. To these considerations we may
add the connections which arise from favors received or expected, by
the poor from the rich; the influence of habit; the protection of the
laws; the restraints of morality, of indolence, and fear, and they
seem sufficient to assure us that apprehensions of a mischievous
combination of the poor against the rich, are groundless; and that all
which the indigent class can effect for their own advantage by
combination, may not prove a sufficient antagonist to the influence
the rich will be able to exert over them.

I know of no instance of a successful combination of the indigent
classes, except in the case of the Agrarian laws at Rome. But this
subject has been greatly misunderstood, and there never was a more
well founded complaint than that which the poor made against the rich,
on that occasion. Modern historians seem to have followed up the
injustice, by misrepresenting the facts, and assailing the character
of those who had been previously defrauded of their property. The
diligent researches of German scholars[8] have shewn incontestibly
that the Agrarian laws, for which the Gracchi lost their lives,
concerned only the _public_ lands, which had been obtained by
conquest, and not those which formed part of the territory of the
ancient republic. As these public lands were charged with a very
moderate,--merely nominal rent,--it was necessary to impose some limit
upon the portion which a single individual could obtain, which was
accordingly fixed at 500 _jugera_--equal to about 312 of our acres.
But the Patrician class soon found means to evade this law, and having
engrossed these lands, the purposes for which they were set apart--of
affording the means of support to the poor, and of rewarding those by
whose bravery and toils they had been won--was thus completely
defeated: and the redundant population, unprovided with the means of
subsistence, were obliged to become the bondsmen of the rich. Tiberius
Gracchus endeavored to have this flagrant wrong, which was a political
mischief, as well as a moral injustice, corrected: and whatever may
have been his motives, he so evidently had right on his side, that he
finally prevailed. But because he succeeded in defending the
unquestioned rights of the injured party, does it follow that he would
have had equal success in defending injustice? Because he was able to
sustain the violated rights of property, would he have been also able
to destroy them? Certainly not: For he with difficulty succeeded, even
at the cost of his life: and success would have been impossible but
for the dauntless intrepidity and the zealous support which the
goodness of his cause inspired.

[Footnote 8: Heeren and Niebuhr.]

To the progress of our literature and science we may look with
unalloyed hopes. In many branches, both ornamental and useful, we are
still behind the country from which we are descended; and we fall as
far short of her in the quantity of original productions as in the
quality. But this, we confidently trust, is but a temporary
inferiority. Our whole faculties are now engaged in cultivating the
choicest fruits of civilization, and by and by we shall turn our
attention to its flowers. Our late rapid advancement in letters
affords a sure presage of future excellence, and symptoms of this
gratifying change gladden our eyes in every direction. As soon as the
more imperious wants of the country shall be satisfied, and men of
superior powers and attainments shall have filled the learned
professions, and offices requiring science and talent, then we shall
begin to form a class of men of letters, who will devote their leisure
and genius to minister to our intellectual wants: And they will find
here a wide field both for speculation and description, political,
physical and moral. We are justified in pronouncing that our
literature will have freshness, boldness, richness and variety, and I
would fain hope, the crowning grace of simplicity. Poetry, though not
destined again to receive divine honors, or even the same profound
homage as in a later day, will always occupy a high place in the world
of letters: for the pleasure which can be conveyed to the mind by
rhythm, imagery and fervid sentiment combined, are immutable; but the
higher province of intellect will be to instruct and convince; to aid
us in the arduous duties of life--whether as members of a profession,
as citizens of the state, or as moral and responsible beings. Until
that day arrives, let us cherish those institutions which best serve
to preserve and diffuse a knowledge of science and letters, as well as
to increase a taste for them; and never relax in our exertions until
we are at least upon a level with the highest. Next to an elevated
moral character, this is the most proper object of national ambition:
and while I should be content that this country may never give birth
to a Phidias, or Canova, a Raphael or Titian--that it should not
produce as good musicians as Italy or Germany--as beautiful millinery
as Paris--as cheap or good cutlery as {419} Sheffield--I should be
mortified to think that we should never be able to boast of such poets
as Byron or Pope, such historians as Hume or Gibbon, such moralists as
Johnson, such novelists as Walter Scott, or such mathematicians as La
Place.

In looking into our future destiny, I have not allowed myself to
travel into the regions of fancy, but have confined my attention to
those results which seemed fairly deducible from causes now visibly
operating; and which are in conformity with the past experience of
mankind. I have not indulged in those overstrained speculations with
which some have contemplated the future progress of philosophy, but
have endeavored to avoid on the one hand, those views of future evil,
which it is the nature of gloomy tempers to entertain, and on the
other, those visions of future excellence or perfection incompatible
with our past experience; such, for example, as the dreams, first of
Condorcet, and afterwards of Godwin. Of a similar character, I fear,
are the predictions of those who think that war may be banished from
the civilized world. Without doubt it is the tendency of the progress
of reason and philosophy, to lessen the chances of war: in the same
way as refinement of manners checks personal conflicts among
individuals. But it will, probably, no more put an end to them in one
case, than in the other; and the time may never come, when the
interests of nations will not clash, when they will not differ in
opinion about their respective rights; when they will not be willing
to resent supposed injustice, and hazard their lives to gratify their
resentment. Nor can occasions be wanting at any time to call forth
these motives to war. Nations may have rivalship in trade; rivalship
in fisheries; they may differ about boundaries, or the construction of
treaties; or they may be involved in the disputes of others. These
causes must be regarded as inseparable from the condition of man, even
if he should no longer be exposed to the danger of war, from mere
differences of opinion on some speculative points in religion,
politics or morals. It may then prove in all future time, as it has
proved in all time past, that it is man's nature to quarrel and fight,
no less than to love or to hate, and the only difference may be as to
the occasions of war, and the mode of carrying it on: in short, that
this ultimate argument of republics as well as kings, will continue to
be appealed to, as it always has been, when all others have failed.

If this is to be regarded as a part of man's inevitable destiny, let
us not indulge in vain repinings at it--but endeavor to prevent it as
far as we can, by a course of justice, and moderation, and
forbearance: and if, nevertheless, our efforts should be unavailing,
let the philosophic and patriotic mind find consolation in the fact,
that though war is the cause of much human misery, it calls forth many
virtues, and affords occasion for the display of some of the noblest
traits of our character--courage, patriotism, generosity,
disinterestedness and every form of virtuous self-denial. It gives a
stimulus to all the more elevated and severer virtues. It breaks up
the icy frost of selfishness, which in the still times of peace may
congeal about the heart. The love of country never burns with a purer
or stronger flame than in the bosom of the patriotic soldier: nor can
any thing but war enable a citizen to make the same sacrifices, or so
prove his self devotion to his country. It may then be among the
dispensations of the ruler of the universe, that war, as well as
peace, is necessary for the development and the preservation of some
of our highest qualities, and to fulfil our destiny. Nor let us vainly
hope to extinguish national more than individual resentment, but
merely to regulate it--to reserve it for those occasions which a sense
of justice prompts and reason sanctions: and although it is but a
blind arbiter of disputes, it is the only one, in some circumstances,
that can be appealed to.

Having thus, Mr. President, brought to your notice, with less of
condensation than I could have wished, the great and rapid strides
which human reason is now making in the civilized world, as exhibited
in every field of intellectual exercise: having noticed the
unequivocal signs that this progress will yet continue, that we cannot
assign to it any precise limits, and that in all estimates of the
future, we must take it into consideration: having endeavored to infer
its probable effects on our condition, taken in connection with the
other changes to which we are destined, I have discharged my main
purpose. Yet I do not feel that I have entirely fulfilled my duty as a
member of the Society, unless I say something of its particular
objects.

One of these objects was to collect and preserve the perishable
memorials of the past history of Virginia, from the time it was a
colony to the present day. While this is a subject which must always
be one of lively interest to her citizens, it is also one in which
diligence will be amply rewarded. Our early colonial history more
abounds in events of a striking and diversified character, than that
of any of the other colonies; and this state, moreover, has a sort of
parental relation to nearly all the states to the south and west. Full
justice has never yet been done to this subject. There are indeed
points in the history of the settlement of the colony, which require
elucidation, and for which the materials are to be found, if at all,
only in the archives of England. But on our later history much light
has been thrown by a diligent examination of the laws of the colony;
and somewhat may be further gleaned from a search into those records
of the county courts, which have yet escaped the ravages of war and
time. The records of these courts, whose duties were always of a very
miscellaneous character, may communicate much information {420}
concerning the state of society, the habits, manners and ways of
thinking of the people. The authentic details of the public offences
and their punishment, is no insignificant portion of a nation's
history. Much has been done in this way by Hening's Collection of the
Statutes at Large; and though a large portion of the treasure has
already been drawn from this mine, it has not been exhausted. After
paying a just tribute to the industry and general accuracy of that
work, it also suggests a caution to future inquirers against a spirit
of skepticism towards preceding narratives, merely because some
inaccuracies have been discovered. Of this I may be allowed to mention
one or two examples, as in the endeavor to shew (in which Burke
concurs,) that the account of all preceding historians of the loyalty
of Virginia towards the House of Stuart, immediately before and after
the Commonwealth, was erroneous--and that because Robertson in his
posthumous historical sketch was plainly mistaken in saying that no
man suffered capitally "for his participation in Bacon's rebellion,"
he is not entitled to credit: or, when Bacon, according to all
previous accounts, had, during a wet spell, at the most sickly season
of the year, in the county of Gloucester, been seized with a dysentery
which proved mortal, to suggest that a death so little violating
probability, should be deemed mysterious, and warranted the _suspicion
of poison by his enemies_.

The history of the settlements of the west exists only in tradition or
family letters, and its materials ought to be collected and preserved,
while it is not too late. The contest between the pioneer of
civilization and the native savage, is full of daring adventure and
romantic interest. If the command of gunpowder, and the use of iron
ultimately gave victory to the former, it was one always dearly
bought. The Indians defended their native rights with desperate valor
and consummate address, and it was only inch by inch that they yielded
their native soil to the invaders.

The origin of some anomalous enactments in the statute book, also
invite inquiry. Thus in the year 1647, lawyers were forbidden to take
any fees whatever, and in 1658 they were excluded from the
legislature. For this uncourteous act, it must be confessed that their
descendants have made the _amende honorable_. The medical profession
seemed also an object of jealousy with the planter; as by another
law,[9] physicians were required to swear to the value of their drugs.

[Footnote 9: Passed in 1646.]

There is too, a good deal of uncertainty and inconsistency in the
statistical accounts of the state. On the duty of the present
generation to collect and preserve every thing relative to the
revolution, I need not lay any stress. There are still numerous papers
in many families, of no sort of value to them, that may yet shed light
on that interesting era.

In all that concerns the other object of this Society, the physical
history of the state, every thing is yet to be done. The records here
are before us, and are indestructible in any reasonable term of time;
but we must first labor to remove the rubbish which conceals them, and
then study to decipher them. This is a tempting field of research, as
it may not only add to our stock of information, but also to our store
of worldly wealth. The great Appalachian chain of mountains, which
traverses the United States from Maine to Alabama, is broader no where
than in Virginia, or consists of a greater number of distinct ridges,
and no where has it given as clear indications of abounding in mineral
wealth. We have found in it already gold, copper, lead, iron,
manganese, gypsum, salt, coal, nitre, alum, marble in great variety,
besides other minerals that are useful in the arts; and a more
diligent and scientific search than has yet been made, may by
increasing their number increase the profit of those canals and roads
that are now projected, and give rise to others not yet contemplated.
Our demand for fossil coal is of growing importance; for our
increasing population at once increases the demand for fuel, and
diminishes the supply of wood. I was happy to see last evening, the
specimen of anthracite coal from the county of Augusta; and the value
of that mineral deserved the high eulogy it received. We may form some
idea of the importance of fossil coal, from the fact that steam
engines in England are now computed to perform annually, the work of
four hundred millions of men! a number nearly double to that now
living on the whole globe.

Nor is the geology of the state to be disregarded. Ever since a
careful examination of the materials of the earth's surface has been
found to afford indications of its past changes, this science has been
diligently and successfully cultivated in Europe, and has not been
neglected in some parts of the United States. It is high time that
Virginia should contribute her quota to its researches. We should be
the more stimulated to cultivate this branch of science in the United
States, in consequence of the remarkable regularity of the different
formations on this continent. Thus along the coast below the falls, we
have south of Long Island the tertiary formation; between the falls
and the Blue Ridge, the primitive; and the great Mississippi Valley,
from the Alleghany to the Rocky Mountains, if principally secondary.
There are however, occasional exceptions to these general rules, and
they should be noticed with care. As our useful minerals lie near the
surface, our observations will, for a long time to come, be
principally confined to that; but as there are instances of shafts
being sunk in search of salt water or gold, the strata should be
carefully noted; and where any pit of unusual depth is sunk, {421} it
would be well to make experiments on the heat of the earth, before the
admission of the ordinary air has altered its temperature. It has long
been asserted that there was an internal heat in the interior of the
earth, and further observation seems to confirm it. This fact has
lately had a seemingly conclusive verification in England. A shaft had
been sunk there in pursuit of coal, to the extraordinary depth of
nearly fifteen hundred feet; and by a number of careful experiments,
the heat at the bottom was found to be 28° hotter than the average
heat of the earth in this latitude, which would seem to show an
increase at the rate of a degree of Fahrenheit for every sixty
feet.[10] Should this correctly indicate the measure of the earth's
internal heat, then at the depth of something less than two miles, we
should come to the temperature of boiling water. When we recollect
that this heat is not farther removed from us than a two thousandth
part of the distance to the centre, (bearing about the same proportion
to the earth as the parchment stretched over it, does to an ordinary
globe,) it seems to afford a ready solution for volcanoes,
earthquakes, and many geological phenomena; and may even excite our
wonder, that some of these results of so mighty an agent are not more
frequent and terrible than they are. And when we recollect that the
confines between organized matter, and that form of it which is
inconsistent with animal or vegetable life, approach so near each
other, it is calculated to humble the pride of man, that he has been
upon this globe all but six thousand years without a suspicion of the
fact.

[Footnote 10: See London and Edinburgh Philosophical Magazine for
December 1834. This experiment coincides with the theory regarding the
internal heat of the earth, promulgated by a member of the French
Institute (Mons. Cordier,) in a memoir presented to that association
about six years since, in which he gives a detail of numerous
observations and experiments on which he founded his theory, now fully
confirmed by the more decisive experiment in England.]

There are also problems concerning our climate which well deserve
solution. The acknowledged difference between the eastern and western
coasts of climates, has been attributed, with a great show of reason,
to the prevalence of the westerly winds; and of the fact of their
greater prevalence there, is the most satisfactory general
evidence--but it is discreditable that the amount of the difference
should not be as well ascertained as the fact itself. The average
difference can be ascertained only by repeated and accurate
observations.

It has also been asserted that the temperature of the Mississippi
Valley is higher than that of the Atlantic coast. Mr. Jefferson long
ago advanced this opinion, and it was adopted by Volney; but there is
strong reason to believe that the direct contrary is the fact. It is,
however, high time that this question should be settled by a series of
thermometrical observations, and a comparison of facts derived from
the vegetable world.

We have, Mr. President, been three years in existence, and as yet have
done little. Let us bestir ourselves in the cause of science and of
our country; and endeavor, under some disadvantages, to give Virginia
the same rank in science and literature that she has always maintained
in her devotion to civil liberty and political integrity. Though borne
along with the rest of the world, by the great current of philosophy
of which I have been speaking, we should not fold our arms in listless
apathy, but diligently ply our oars, lest we should be left further
behind by those in advance of us, and be overtaken by those now in our
rear.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM NEW ENGLAND--NO. 5.

BY A VIRGINIAN.


Scholars in Virginia are not generally aware, that the classical Greek
pronunciation is thought to exist still in Greece; and that
(connecting this fact with the close resemblance of the ancient, to
some of the modern dialects _as written_) that rich and elegant
language is no longer to be regarded as _dead_. Thus confidently think
two intelligent and accomplished natives of Greece, now in
Connecticut, who are reputed (no doubt deservedly) to be thorough
masters of both the ancient and the modern tongue. In a gratifying
interview with one of them (Mr. _Perdicaris_ at New Haven), being
curious to hear Homer in his native melody, I prevailed on Mr. P. to
read me a few lines of the Illiad. They were by no means musical to my
ear--vitiated, doubtless, by the faulty pronunciation to which I had
been accustomed, and destitute of those associated ideas, which
conduce so largely to the beauty of poetry. He sounds _oi_ dipthong,
like _e_; _d_ like TH soft; _g_ like a mere aspiration, as our _h_.
The word _poluphloisboio_ ([Greek: poluphloisboio]) so expressively
sonorous to our ears when pronounced with the full, swelling _roll_ of
the dipthong, he would attenuate into _poluphleesbeeo_--to me much
more like the whistling of the wind through a key-hole, than the
hoarse, multitudinous roar of an agitated ocean. I spare you, here, a
speculation that is passing in my mind, as to how far this diversity
between different ears, proves the notion of the _sound's echoing to
the sense_ to be merely fanciful; and as to the influence of previous
association upon our relish of poetical, and of other beauty--how
much, for example, of the native Greek's rapture at Homer, is owing to
love of country, and how much of an American's ecstacies to classical
enthusiasm, the pride of learning, or the influence of names. Yes, I
spare you--partly, because I have not _much_ that is new to say upon
the subject; and partly because, if I had, it would be wholly out of
season.

By special invitation, I attended a lecture (one of a series)
delivered by Mr. Perdicaris, upon the literary and political history
of modern Greece. It was marked by a rich yet chaste imagination, a
generous glow of patriotic enthusiasm, and the eloquence which they
naturally inspire. You may feel a curiosity, as I did, {422} to know
somewhat of the _outer man_ of a modern Greek. Mr. P. is about the
middle height, or five feet nine; shoulders broad, and a stout frame;
black hair, disposed to curl; large black whiskers, flanking a broad
oval face, the complexion whereof is a darkish olive--as dark, at
least, as Mr. Webster's. Having been eleven years in this country, he
speaks our language fluently and intelligibly: indeed, as is usual
with those who learn a foreign tongue from books, and from enlightened
native speakers, his _English_ is remarkably pure. A few rhetorical
and grammatical faults there were--for instance, "_he left Athens_"
was curtailed (_a la Yankee_) to "_he left_." This is a New
England-ism not confined to the vulgar: neither is the phrase "he
_conducted well_," for "he conducts _himself_ well;" nor "considerable
_of_ a place," for "a considerable place." We hear Yankees of
respectable literary pretensions, too, saying _shall_, where the
English idiom certainly requires _will_; as, "shall you visit Boston
during your tour?"[1]--and clipping the infinitive mood, in a way
equally contrary to the good customs of the realm--thus--"I have not
written yet, but to-day _I intend to_." But I am chasing game that is
hardly worth the powder.

[Footnote 1: If I mistake not, I have heard Mr. Webster himself use
_shall_ in this manner. It is an innovation, sustained by no eminent
authority or precedent in England; and is confined, in America, to the
north side of the Potomac, if not to the east of the Hudson. With that
still grosser affectation, "the house is _being built_," "a war is
_being waged_," it should be promptly arrested, before it shall have
become inseparably mingled in the "well of English undefiled." By the
way, this latter _refinement_ prevails more in the south than in the
north.]

I owe to Mr. P. another intellectual treat: the inspection of an
Illiad, edited by Mr. Felton, Professor of Greek at Harvard. Of all
the editions that I have examined, this is by far the best adapted to
schools; and the most likely to gratify the taste, or to aid the
study, of a retired scholar. The _character_ is a _fac simile_ of
Porson's M.S. Greek--surpassingly neat, simple, and distinct. The text
seems to be given with exemplary fidelity. And it is interspersed with
_Flaxman's Illustrations_; engraved cuts, of all the principal scenes:
which, though mere hints of incidents, and too meager outlines of
persons, greatly heighten the interest of the work. But its crowning
merits, are the Editor's English Preface and Notes. I read the former,
and most of the latter--much more, I dare say, than is usually deemed
needful for a reviewer. They do Mr. F.'s learning, judgment, taste,
feeling, and eloquence, very high honor. He does not make much ado
about the trivialities of _dialect_, _quantity_, and _various
readings_, like the cumbersome annotators upon the classicks,
criticised in the Spectator; nor does he, like "piddling Tibbald,"
'celebrate himself for achieving the restoration of a comma,'[2] or
the correction of an accent. But beauties are pointed out and
commented on, with a critical taste and elegance, calculated to make
the learner's task a luxury; while difficulties are cleared up with a
fulness that leaves little need for oral instruction. The edition is
in one volume; and I hope soon to see it supersede the clumsy affair
of the too learned Samuel Clarke, which now has such fast foot-hold in
our schools.

[Footnote 2: Johnson's Preface to Shakspeare.]

You perhaps think it odd, that I have said nothing of the _judicial
systems_ of New England; and ascribe it either to my acting on Young
Rapid's maxim--"sink the shop, Dad!"--or to my being cloyed with
courts at home, and so, loathing them amid the countless attractions
of my journey. Neither, neither--be assured. 'Though last, not
least'--they have formed a leading subject of my inquiries: and to
judge speculatively, as well as from what is told me of their
practical operation (which I have had no opportunity to witness) they
have some points worth _considering_, if not _imitating_.

The judiciary power of Rhode Island is vested in a supreme court,
consisting of a chief and two associate justices; and a court of
common pleas (composed of five judges) for each of the five counties.
_All the judges are appointed annually by the legislature_. This
feature alone suffices to stamp the whole system with insignificance:
for what skill in jurisprudence--what independence of popular
excitements and party influences--could be expected from judges whom
the breath of a party leader can make and unmake, at each year's end?
When to this we add, that the chief justice of the supreme court
receives a salary of $650, and each associate $550, we need not wonder
that no decision of the Rhode Island bench is ever quoted in other
states. The governor's salary is $400; the lieutenant governor's,
$200. But if, in scantiness of territory and a corresponding
scantiness of means, this state is ordained by nature to be the San
Marino of America, yet it is purely her own fault if, by the
precarious tenure of her judicial offices, she reduces one of the most
important departments of _mind_ to the same diminutive scale, and goes
far to make herself morally and intellectually also, the insignificant
miniature of a commonwealth.

In Connecticut, justice is administered in causes of small amount by
county courts, whose judges are chosen annually: and in larger causes,
by superior courts. The latter are held semi-annually in each county
by one of five judges, who also form the supreme court. They hold
office during good behavior, or until seventy years of age: and have
both law and chancery jurisdiction. The supreme court sits once a year
_in each county_. I do not know what actual loss of valuable services
Connecticut has suffered, by her rule which drives judges from the
bench just at the juncture when their faculties are in many instances
the most happily ripe for its functions: but, that she has lost and
will lose, no one can doubt who remembers, that thirteen of the best
years of Mansfield's judicial life, and fourteen or fifteen of Wythe's
and Pendleton's, were after the age of seventy; and that such a rule
would have deprived the United States' judiciary, ten years ago, of
its present gigantic Coryphæus--confessedly one of the purest and most
powerful minds that ever filled any judgment seat. But what heightened
or adequate terms of censure can be found for the New York rule, which
displaces every judge at sixty? A rule which prematurely discarded
Spencer and Lansing; and which, for more than ten years, has made Kent
employ the full vigor and maturity of his intellect in writing
abstract treatises, and selling _chamber_ opinions, instead of going
on as he had begun, to build up for his state a system of
jurisprudence hardly inferior to that which Mansfield reared for
England?

In Massachusetts, are some very striking peculiarities. The _supreme
court_, consisting of four judges, sits {423} once a year _in each
county_, to decide questions of law, in the last resort. Some one of
these judges, besides, holds annually a _Nisi Prius_ term in each
county, to try appeals from an inferior grade called "courts of common
pleas," original suits in chancery, and upon the bonds of executors
and administrators. The appeals to them from the common pleas, are _as
to both law and fact_: a jury being empanneled, witnesses examined,
&c., as if it were an original proceeding. The latter courts are held
twice a year in each county, by some one of four judges; who hold
office (like those of the supreme court) during good behavior. They
have cognizance of all causes, except what I shall designate as vested
elsewhere.

Presentments and indictments for all offences, are found only in the
_common pleas_; where, also, they are tried--_except in capital
cases_. These, after the indictment is found, are certified and
removed from the common pleas to the _supreme court_; at whose bar the
culprit is tried by a jury: a special term being held on purpose, in
any county where the judges are notified that a prisoner awaits trial
for life or death. _En passant_--though _eight crimes_ are, by the
laws of Massachusetts, punishable with death, _only twenty-six
persons_ in the whole state have been capitally convicted, _in thirty
years!_ The number of trials (I do not exactly remember it) bears an
immense disproportion to the number of convictions: so immense, as to
prove that either an undue severity in the laws, or the unreasonable
and too common lenity of juries, aided by the overwhelming superiority
of defending advocates--or (what is most probable) all three causes
together--have well nigh made those laws a dead letter. Prosecutions
are conducted by _district attorneys_, of whom there are four in the
state; each prosecuting within his allotted district. In the supreme
court, however, the attorney general is counsel for the commonwealth.

_Chancery_, or _equitable relief_, is rarely sought in the
Massachusetts courts. Indeed it was unknown, until, within a
comparatively recent period, two or three statutes empowered the
supreme court to administer it, in a very few specified
cases--_mortgages_, _trusts_, _accounts between partners and
co-executors_, _waste_, _nuisance_, and two or three others: omitting
the fruitful subjects of _fraud_, _accident_, _dower_, _et
cetera_--and especially the sweeping power to relieve _wherever there
is no remedy at law_--subjects which, by the multiplication of cases,
have made _our_ chancery, like that of England, the dormitory if not
the grave of justice. And even as to the few specified subjects of
jurisdiction, those statutes rigidly restrict the relief to cases in
which there is _not a plain and complete remedy at law_. Before these
enactments (and _since_, too, in cases without their scope,) the rigor
of the law was mitigated only by the sense of justice in juries; and
by sundry expedients--curious enough, to Virginian eyes--which seem to
have left few _wrongs_ unremedied. For instance--if I am unjustly cast
in a trial at law, by accident or surprise, or for want of testimony
which I did not know of till the term was over; not a bill of
injunction, but a petition to the judge in vacation, within a limited
time, will procure me a new trial. If my debtor fraudulently dispose
of his property; instead of a bill in chancery to ferret out the
fraud, I may have, along with my execution (if I have obtained
judgment) a _summons_ to the colluding purchaser as _garnishee_, to
disclose orally on oath, in open court, what effects he has, of the
debtor.

Roads are laid off by a board of commissioners, established for that
purpose in each county; and invested with judicial powers, in
controversies on the subject.

The probat of wills, the granting of administrations, the appointment
of guardians, and the supervision of the accounts and conduct of
guardians, executors, and administrators, are confided to an officer,
called the _Judge of Probat_, appointed in each county for those
purposes only; and holding his court monthly, in several convenient
places of the county, to hear motions and decide disputes on those
subjects. His records and proceedings are kept by a distinct clerk,
called the _Register of Probat_; and an appeal lies from his decisions
immediately to the supreme court. We, in Virginia, sorely need some
tribunal like this; specially charged with the interests of widows and
orphans.

Equally worthy to be copied, is the Massachusetts mode of constituting
_juries_. Lists of all persons qualified to serve, are kept by the
town-clerks; from which, just before a court, the town quota of jurors
is drawn by lot: and no one is compellable to serve oftener than once
in three years. _They are paid for their service._ Against juries thus
formed, I heard no complaints, of partiality, corruption, or undue
ignorance. They receive a compensation, which at least defrays their
reasonable expenses; and if there be still some burthen, it is borne
equally by all, and recurs at such long intervals, as to be absolutely
unfelt. How different is our plan, of sending out the sheriff just
before a trial, to gather in the sweepings of the court-yard! Suitors
and witnesses, attending perhaps for the tenth time, in hopes of
having their causes determined--strangers from other counties, nay,
travellers from other states--tipplers from the tavern porch--the
nearest merchants, mechanics, and farmers, torn suddenly and
capriciously from their employments--such is the medley, produced by a
system as oppressive to most of the jurors themselves, as it is
subversive of the important ends for which they are empanneled. One is
really tempted to believe, that in adhering so pertinaciously to a
system so obviously defective and so easily remedied, our statesmen
have been governed by a fixed design to bring jury-trial itself into
disrepute.

Wiser in another respect also than we, these "Bay folk" have no courts
(except for cases of twenty dollars or less) held by _men who have not
themselves studied the science they are to expound_: no parallel to
our county courts--those _crack_ tribunals of some great men, whose
admiration arises either from the want of intimate knowledge--they
having ranged generally in a higher sphere--or from their enjoying
over that bench an _influence_, flattering to their vanity, and
blinding to their judgments. How long will the public attention
sleep--how long will the hand of reform be palsied--when will an
attempt be made to cure the unfitness of these courts for the weighty,
multifarious, and difficult functions entrusted to them?--the
ludicrous, if it were a less mischievous, uncertainty of their
decisions, owing to their ignorance of any fixed rules by which to
decide?--the delays, so fatal to justice, that attend their unsteady
ministration?--the ruinous accumulation of costs, besides harassment
and loss of time in dancing attendance upon them through years of
litigation?

{424} The Massachusetts and Connecticut plan, of an _itinerant supreme
court_, cannot be commended to imitation. The common arguments, of
_bringing justice home to the people_, and _enabling suitors to see in
person to their causes_, are not pertinent, where the whole case is
contained in the record; where no witnesses are to be summoned or
examined--no counsel to be instructed in the cause. Then, the loss of
time in travelling, and the want of so extensive a library and so able
a bar, as would be formed if the court sat always in one place, must
essentially impair the correctness of its decisions, and lower the
superiority of its intellect.

The common-law of England is made the basis of Massachusetts law, not,
as in Virginia, by a legislative declaration that it shall be so, but
by adjudications of the courts, recognizing and adopting it as such.
By a still bolder stretch, the courts have acknowledged as generally
binding, English statutes made in amendment of the common-law--not
only before, but _since_ the foundation of the colony: nay, the terms
of the decision do not exclude English statutes subsequent to the
American revolution. This comprehensive grafting of a foreign code
upon the domestic, not by professed and authorised law-givers, but by
mere judges, is perhaps one of the most remarkable instances of
judicial legislation, any where to be found: and must have arisen from
a licentious spirit of _construction_, which, when it acts upon
written laws, may naturally be expected to make them mean almost any
thing that the interpreters choose.[3] The admirers of an _unwritten
law, reposited in the breasts of judges and to be sought only in
precedents and decisions_, may vaunt, if they will, its happy
_elasticity_, dilating and contracting to fit every conceivable
emergency: but I doubt if (among other evils) it does not nurture
habits of latitudinous interpretation, destined to be well nigh fatal
to one of the great boasts of modern times--written forms of
government. Minds accustomed always to make the law adapt itself to
the particular occasion; to regard that _as law_, which the immediate
case requires; naturally fritter away constitutions with as little
ceremony, as children demolish or alter their sand houses and dirt
pies.

[Footnote 3: Hardly less startling an exercise of legislative power by
the judiciary, was in the abolition of slavery. The Bill of Rights
prefixed to the constitution of Massachusetts, adopted in 1780,
asserts, as most of our state constitutions do--substantially copying
the Declaration of Independence--"_that all men are born free and
equal_, and have certain natural and unalienable rights;" namely, the
right of enjoying their lives and liberties, &c. On this, some masters
spontaneously yielded freedom to their slaves; others, on its being
demanded of them. In 1781, a master who refused, was sued by his slave
for a trespass, assault and battery, and false imprisonment; and
pleaded, that the plaintiff, being his slave, had no right to sue him.
The court held, that slavery was contrary to the first article of the
Bill of Rights; and that therefore the plea was bad, and the plaintiff
was free. This decision virtually abolished slavery in Massachusetts,
without any legislative act for doing so. Some other suits were
brought; but in most cases, masters yielded at once. There were then
not quite five thousand slaves in the state. Abolition was similarly
effected in New Hampshire. It was by legislation in New York, where
there were twenty-one thousand slaves, in a whole population of three
hundred and forty thousand.]

The chief court of Massachusetts has tasked the readers of law-books,
as heavily as our's has done. Its decisions fill twenty-seven or
twenty-eight octavo volumes--about our number. The supreme court of
New York has issued more than thirty; the supreme court at Washington
eighteen or twenty; Pennsylvania, Connecticut, South Carolina--but I
forbear the appalling list. Every good law library, however, should
have at least the five sets first named; and they are as yet but just
begun. If the monstrous increase be not checked, what purse can buy,
what head can read (much less remember,) nay what room can hold them,
a century hence? Already, indeed, we are grievously over-tasked: for
besides the thousands of tomes, English and American, now
accumulated,[4] it is impossible to keep pace with the daily
accessions, poured forth from a hundred manufactories of legal
oracles. Some powerful condenser, or another Caliph Omar, is our only
hope. The oppressive bulkiness of law-reports is owing partly to the
reporters; but more, to the judges--who, apparently more intent on the
display of learning and ingenuity, than upon adjusting the rights of
the parties, often swell the simple and clear page or two, which the
case requires, into a rambling and voluminous disquisition of twenty
pages. Nay, not content with _one_ such disquisition in each case,
each judge presents his own; and the reporter spreads them all at
length in his next volume. I wish that both judges and reporters could
be obliged to study, as models of lucid brevity, Yelverton's Reports,
and the still more admirable decisions of Chief Justice Tindal, of the
English Common-Pleas[5]--who frequently compresses into half a page or
less, what our American judges would wire-draw into half a dozen
pages.

[Footnote 4: "Immenso aliarum super alias acervatarum legum cumulo."]

[Footnote 5: In the late "English Common-Law Reports."]

Lawyers are very numerous in Massachusetts--somewhere about seven
hundred; of whom one hundred and sixty or one hundred and eighty are
in Boston. Their intercourse appears to be marked by the same
fraternal spirit, which strews the toilsome path of the profession in
the south with so many sweets and flowers. Admission to the bar is
procured, not by examination, but by leave of court, on recommendation
of those who are already practising there; provided the candidate have
studied five years in some lawyer's office; or have so studied three
years, and be a graduate of some college. He has, besides, to pay for
admission into the supreme court, a fee of thirty dollars, and for the
common-pleas, twenty dollars; to be expended towards a joint library,
for the use of the bar in each county. These libraries are sometimes
large, and well selected. The emoluments of practice, except to the
very leaders of the profession, seem far inferior to those of
practisers occupying correspondent grades of talent and fame in
Virginia: indeed, I doubt whether any but Mr. Webster receives an
amount comparable to the incomes of several there, whom I could name.
Yet the life of a lawyer is probably more pleasant in Massachusetts.
From the pre-requisites to admission, you may infer that well-stored
minds abound more with the fraternity: at least it was so, till our
university, and our several excellent law-schools, began to give a
clearer and more expanded ken to the mental optics of our young
lawyers. Then, in society at large--certainly in the towns and
villages--there is more literature afloat in Massachusetts: amusements
are of a more rational cast. Where _we_ have a horse-race, a barbecue,
a whist-party, or a _pool_ at back-gammon, our Yankee brethren have a
meeting of some lyceum, or other society for mutual {425} improvement,
at which a lecture is given or a debate held, upon some interesting
subject, of economy or morals: or an unceremonious evening visit is
dedicated to conversation, in which politics engross no unreasonable
share. The newspapers--even the most violent political ones--at once
attest and foster the prevalent taste for general knowledge, by
devoting a considerable part of their sheets to literary and useful
matter: unlike the two giants of the press in Virginia, that can
hardly ever spare a column, and never a page, from the
embittering--aye, the brutalizing--themes of party strife, to topics
which might exalt, enlighten, purify, innocently amuse, and humanize
the public mind. There is less locomotion in the practice of a
Massachusetts lawyer: he rarely attends more than two counties; for
the most part, only one. This, if he loves domestic life, is a great
point for him. And in the ordering of a New England home-stead, there
is a quiet, smooth despatch--a neatness--a happy fitting of means to
ends--a nicety of contrivances for comfort--an economy of trouble in
every thing--all calculated doubly to endear it to a home-loving man.
When to all this we add, that though the prime necessaries of life are
cheaper with us, those elegancies and luxuries which as the world goes
have become necessaries, are so much more accessible in New England,
as to make a smaller income yield a larger store of comfort; it will
not seem wonderful, that the balance of enjoyment is on the
Massachusetts lawyer's side. I take for granted, you see, that he is
not insensible to intellectual pleasures; and that _they_ conduce the
most of all to happiness.

This is probably the last time you will hear from me before we meet;
as my tour is drawing near its close. The six weeks it has occupied,
have been crowded with more mind-stirring incident, than any six
months of my previous life. Vivid indeed is the contrast, between the
plodding, eventless tenor of the preceding eight years, and the
exciting, the feverish interest of these six weeks. Yet they have
afforded scarcely a describable adventure; nothing, at all calculated
to make an auditor's eyes stretch wide, or his hair stand on end. In
truth, the interest is explicable in great part by the simple case of
a plough-horse, turned loose to kick up his heels for an hour. He
enjoys the recreation (if his spirit is not broken by excessive work,)
five fold more than a daily roamer of the pasture could do. Judge how
the sport has kept my faculties aroused, by the fact, that though
habitually a great sleeper, requiring seven or eight hours in the
twenty-four, my sleep, since leaving Virginia, would hardly average
five hours. Even while on foot--walking from twenty to thirty miles a
day--my nightly allowance was sometimes less than five, never more
than six hours.

Let me commend to tourists, _foot-travelling_--if they wish to see a
country thoroughly: I do not mean its rivers and mountains, cities,
forests, and churches, but its MEN and WOMEN. _These_ "constitute a
State." Whoever would see _them_ in their truest, every-day garb--of
dress and manners--upon occasions and amid scenes, where refined
disguises are laid aside, and life appears with the least
sophistication possible in our state of society; should walk among
them without equipage and in very plain clothes; call in at their
houses--partake of their meals--nay, find some excuse for tarrying a
day or two at one place--enter their schools, and their public
meetings--see them at their work--and hold "various talk" with them.
In two or three weeks thus employed, he will obtain a deeper insight
into their customs, character and institutions, than from months spent
in whirling along the highways, and attending formal dinner parties.
Unless he is a hardened pedestrian, he should take care to begin by
short journies, of only eight, ten, or fifteen miles a day; and not
till after five or six days, stretch away at thirty miles daily.
Otherwise he may cripple himself, so as greatly to mar the pleasure of
his jaunt. I speak from sore experience on this point.

Though I have been obliged to concede to the Yankees, a superiority in
some respects over ourselves, you will not suspect me of having
over-colored my limnings, or of having wantonly--much less
ill-naturedly--disparaged our good old commonwealth. Without wishing
to lower the generally just and salutary, (though sometimes amusing)
pride her children feel at the bare mention of her honored name, I
have aimed to draw their attention to some traits of Yankee life and
character, which we may advantageously copy--nay, the _want of which_
is the main cause of our lagging march in the numberless improvements,
that distinguish this age, and appear so fruitful of blessings to
mankind. My aim too has been, to disabuse them of a few of the
prejudices, which ignorance and misrepresentation have fostered
against our Northern brethren. Let any one who thinks I have
exaggerated their excellencies, only come among them, and see for
himself; bringing to the scrutiny _a candid mind_, prepared to _allow_
for unavoidable differences.--Indeed our people ought to travel
northward oftener. It would be a good thing, if exploring parties were
frequently sent hither, (as to a moral _terra incognita_,) to observe
and report the particulars deserving of our imitation. Our independent
planters, and shrewd, notable housewives, could not make such an
excursion, without carrying home a hundred _notions_, for which they
and their neighbors would be the richer and better all their days. Nor
might they profit less, by sending their statesmen and law-givers, to
take lessons in civil polity. There are admirable things of every
magnitude; from TOWNSHIP GOVERNMENTS, COMMON SCHOOLS, and COURTS OF
PROBAT, down to _closed doors_, _splayed_ and _rumfordized_
fire-places,[6] _seasoned wood_,[7] {426} and _cold light-bread_.[8]
Some things, too, they would see, to be shunned: I need only name
excessive _banking_,--enormously multiplied _corporations_, for
manufacturing, and other purposes--and, what strikes yet more fatally
at the foundation of popular government, the _caucus_ system. But the
strongest reason for a more frequent intercourse, is the liberalizing
of mind that would result; the unlearning of our long cherished
prejudices, from seeing the Yankees _at home_--that place, where human
character may always be the most accurately judged. They too, have
some (though fewer and less bitter,) reciprocal prejudices, to be
cured by a more intimate acquaintance. No mind but must see the
unspeakable importance of weeding away these mutual and groundless
dislikes. The perpetuity of our union--and the liberty, the peace, the
happiness of its members--in a great degree depend upon the
accomplishment of that expurgation. There cannot be a simpler
_recipe_. _The North and the South need only know each other better,
to love each other more._

[Footnote 6: When the sides of a fire-place are slanting, instead of
being square with the back, they are said to be _splayed_. When the
back leans forward at top, approaching the inner side of the arch or
front top, so as to make the flue only six or eight inches wide, it is
said to be _Rumford-ized_, If my readers pardon me for being thus
elementary, I will presume further upon it, and add, that the latter
term comes from Count _Rumford_, who invented that improvement. The
sides of a New England fire-place often slope at an angle of 120 or
130 degrees with the back; so as to make the width _behind_, not more
than half the width in front. The wood is usually sawed, to fit the
hinder part of the fire-place.]

[Footnote 7: The wood is cut 12, sometimes 15 or 18 months, before it
is burned. If cut in the summer, it is suffered to lie out for a few
months, and then put away till the second winter, in the _wood-house_;
a constant and close appendage to every dwelling. Southrons have no
idea, though Yankees have experimental knowledge, of the saving and
comfort there is in using this, instead of green wood--how vastly
further any given quantity of the former will go, in producing heat.
It has been satisfactorily shewn, that in a cord of green wood, there
are about 140 or 150 gallons of _water_; all of which must be changed
to steam--that is, _evaporated_--before the particles of the wood in
which it is lodged can burn: and in doing this, just so much _heat_ is
expended, which would otherwise be employed in warming the room. The
time spent in this process, makes our people fancy that green wood
actually _burns_ longer than dry: and because a dozen billets of
green, when the water is entirely evaporated, give out more heat than
four dry ones, they think that hotter fires can be made of green
wood!]

[Footnote 8: The bread should not be eaten till it is _cured_, or
stale; i.e., at least twenty-four hours old; and it is _good_, for
several days more. The superior wholesomeness of _cured_ bread is
explained by the fact, that on coming out of the oven, it has an
over-proportion of carbonic acid gas--well known to be poisonous when
unmixed; but by lying in the open air, the bread parts with most of
this noxious gas, and imbibes instead of it, oxygen gas--the
wholesome, vital _principle_ in the atmosphere.]




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE WALTZ AND THE GALLOPADE.


MR. WHITE,--Although a short time only has passed since I wrote you a
long letter, partly to fulfil a promise made before your Messenger
began to perform his most welcome peregrinations, yet the spirit
moveth me irresistibly to address you again. The immediate cause of
this second tax upon your patience being so soon levied, is the
perusal of an article published some time ago in that spirited paper,
the "Constitutional Whig" of your city,--wherein, to my great
gratification, its talented editor has lashed in well merited style,
that outrage upon the yet unsophisticated manners and customs of our
country, seen, I believe, for the first time in the city of Washington
last winter, as if in mockery of the character and memory of its
illustrious founder. I mean the "Fancy Ball," as it is styled by those
who have undertaken to describe it; although with all due deference to
their superior taste and knowledge, I would venture to suggest "the
frantic hurlyburly" as a more appropriate term. I do this from having
some reason to believe, that a more deplorable caricature of what was
designed to be represented, was never perpetrated by the would-be
fashionables in any country--either _in_ or _out_ of Christendom. This
foreign and apish intruder has not yet, thank heaven, gained such
footing among us, as altogether to preclude the hope of extirpating it
from the land, if a few such pens as that wielded by the editor of the
Whig, could be exerted for so laudable a purpose; and therefore it is
that I venture to cry--"to the rescue," in the hope that several
others will obey the call. Let it once be deemed "_the fashion_" to
have "Fancy Balls," and even the greatest clodhoppers among us are
sufficiently acquainted with the despotism of this tyrant, to know
that _his_ behests will bid defiance alike to reason, ridicule, and
reproof--to good sense, good manners, and good principles.

I am much gratified, Mr. Editor, at another circumstance brought to my
notice incidentally by this article in the "Whig." It is, that our
language, copious as it certainly is, does not yet afford terms of its
own to express several of the foreign fooleries and attempts to
corrupt our yet simple, unaffected character, described as a part of
this extraordinary exhibition, "the Fancy Ball;" such, for example, as
the waltz and the gallopade. For the benefit of those who may wish to
know the literal meaning of these outlandish terms, without the means
of gratifying such wish, I beg leave to offer the fruit of my
researches--aided, as I confess myself to have been, by far better
scholars than I am.

The first term--"_waltz_," is evidently of German extraction, being
plainly derived from the verb "_walzen_" which, with the adjunct
"_sich_," means to roll, welter, or wallow oneself; and with the
prefix "_das_" becomes the participle rolling, weltering, wallowing;
from which selfish process the transition is quite easy, to roll, or
welter, or wallow another. In either case the predominant idea is,
that the term describes some action natural to an animal of the order
Belluæ; for our English correlative terms are never applied to human
beings, but by way of derision or contempt expressed in figurative
language. Quere: how does it accord with human pride and vanity--how
far is it reconcileable to the lowest aspirations that we are ever
willing to acknowledge ourselves capable of feeling, to be ambitious
of imitating either hogs, horses, or monkies in our actions?

If there could be any doubt in regard to the derivation of the first
term "_waltz_," or the object of the practice of _waltzing_, the
etymology of the second term "_gallopade_," must settle the question
beyond farther controversy; and must prove that an imitation of
certain belluine gambols and gesticulations most be the grand
desideratum in adopting these exotic fashions. "_Gallopade_" is
manifestly from the French word "_galloper_," and that again from the
Greek "_kalpazein_" to gallop like a horse. From all this it seems
perfectly clear, that this latter dance at least, (if it may be so
called,) in order to honor its Greek Etymon, should be performed on
_all fours_; since for a biped successfully to imitate any action of a
quadruped, in which all its limbs are used, the biped must make its
arms, if it has any, execute the function of legs. The quadruped
resemblance then, which seems to be the thing coveted, would be
brought as near to perfection as the nature of the case could possibly
admit. Add to this, it is the best imaginable expedient for working
off that dissatisfaction at the ways of Providence which these
gallopading or galloping gentry appear to feel, at perceiving that all
the genera of the Belluæ order, (unless, perhaps, the Kangaroo may be
excepted,) have been so much more liberally dealt with, as to be
provided with one more pair of legs than they have. It may however be
well questioned, how far it is _good policy_ (to say no worse of it,)
to encourage this downward tendency, since the natural proclivity of
our species to indulge brute appetites and passions is generally
allowed to {427} be already much greater than becomes us who claim to
be the only rational part of God's visible creation. Heaven knows that
we even _now_ approximate far too closely to the lower order of
animals in many of our propensities and practices, not to take any
particular pains, nor to use any extraordinary exertions to render
this approximation still more striking. If we can not prevail upon
ourselves to cherish higher aspirations, to act in a manner more
worthy of our exalted station among living and sentient beings, let us
at least strive hard _not to retrograde_.

So much, Mr. Editor, for _the degradation_ of these foreign fooleries.
But their _demoralizing tendencies_ are matters of much higher
concern--of infinitely deeper interest. Let me endeavor to point them
out. The perfection of the "_waltz_" consists in exhibiting to the
gaze of a numerous company of both sexes, the female form in every
variety of position and attitude into which activity of body and
suppleness of limb can throw it--short of what all would exclaim
against as absolutely indecent, continually however verging to that
point. No modest woman ever beheld it for the first time, without the
burning blush of shame and confusion. As to the horse galloping dance,
I know not what allurement _that_ may in time be capable of producing,
since it is not yet sufficiently domesticated to be well understood,
nor very skilfully executed--to say nothing of the very reasonable
doubts yet entertained by many nice calculators on such intricate
subjects, whether such a thing be possible as either an alluring or
graceful gallop performed by horse, man, or woman. But that which I
have said of the "_waltz_," none can deny, however some may be
disposed to palliate it, by alleging that all its numerous postures
and gyrations are still practised under that powerful sense of decorum
which the ladies of our country, (God bless them,) who venture to
indulge in it, have not yet been able entirely to subdue. But the
anxious question is,--_can this always last?_ Can a sense of _decorum_
or of _any thing else_ continue under the constant operation of causes
tending powerfully, nay, inevitably, to annihilate it? There is
nothing so great that time cannot destroy--nothing so small that it
may not increase to an almost inconceivable magnitude. Thus it is,
comparatively speaking, with our best principles--our most approved
manners. Injuries too slight at first to be regarded or feared,
accumulate by unperceived or neglected degrees, until at last they
grow past remedy, and all is lost that was worthy of preservation. Can
our beloved wives and daughters--beloved, because still uncontaminated
by foreign corruptions--can _they_ suffer themselves to be continually
whirled about in all the giddy, exciting mazes of the licentious
waltz, like so many French or Italian Opera girls, without impairing
or losing all self-respect--all that most lovely and endearing modesty
for which they have ever been so justly celebrated, so highly prized?
Can not polished manners, easy carriage, graceful deportment, be
taught at less sacrifice, less risk, than by calling in for the
purpose these deleterious foreign auxiliaries? Surely--_most surely_
they may; for all, I think, will admit, that no more admirable and
perfect examples of these qualities _can_, or probably ever _will_ be
found, than among the ladies of what may be called _the old school_,
many of whom to our own great happiness, are yet spared to teach their
daughters, among numerous useful lessons, that neither waltzing nor
horse-like-galloping is at all necessary to gain for them all the
esteem, regard, and devoted love which they can possibly deem
essential to their happiness in the present life. Thoughtless as too
many of our young men are, and desirous as they may often be to choose
waltzing and gallopading young ladies for _partners in a dance_, most
rarely do they yet commit the egregious folly of seeking them as
_partners for life_. However giddy, rash, and improvident some of them
may be in other respects, they are too well aware that a fondness for
these indecorous displays of the person--these ridiculous, antic
gambols, will do any thing rather than fit their practitioners for the
various, complicated, and arduous duties of the married state--through
_not one of which_ can either a waltz or a gallopade carry them with
the least credit to themselves or benefit to their families.
Better--far better would it be for these daughters to live and die
utterly ignorant of what dancing is, than to be qualified to
participate in its pleasures, at the hazard of soiling, in the
slightest degree, that spotless purity of feelings and character,
which _we men_ rank (and long, very long may we have a right to do
so,) as the richest, the most precious by far of all our moral
possessions. Deprive us of these, and we shall be poor--miserably poor
indeed! Rather let our beloved girls be subject forever to the
ridicule and contempt of all the infatuated votaries of these modern
and foreign[1] corruptions, both of our manners and principles, than
to be longer exposed to their deeply pernicious influence.

[Footnote 1: That your readers may know what our English friends think
of waltzing and gallopading, I take the liberty to add the following
extract from an article in the New Monthly Magazine, "on the
Revolutions of the 19th century." Here it is--

"Look at our balls: In 1800, modest woman danced modestly; and let the
conversation which passed between two partners, standing as far
distant from each other as people ordinarily do in a drawing room, be
what it might, it could do no harm in the way of example. Within this
century it has become the fashion for a delicate girl, who would, as
Fielding's 'Huncamunca' says--'shudder at the gross idea' of man's
advance, to permit herself, and be permitted by her mother--aye, or
her husband, to flourish about a room to a wriggling German air, with
a strange man's arm round her waist, and her delicate hand upon his
brawny shoulder. This thing is called--_a waltz_: there is another of
the same character, called--_a gallopade_, where the same operations
are performed, and in which, instead of turning the woman about until
she gets giddy, the fellow makes no more ado, but claps her up in his
paws, and hurries right on end from one corner of the room to
another."

Thus speaks one of the most popular periodicals in England of these
foreign abominations; and it is for Virginia parents and heads of
families to say, whether they shall be naturalized among us, or
banished from our society as a moral pestilence.]

I am no enemy, sir, to dancing; for I believe it to be not only an
exhilirating, healthful, and joyous amusement, but also entirely
innocent, when not carried to excess: quite as innocent as any other
imaginable thing that can properly be called amusement, in which the
two sexes participate together. But at every hazard of incurring the
ridicule and scorn of our American exquisites, I denounce waltzing and
gallopading, because, from my inmost soul, I dread any thing and every
thing that threatens, in the slightest degree, to change, for the
worse, the character of _the Virginia lady_; for upon _that character_
I most conscientiously believe, the happiness both of ourselves and
our children--aye, and of our children's children, vitally depends. I
cling to _it_ {428} therefore as our best, our last hope, to guard us
against all corrupting innovations. Those upon which I have ventured
to address you, will probably be deemed very trivial matters, I dare
say, by thousands; but many of our ladies, I trust, whose opinions
have still much influence in all our social circles; many who will
acknowledge me for their true, devoted friend, although quite too old
to be their beau, will decide, that I have not ascribed too much power
to these exotic fashions. Like all other corrupting influences, they
have gradually insinuated themselves into favor; their approach has
not been so sudden and violent as to excite alarm. Of this fact, there
is no stronger evidence, than that which is furnished by the history
of the waltz itself, which, trifling as it may seem, _will and must_
have a powerfully demoralizing effect, especially when followed up by
its congenial ally, Masquerades,--of which the fancy-ball-folly is the
certain precursor. Mark the prediction, sir, for I know it will be
laughed to scorn by all the fashionables of the present day, although
I ask only two years for its fulfilment, but expect it much sooner.

When the waltz first made its appearance in this country, it was
exhibited only on the public stage, and _even there_ met with almost
universal reprobation, except from a few reckless profligates, whose
sole object in life is mere sensual indulgence. None so much as
surmised that such a dance could ever be introduced into private
society. At last, a few adventurous foreigners succeeded in
introducing it into private parties: but, for a considerable time,
_they themselves_ were the only performers. It was long before our
country-women could so far forget the early lessons of decorum, self
respect, and modesty, taught them by their mothers, as to make that
public display and spectacle of their persons, which must unavoidably
be made, in waltzing at all, if executed as the fashion required. But
these most natural and laudable feelings, which caused them to revolt
at such an innovation, such an outrage against all their preconceived
notions of propriety, have gradually yielded to the almost resistless
force of example "_in high places_," until the waltz has not only
domiciliated itself permanently in nearly all our towns and cities,
but has enlisted in its defence many bold country advocates. The few
ladies, (comparatively speaking,) among us, who yet have firmness and
moral courage enough, to resist what they deem a very pernicious
example, cannot, I fear, long maintain their most laudable opposition,
against such a host of assailants. Even _you_, Mr. Editor, (if you
will pardon my freedom in making the remark,) seem a little
inclined--judging by some late comments of your's upon waltzing--to
submit to the practice without further resistance.

Having made up my mind, Mr. Editor, to meet as I can, for this attack
upon foreign fashions, the sneers and scoffs of all our American
exquisites, should any condescend to notice me--a class of bipeds (by
the way,) who bear the same sort of resemblance to their European
prototypes, that the buffoon does to the head performer in a company
of tumblers and rope dancers--I shall say nothing to deprecate their
displeasure. But I must still beg leave to assign a few of my chief
reasons for addressing you on this occasion, lest that numerous and
highly respectable portion of your readers, whose good opinion I am
anxious to retain, may mistake my motives. Without some satisfactory
explanation, some of them might even be tempted to exclaim at me, as
old Edie Ochiltree did at the Antiquary--"Lordsake! he's gaun
gyte!"--"he has run crazy, to venture upon taking by the horns this
mad creature, Fashion, as if his feeble arm could at all check the
wild headlong course of such an animal." To prevent such comments, if
possible, I will urge in my own justification, should any be
necessary, that I have done this deed, because I deem it an essential
part of every aged person's obligations to his fellow men, as long as
life lasts, to oppose either orally or in print, for the benefit of
the youth of our country, every innovation, be it what it may, which
threatens to affect them injuriously. Whether they will listen to him
or not, depends upon themselves; _his duty_ in this behalf will have
been fulfilled. I have done it too, because I believe, that the most
feeble laborer with honest intentions, in a good cause, may accomplish
some good which will amply compensate him for his efforts. I have done
it, because apparent trifles are rarely noticed in books, although
many of these trifles have a most powerful and deleterious influence,
not only on our principles of action, but over our manners and
conduct. And lastly, I have done it, because I believe, without the
most remote possibility of this conviction ever being changed, that
the happiness of _the present_, as well as of _every future
generation_, depends upon preserving unsullied the purity of the
female character. _The matrons_ of our country are the first, the most
watchful, the best guardians of our children, where they themselves
have been virtuously educated. _They_ form the manners and character
of these children: _they_ sow the seeds of all their good qualities:
_they_ first discover and cherish with boundless affection and
solicitude, the earliest dawnings of each amiable disposition; and
never relax while life lasts, their anxious efforts to fit them both
for their present and future state of existence. How momentous then!
how vitally important it is! that, when the mothers depart hence to
another and a happier world, their surviving daughters should be
qualified to take their places, with equal capacity to fulfil all
their duties. But this, alas, cannot possibly be, without the most
zealous, unremitting and assiduous care, to guard them, as we would
the most inestimable of our possessions, against all demoralizing
influences whatever. Corrupt the source, and what will be the effect
of its streams? Poison the fountain, and who can drink of its waters
without death--death, both in a figurative and literal sense? An atom
of dust in itself is unworthy of notice; but in reference to the great
planet we inhabit, it is a constituent and essential part. A drop of
water alone, is apparently valueless; yet the mighty ocean itself is
composed of individual drops, without which its bed would be an arid
desert.

The application of these general remarks to our subject, is too
manifest, I hope, to be mistaken. Let nothing, therefore, however
trivial it may appear on a cursory view, be deemed unworthy of serious
attention, which either directly or indirectly, can injuriously affect
the yet distinctive, still unsullied character of our justly and
dearly beloved country-women.

Having thus thought and felt, as long as I have been at all capable of
serious reflection, it is quite too late to change: I am consequently
prepared to submit unmoved to whatever sentence may be pronounced
against this second communication, from your friend, and constant
reader,

OLIVER OLDSCHOOL.


{429}


[The following amusing incident, is related in the lively manner for
which its author is much celebrated. The moral predicated upon the
bashfulness of his visiter, seems however disproportionably serious.
There are few cases of such extreme _mauvaise honte_ in the present
day, when an excess of _modest assurance_ (by some denominated
impudence,) is rather to be complained of.]


  From the New York Mirror.

A BASHFUL GENTLEMAN.

BY M. M. NOAH.


Modesty, diffidence, and a proper humility, are jewels in the cap of
merit; but downright bashfulness, your real _mauvaise honte_ is
terrible, and is a distinct mark of ill-breeding, or rather of no
breeding at all. Your dashing impudent fops, who say a thousand silly
things to the ladies, and flutter around them like butterflies, are
yet more endurable than your bashful fellow who sneaks into a corner,
terrified to catch a look, or exchange a word with a pretty woman.

Such an identical person paid me a visit on one of the cold days last
week, and broke in upon me with a thousand bows and apologies, while
busily engaged with pen in hand, thinking of a whig candidate for
president, who would not run the risk of being knocked on the head by
our friends the moment his name was announced.

"Sit down, sir, if you please; make no more apologies; sit down and
tell me your business." "Well, sir, I'm come for a curious business,
quite an intrusion, I'm sure, but so it is; necessity knows no
ceremony. Some time ago I read in your paper a description of the
miseries of an old bachelor, and it was so to the life--so true, and
so exactly my condition, that I have made bold to call on you for
advice; for misery, they say, loves company, and one wretched bachelor
may be able to counsel another--thus it is.--" "Stop, stop, my friend;
before you proceed, let me correct an error in which you have, no
doubt, inadvertently fallen. Though I may be able from memory to
describe the misery of single wretchedness, I had not the courage
constantly to face it. You must not be deceived, I am no longer a
bachelor; do you want the proofs, look there; that black-eyed, ruddy
cheeked fellow on the carpet, employed in cutting out ships and houses
from old newspapers, is my oldest; he designs himself to be an editor,
for he contends that nothing is easier; it is only, he says, cutting
out slips from one paper and putting them into another. That little
one who struts about in a paper cocked-hat and wooden sword, with
which, ever and anon, he pokes at my ribs, while deeply engaged in
considering how the nation is to be saved, is my second hopeful; he is
a Jackson man; all children, sir, are Jackson men; he goes for a
soldier if there be wars. That little golden-haired urchin, with a
melting blue eye, who is sure to ask me for candy, while I am
describing, in bitter terms, the tyranny of the Albany regency, is my
youngest; and there, with a basket of stockings near her, sits my
better half; there is the sparkling fire, and here are my slippers:
does all this look like the miseries of a bachelor?" "Well, I beg your
pardon, sir, for believing that you were as wretched as I am; but
still when you hear my story you may possibly advise me what is best
to be done." "Go on, sir." "Well, sir, thus it is: My father realized
a handsome property by his industry, which he left to me; but such
were his rigid notions of the necessity of constant occupation to
prevent idleness and other evils, that my time was employed, after I
had left school, which was at an early age, from sunrise to bed-time.
It was an incessant round of occupation--labor, keeping books, and
making out bills. Behold me now, at the age of twenty-three, with a
good constitution, correct principles, and a handsome income. I have
lost my parents--am alone in the world. I wish to marry, but really,
sir, to my shame I confess it, I have no acquaintance among young
ladies. I do not know any. My secluded manner of living has prevented
my cultivating their acquaintance; and if by accident I am thrown into
their society, my tongue is literally tied. I do not know how to
address them--I am not conversant with the topics which are usually
discussed. In short, sir, I wish to advertise for a wife, and not
knowing how to draw up such an advertisement, I came to beg that favor
at your hands."

"So, so," said I to myself, "here's a little modesty tumbled into
decay--'Coelebs in search of a wife.'" He was a good-looking young
fellow, and had a quick eye, which led me very much to doubt his
reserved, retired and abashed condition before the ladies.

"Have you, sir, considered the risk in taking a wife in this strange
way? How very liable you may be to gross imposition? What lady of
delicacy or reputation would venture to contract an alliance so very
solemn and obligatory, through the channel of a newspaper
advertisement?" "Very probably, sir; but a poor honest girl might be
struck with it; a clever, well-educated daughter, ill-treated by a
fiery step-mother, might, in despair, change her condition for a
better one; nay, a spirited girl might admire the novelty, and boldly
make the experiment." "Well, sir, and how are you to conduct the
negotiation with your native bashfulness? You have no superannuated
grandmother or old maiden aunt to arrange preliminaries." "That's very
true; but, sir, necessity will give me confidence, and despair afford
me courage."

I wrote the advertisement for him, which he thankfully and carefully
placed in his pocket-book, and bade us good morning. "Poor devil,"
said I, "here's a condition--here's a novelty--here's a _rara avis!_ a
fellow of twenty-three, with a good character and income, and not
sufficient impudence to ask for a wife. I know lots of young ladies
who would have sufficient charity to break him of his bashfulness in a
few lessons."

However, his case is not a novel one. It shows the necessity of
parents accustoming their sons in early life to cultivate the society
of respectable females. They should be encouraged in any disposition
they may manifest for good female society, although they may incur the
charge of being either a beau or a dandy. Boys should go to
dancing-school, not only because it teaches them grace, but it
accustoms them in early life to the society of women. They dance with
those girls, whom, in later periods, they may admire and respect as
ladies. The lives of children should be checkered with innocent
amusements--study and labor require such relief; and they should not
be brought up in close confinement, in a doggerel way which unfits
them for society when they are men; nor be driven to the dire
necessity of advertising for a wife, and taking the risk of such a
desperate adventure.


{430}


  From the Knickerbocker.

A SCENE IN REAL LIFE.

  'The facts not otherwise than here set down.'
                                   _Wife of Mantua_.

Amidst the exaggerations of modern literature, and the fictions of
that exuberant fancy, which in these latter days is tasked to gratify
a public taste somewhat vitiated, it is useful to present occasional
views of actual existence. Such are contained in the following sketch,
which is studiously simple in its language, and every event of which
is strictly true. We have this assurance from a source entitled to
implicit credit.

_Editors Knickerbocker_.


There is a vast amount of suffering in the world that escapes general
observation. In the lanes and alleys of our populous cities, in the
garrets and cellars of dilapidated buildings, there are pregnant cases
of misery, degradation, and crime, of which those who live in
comfortable houses, and pursue the ordinary duties of life, have
neither knowledge nor conception. By mere chance, occasionally, a
solitary instance of depravity and awful death is exposed, but the
startling details which are placed before the community, are regarded
as gross exaggerations. It is difficult for those who are unacquainted
with human nature in its darkest aspects, to conceive the immeasurable
depth to which crime may sink a human being,--and the task of
attempting to delineate a faithful picture of such depravity, though
it might interest the philosopher, would be revolting to the general
reader. There are, however, cases of folly and error, which should be
promulgated as warnings, and the incidents of the annexed sketch are
of this character. Mysterious are the ways of Providence in punishing
the transgressions of men,--and indisputable is the truth, that Death
is the wages of Sin.

       *       *       *       *       *

Twenty years ago, no family in the fashionable circles of Philadelphia
was more distinguished than that of Mr. L----: no lady was more
admired and esteemed than his lovely and accomplished wife. They had
married in early life, with the sanction of relations and friends, and
under a conviction that each was obtaining a treasure above all price.
They loved devotedly and with enthusiasm, and their bridal day was a
day of pure and unadulterated happiness to themselves, and of pleasure
to those who were present to offer their congratulations on the joyous
event. The happy pair were the delight of a large circle of
acquaintances. In her own parlor, or in the drawing-rooms of her
friends, the lady was ever the admiration of those who crowded around
her, to listen to the rich melody of her voice, or to enjoy the
flashes of wit and intelligence which characterized her conversation.

Without the egotism and vanity which sometimes distinguish those to
whom society pays adulation, and too prudent and careful in her
conduct to excite any feeling of jealousy in the breast of her
confiding husband, Mrs. L----'s deportment was in all respects
becoming a woman of mind, taste, and polished education. Her chosen
companion noticed her career with no feelings of distrust, but with
pride and satisfaction. He was happy in the enjoyment of her undivided
love and affection, and happy in witnessing the evidences of esteem
which her worth and accomplishments elicited. Peace and prosperity
smiled on his domestic circle, and his offspring grew up in
loveliness, to add new pleasures to his career.

The youngest of his children was a daughter, named Letitia, after her
mother, whom, in many respects, she promised to resemble. She had the
same laughing blue eyes, the same innocent and pure expression of
countenance, and the same general outline of feature. At an early age
her sprightliness, acute observation, and aptitude in acquiring
information, furnished sure evidences of intelligence, and
extraordinary pains were taken to rear her in such a manner as to
develope, advantageously, her natural powers. The care of her
education devolved principally upon her mother, and the task was
assumed with a full consciousness of its responsibility.

With the virtuous mother, whose mind is unshackled by the absurdities
of extreme fashionable life, there are no duties so weighty, and at
the same time so pleasing, as those connected with the education of an
only daughter. The weight of responsibility involves not only the
formation of an amiable disposition and correct principles, but in a
great measure, the degree of happiness which the child may
subsequently enjoy. Errors of education are the fruitful source of
misery, and to guard against these is a task which requires judgment,
and unremitting diligence. But for this labor, does not the mother
receive a rich reward? Who may tell the gladness of her heart, when
the infant cherub first articulates her name? Who can describe the
delightful emotions elicited by the early development of her
genius,--the expansion of the intellect when it first receives and
treasures with eagerness, the seeds of knowledge? These are joys known
only to mothers, and they are joys which fill the soul with rapture.

Letitia was eight years old, when a person of genteel address and
fashionable appearance, named Duval, was introduced to her mother by
her father, with whom he had been intimate when a youth, and between
whom a strong friendship had existed from that period. Duval had
recently returned from Europe, where he had resided a number of years.
He was charmed with the family, and soon became a constant visitor.
Having the entire confidence of his old friend and companion, all
formality in reference to intercourse was laid aside, and he was
heartily welcomed at all hours, and under all circumstances. He formed
one in all parties of pleasure, and in the absence of his friend,
accompanied his lady on her visits of amusement and pleasure,--a
privilege which he sedulously improved whenever opportunity offered.

Duval, notwithstanding his personal attractions and high character as
a 'gentleman,' belonged to a class of men which has existed more or
less in all ages, to disgrace humanity. He professed to be a
philosopher, but was in reality a libertine. He lived for his own
gratification. It monopolized all his thoughts, and directed all his
actions. He belonged to the school of Voltaire, and recognized no
feeling of the heart as pure, no tie of duty or affection as sacred.
No consideration of suffering, of heart-rending grief, on the part of
his victim, were sufficient to intimidate his purpose, or check his
career of infamy. Schooled in hypocrisy, dissimulation was his
business: and he regarded the whole world as the sphere of his
operations,--the whole human family as legitimate subjects for his
villainous depravity.

That such characters,--so base, so despicable, so lost to all feelings
of true honor,--can force their way into respectable society, and
poison the minds of the unsullied {431} and virtuous, may well be a
matter of astonishment to those unacquainted with the desperate
artfulness of human hearts. But these monsters appear not in their
true character: they assume the garb and deportment of gentlemen, of
philosophers, of men of education and refinement, and by their
accomplishments, the suavity of their manners, their sprightliness of
conversation, bewilder before they poison, and fascinate before they
destroy.

If there be, in the long catalogue of guile, one character more
hatefully despicable than another, it is the libertine. Time corrects
the tongue of slander, and the generosity of friends makes atonement
for the depredations of the midnight robber. Sufferings and calamities
may be assuaged or mitigated by the sympathies of kindred hearts, and
the tear of affection is sufficient to wash out the remembrance of
many of the sorrows to which flesh is heir. But for the venom of the
libertine, there is no remedy,--of its fatal consequences, there is no
mitigation. His victims, blasted in reputation, are forever excluded
from the pale of virtuous society. No sacrifice can atone for their
degradation, for the unrelenting and inexorable finger of scorn
obstructs their progress at every step. The visitation of death,
appalling as is his approach to the unprepared, were a mercy, compared
with the extent and permanency of this evil.

Duval's insidious arts were not unobserved by his intended victim. She
noticed the gradual development of his pernicious principles, and
shrunk with horror from their contaminating influence. She did not
hesitate to communicate her observations to her husband,--but he,
blinded by prejudice in favor of his friend, laughed at her scruples.
Without a word of caution, therefore, his intercourse was
continued,--and such was the weight of his ascendant power,--such the
perfection of his deep laid scheme, and such his facility in glossing
over what he termed _pardonable_, but which, in reality, were grossly
licentious, indiscretions of language and conduct,--that even the lady
herself was induced, in time, to believe that she had treated him
unjustly. The gradual progress of licentiousness is almost
imperceptible, and before she was aware of her error, she had drunk
deeply of the intoxicating draught, and had well nigh become a convert
to Duval's system of philosophy. Few who approach this fearful
precipice are able to retrace their steps. The senses are
bewildered,--reason loses its sway,--and a whirlpool of maddening
emotions takes possession of the heart, and hurries the infatuated
victim to irretrievable death. Before her suspicions were awakened,
the purity of her family circle was destroyed. Duval enrolled on his
list of conquests a new name,--_the wife of his bosom friend!_

An immediate divorce was the consequence. The misguided woman, who but
late had been the ornament of society and the pride of her family, was
cast out upon the world, unprotected, and without the smallest
resource. The heart of the husband was broken by the calamity which
rendered this step necessary, and he retired, with his children, to
the obscurity of humble life.

       *       *       *       *       *

At a late hour on one of those bitter cold evenings experienced in the
early part of January, of the present year, two females, a mother and
daughter, both wretchedly clad, stood shivering at the entrance of a
cellar, in the lower part of the city, occupied by two persons of
color. The daughter appeared to be laboring under severe
indisposition, and leaned for support on the arm of her mother, who,
knocking at the door, craved shelter and warmth for the night. The
door was half opened in answer to the summons, but the black who
appeared on the stairs, declared that it was out of his power to
comply with the request, as he had neither fire,--except that which
was furnished by a handful of tan,--nor covering for himself and wife.
The mother, however, too much inured to suffering to be easily
rebuked, declared that herself and daughter were likely to perish from
cold, and that even permission to rest on the floor of the cellar,
where they would be protected, in some degree, from the 'nipping and
eager air,' would be a charity for which they would ever be grateful.
She alleged, as an excuse for the claim to shelter, that she had been
ejected, a few minutes before, from a small room which, with her
daughter, she had occupied in a neighboring alley, and for which she
had stipulated to pay fifty cents per week, because she had found
herself unable to meet the demand,--every resource for obtaining money
having been cut off by the severity of the season. The black, more
generous than many who are more ambitious of a reputation for
benevolence, admitted the shivering applicants, and at once resigned,
for their accommodation for the night, the only two seats in the
cellar, and cast a fresh handful of tan upon the ashes in the fire
place.

It was a scene of wretchedness, want, and misery, calculated to soften
the hardest heart, and to enlist the feelings and sympathies of the
most selfish. The regular tenants of the cellar were the colored man
and his wife, who gained a scanty and precarious subsistence, as they
were able, by casual employment in the streets, or in neighboring
houses. Having in summer made no provision for the inclemencies of
winter, they were then utterly destitute. They had sold their articles
of clothing and furniture, one by one, to provide themselves with
bread, until all were disposed of, but two broken chairs, a box that
served for a table, and a small piece of carpeting, which answered the
double purpose of a bed and covering. Into this department of poverty
were the mother and daughter,--lately ejected from a place equally
destitute of the comforts of life,--introduced. The former was a woman
of about fifty years, but the deep furrows on her face, and her
debilitated frame, betokened a more advanced age. Her face was wan and
pale, and her haggard countenance and tattered dress, indicated a full
measure of wretchedness. Her daughter sat beside her, and rested her
head on her mother's lap. She was about twenty-five years of age, and
might once have been handsome,--but a life of debauchery had thus
early robbed her cheeks of their roses and prostrated her
constitution. The pallidness of disease was on her face,--anguish was
in her heart.

Hours passed on. In the gloom of midnight, the girl awoke from a
disturbed and unrefreshing slumber. She was suffering from acute pain,
and in the almost total darkness which pervaded the apartment, raised
her hand to her mother's face. 'Mother,' said she, in faltering
accents, 'are you here?'

'Yes, child: are you better?'

'No, mother,--I am sick,--sick unto death! There is a canker at my
heart,--my blood grows cold,--the torpor of mortality is stealing upon
me!'

{432} 'In the morning, my dear, we shall be better provided for. Bless
Heaven, there is still one place which, thanks to the benevolent, will
afford us sustenance and shelter.'

'Do not thank Heaven, mother: you and I are outcasts from that place
of peace and rest. We have spurned Providence from our hearts, and
need not now call it to our aid. Wretches, wretches that we are!'

'Be composed, daughter,--you need rest.'

'Mother, there is a weight of woe upon my breast, that sinks me to the
earth. My brief career of folly is almost at an end. I have erred,--oh
God! fatally erred,--and the consciousness of my wickedness now
overwhelms me. I will not reproach you, mother, for laying the snare
by which I fell,--for enticing me from the house of virtue,--the home
of my heart-broken father,--to the house of infamy and death: but oh,
I implore you, repent: be warned, and let penitence be the business of
your days.'

The hardened heart of the mother melted at this touching appeal, and
she answered with a half-stifled sigh:

'Promise me then, ere I die, that you will abandon your ways of
iniquity, and endeavor to make peace with Heaven.'

'I do,--I do! But, alas my child, what hope is there for me?'

'God is merciful to all who ----'

The last word was inaudible. A few respirations, at long intervals,
were heard, and the penitent girl sunk into the quiet slumber of
death. Still did the mother remain in her seat, with a heart harrowed
by the smitings of an awakened conscience. Until the glare of daylight
was visible through the crevices of the door, and the noise of the
foot passengers and the rumbling of vehicles in the street had aroused
the occupants of the cellar, she continued motionless, pressing to her
bosom the lifeless form of her injured child. When addressed by the
colored woman, she answered with an idiot stare. Sensibility had
fled,--the energies of her mind had relaxed, and reason deserted its
throne. The awful incidents of that night had prostrated her
intellect, and she was conveyed from the gloomy place, A MANIAC!

The Coroner was summoned, and an inquest held over the body of the
daughter. In the books of that humane and estimable officer, the name
of the deceased is recorded,--'LETITIA L----.'

B. M.

_Philadelphia_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

CHRISTIAN EDUCATION.


It is a grand desideratum in all the affairs of life, to hold fast
what we get. The business of evangelizing the world, is like the stone
of Sisyphus, continually recoiling upon each successive generation. We
want something like what the sailors call a Paul to the Capstan,--a
sort of Ratchet. This is the business of Christian Education, and the
problem is to devise such a system of religious training and
instruction, as shall be best adapted to that end.

It must be admitted that hitherto but little has been done,
notwithstanding that the blessings of the gospel are promised to
believers and to their children also. It is not found that the care of
pious parents, to infuse religious sentiments into the hearts of their
children, is attended with any remarkable success. Indeed, there is
often found a prejudice against religion, which seems to have grown up
with them, and is eradicated with the more difficulty, because it has
sprung up and rooted itself in a soil cleared from the rank weeds of
vicious indulgence, and prepared to receive the seed of the spirit of
God. This seed the enemy snatches away, and scatters the tares of
enmity and rebellion in the place of it. They spring up in the night.
They grow in darkness, shaded by the pall of a staid demeanor and
assumed sobriety of deportment.

The promise is nevertheless often fulfilled in a remarkable manner,
long after the anxious parent has gone to his rest, and the child,
grown up to manhood, has taken his station among his fellows, in the
affairs of life. Then it is, that the recollections of his youth, of
the discipline and habits of his childhood come upon him, like a
confused and troubled dream. Softened by time, as by distance, objects
lose their asperities; any harshness which had once estranged him is
forgotten, and he now comes to dwell, with sad and self-reproachful
feelings, on his departure from the example of strictness, sobriety
and gravity, which he had once renounced:--

  "How gladly would the _man_ recall to life
   The _boy's_ neglected sire, whose sternest frown
   Was but the graver countenance of love."

Under the influence of such feelings, he often turns back into the
path from which he strayed. But how much better never to have left it!
How many sorrows has he in the mean time brought upon himself, by
vicious self-indulgence! How much matter of repentance has he provided
for his future life! How many has he led astray by evil counsels and
evil example, who are still wandering in the mazy wilderness of sin,
and may never recover the way that leads to heaven!

It is surely well to consider, whether there is no remedy for these
evils. Every man is a priest in his own house, and is not only charged
with the care of the souls of his children; but is bound also, as far
as possible, to make them instruments of good to others. What should
we say to him who should make his house a menagerie of ravenous and
destructive beasts, to be turned out as they grow up to prey upon the
flocks and herds of his neighbors? And what better is he who carefully
adorns and accomplishes the persons and minds of his children, with
all the graces of manners, intelligence and address, which give them
so much power over the principles and conduct, and happiness, of their
associates, without guarding against the abuse of this power, by
impressing their hearts with the love of religion and virtue, and a
sense of the value of the souls of others? They go forth as fiends of
darkness, in the garb of angels of light, and contamination, and
misery, and death, are the fruits of their intercourse with the
children of men.

Of this fault, it is not pretended that christian parents are
willingly guilty. They are not even careful in many instances, to
impart the ornamental parts of education, which so much enhance the
power of seduction, but they innocently supply an instrument hardly
less powerful, in the familiarity with the language of the Bible,
which is often acquired by those who have no taste for its doctrines.
When the devil cannot robe himself in the rainbow garment of Ithuriel,
he can, at {433} least, "quote scripture for his purpose," and many a
heart has been corrupted, and many a mind confounded by scraps and
ends of texts, torn from their connexion, and uttered in derision by
those who have been taught to get verses by rote--but not, as the good
old phrase is, _by heart_. O! ever while we live, let us make our
children learn the Bible BY HEART, or not at all, that when they speak
its language, they may speak as one whose "mouth speaketh out of the
fulness of his own HEART."

This is the great point to be accomplished. How is it to be effected?
The answer is plain. By addressing the gospel to the HEART. By the
same means which a judicious and affectionate parent uses to infuse
into the bosom of his child, the spirit of cheerful and willing
obedience to himself. Let him carefully show both himself and his
Maker to the infant's mind, as the personification of love. While he
anxiously contrives to make him feel that to the love of his earthly
parent, he owes all the benefits that he receives, let him point his
attention also to that Father who is in heaven, and from whom he
himself derives all the means of ministering to the wants and
pleasures of the child. When he gives a bit of bread to the hungry
urchin, and asking if it is good, receives an answer which shows that
the little fellow's heart is full of grateful love, let him tell him
what it is made of, and while he shews him the green blade from which,
by a wonderful and mysterious contrivance, the grain is to be
elaborated, and marks the half-incredulous wonder with which the
information is received, let him tell him that this is the work of
God, who causes the rain to fall, and the sun to shine, and matures
the fruits of the earth for the benefit of his children. Such
occasions of calling the attention of a child to the goodness, and
bounty, and love of God, are continually recurring. He is never too
young to receive impressions of love. Before he knows the meaning of
the word, he takes them from his experience of the care and fondness
of his mother; and long after he has begun to prattle, this feeling
thus early implanted, continues to flourish alone, and affords the
only sanction of parental authority. How happy is he, and how sweet to
behold his happiness, while in the pursuit of his little foolish joys,
the "todlin wee thing" needs no restraint from mischief, but the
playful look, half-smile, half-frown, and the admonishing voice which
warns without alarming. Well might our Saviour say, "that of such is
the kingdom of heaven," where love is the only law, and love the only
duty, and love the only sanction. Under this sweet engaging
discipline, love becomes the habit of his mind, and long before he is
capable of comprehending any but the simplest ideas, the foundation is
laid in his heart, of those affections, by means of which he is to be
formed to virtue, honor and happiness. What idea (next after those
derived from things present, to the senses,)--what idea is more
simple, more easily apprehended, than this; that while he receives all
good things from the hands of his parents, they are sent to him by a
friend he has never seen, whose name is God. What occasion for telling
him who God is, or where he dwells, or any thing more than that he is
good, and loves good boys, and will continue to love him and send him
good things as long as he is good? Is it not easy to impress his mind
with the same feeling which is cherished towards his dear Aunt or kind
Grandmama, of whom he is reminded every morning, when he drinks his
milk out of a pretty cup, on which he is taught to read, "a present
for my dear boy?" There is no time lost. The idea of the spiritual
nature of God cannot be communicated until the mind is ready to
receive it, and then it is uttered in one word, and comprehended in
one moment. The vanity of a parent may be mortified, that his child
does not know any thing of these high mysteries, at an age when other
children of whom we read in good books, have been found disputing with
the doctors about the trinity and the compound nature of the Redeemer.
But this vanity, like many other human errors, needs the restraint of
reason. For if it be asked, how long should this state of things be
kept up? I would answer, as long as possible. If man is never to enter
into the kingdom of heaven but as a little child, I would gladly keep
him as a little child to the day of his death. But as this is not
possible, I would apply my answer to the actual state of facts, and
say that the discipline of love should be continued as long as love
continues to supply the necessary motives to necessary restraint.

I would therefore venture to recommend the imposition of no
restraints, and no tasks, but such as are necessary; and if possible,
I would impose only such upon an infant as are obviously necessary,
and, on an older child, such as he can be clearly made to see the
necessity of. Such a system not only prolongs the reign, and confirms
the habit of love, but prepares the mind to acquiesce with entire
confidence in the wisdom and discretion of the parent. Let care
therefore supply, as much as possible, the place of authority. Let the
mother's eye be on her child, and then, instead of turning him loose
with a code of unexplained laws upon his back, she will have it in her
power to draw his attention from unlawful to lawful objects, and to
lead him away unconsciously from forbidden places. The beautiful story
of the mother who bared her bosom to draw away her child from the edge
of the cliff, illustrates this idea.

I would say then to christian parents, prolong as much as possible the
season of childhood--the empire of endearment and love; prolong that
season when the hearts of your children are all your own, and divide
them with God. Let their heads alone. No one ever teaches a child to
talk. He learns it of himself more readily and more perfectly, than he
can ever afterwards acquire a new language under the most skilful
instructor. He has enough to do in acquiring those ideas which are
necessary to him, and are suggested by the objects around him. He
learns a great deal, and it is easy to help him to learn, without
giving him lessons. He may have nothing of what we would dignify by
the names of _knowledge_ and _wisdom_, but he will acquire a great
deal of _sense_, and may have very just notions of what it is to be a
good boy, without having his mind perplexed with definitions of sin.
The spirit of imitation will keep him busy. Teach him to love you, and
he will need no command to make him try to do what he sees you do. Let
him crawl. He will not long be content to go on all fours, when he
sees his beloved and honored father walking erect. Curiosity will make
him eager enough to know the meaning of letters, and he will esteem it
a privilege to be allowed to look at round O, and crooked S, and to be
taught to read for {434} himself in the pretty picture books, out of
which his dear mother is in the habit of reading entertaining stories
to him. Keep bad examples from before his eyes, and the opportunities
of mischief out of his way, and keep his heart alive to a sense of the
love of his parents and the love of God, until his mind has time to
settle into a HABIT of love, obedience and virtue.

For reasons of the same sort, I would refrain from presenting in the
second stage of education, any views of religion that to the literal
and unpractised mind of a child, _might seem_ at variance with his
earlier conceptions of the divine character. I am very sure that any
doctrines _actually_ at variance with them must be false; and though I
believe that none such may be entertained by any sincere and
intelligent christian, yet it has somehow so happened, that many modes
of expression have obtained currency in the world, which a novice
would be startled at. I should therefore be careful, not to go beyond
the plain letter of scripture in explaining to him religious truth.

The well digested form of sound doctrine as it is there set forth,
would be almost my sole reliance. I would be careful to accompany this
with appeals to his own experience and observation for the truth,
that, as a general rule, it is our own fault if we are not happy. That
occasionally, indeed, we receive injury at the hands of others, and
that therefore it is that we are so often led to fall into pits of our
own digging, that we may be not so fond of digging them in future. I
would endeavor thus to familiarize him with a sense of the necessity
of punishment, as the preventive of evil, and to enable him to
comprehend to what lengths of mischief the simple principle of
self-love would impel the best imaginable finite being, if he could
feel perfectly sure that no manner of harm to himself could possibly
arise from the indulgence of any desire. This idea, as it seems to me,
is capable of being placed in plain colloquial language, in so clear a
light, that any ingenuous mind would be readily brought to acquiesce
in the necessity of God's moral government of the moral universe, in
the necessity of punishing sin in order to prevent it, and the true
benevolence of resolutely inflicting the necessary punishment, as the
preventive of the far greater sum of suffering which the impurity of
sin would produce. I should not fear that a mind habituated throughout
to cherish the sentiments of gratitude and love, would be slow to
understand, or reluctant to believe a plan of comprehensive and
_general utility_ devised by the spirit of universal benevolence for
the _greatest possible good_ of the whole, or impatient to endure such
portion of evil, as, in the execution of such a plan, it might be
called to bear.

I should anxiously endeavor to make my pupil sensible, that a plan of
coercion, intended to procure a cheerful, affectionate and happy
obedience, (and no other obedience can be happy,) must be understood
by those who are made subject to it, to be so intended, and to explain
to him the decisive proof of such intention which is afforded, when
the ruler himself condescends to endure a portion of the punishment
due to the sins of his people, and graciously pardons all whom this
exhibition of his goodness brings to sincere repentance.

With these suggestions, gently insinuated from time to time, and
containing as I verily believe the pure milk of the word, the best
aliment for youthful minds, I should content myself, and leave him to
seek the confirmation of these ideas in the Bible; nor would I suffer
him, until on the verge of manhood, to puzzle his understanding and
_afflict his spirit_ with the perusal of works of theology.

In confirmation of the ideas I have suggested, let me beg the reader
to observe how much more readily, and more frequently, the principles
of religion take root in female minds, than in those of men. How many
examples do we see among them of the most tender and fervent piety,
and how seldom do we find it incumbered with the heavy lumber of
theological learning, or frittered down into nice and shadowy
distinctions. Yet are they wise unto salvation, possessing that faith
by which the _heart_ believeth unto righteousness, though perhaps
unable to give any other reason for their faith, than that God is
love, and in proof of his love gave himself to die for the sins of the
world. Whence comes this tendency among them to imbibe this simple and
saving faith, unless it be from the peculiarities of their education?
The discipline of infancy is prolonged with them. They are kept under
the eye of the mother, whose unsuspected vigilance supplies the place
of commands, imposes an unperceived restraint, and renders the habits
of decorum, propriety, meekness and obedience, a sort of second
nature. Restrained only by the silken cord of love, whose weight they
feel not, they never strain against it, nor try to throw it off. Their
minds and tempers are formed rather by habit than precept, and their
obedience is secured, not by punishment or the fear of it, but by
prevention. They are accustomed to do right, because they have no
opportunities of doing wrong, without violating that instinct of
propriety, which makes it painful to do what we feel to be wrong in
the presence of those we love. When left to themselves, they do what
is right, because they have been long accustomed to do it; and they
know it to be right, because thus acting, they have always lived in
the enjoyment of those peaceable fruits which an upright conduct can
alone produce.

It will be seen that many of my remarks on the subject of instruction,
apply also to that of discipline. I have already shown that the
discipline, whose purpose is to prepare the child for his duties to
his parents, should be modified by a proper regard to his duties to
God. In like manner, that which may be called religious discipline,
should be so regulated as not to counteract what has been already
done. _Parental_ training, if I may so distinguish it, should be so
managed as to cultivate the love of the child for his parents;
_religious_ training, so as to cultivate his love for God. It would be
strangely inconsistent, that we should be careful not to offend and
estrange a child by imposing on him, of our own authority, any harsh,
unexplained and inexplicable commands, and at the same time load him,
by the alleged command of God, with burthens grievous to be borne.
Duties which he is not old enough to understand the nature of, are not
his duties. There is no more violation of God's law in a child of a
certain age playing on the Sabbath, than in the sports of a puppy. Yet
long before he is old enough to be capable of a violation of this law,
it is a matter of great importance that he should be gradually and
carefully trained, and prepared to obey it. In this training, I would
carefully avoid any thing like austerity. I would familiarize his
{435} infant ear to the name of _Sunday_, and accustom him to regard
it as a day of privileges. Put on his best clothes, caress him, praise
him, warn him to keep himself sweet and clean, make him take notice
that every body else is so, and that nobody is made to do any work,
and all because it is Sunday; make him observe the staid and quiet
behavior of every body about the house, and see how soon he will get
his little stool, and set up with his hands before him, and try to
_behave pretty_ too. When this is done, enough is done for the
beginning. When he is tired of imitating the grave demeanor of others,
let him go. The spirit of imitation will return again and again; the
habits it induces will make a deeper and deeper impression, and if he
is carefully imbued with a love for his parents, and a love for God,
without being taught to dread and hate the Sabbath, he will be thus
well prepared to submit cheerfully to its restraints, by the time he
is old enough to know the reason of them. Let him see that you too,
submit to them cheerfully. Let him miss nothing of your accustomed
kindness or amenity of manner on that day. Do not let him learn to
think of it as "a day for a man to afflict his soul, and hang down his
head like a bull-rush," a day of fault-finding, and formal observance,
and Judaical austerity. In short, let him see that you esteem the
Sabbath as a day of privilege, and leave the rest as much as possible
to the spirit of affectionate imitation.

I would say the same of other religious duties. Do not force the
little drowsy urchin to sit up to family prayers. When he happens to
do so, let him hear you thank God in simple terms for the privilege of
being permitted to pray to him, and implore of him blessings whose
value he feels and knows. If you find occasion to preach in your
prayers, (a bad practice by the way,) do not preach about matters
which none but a Doctor of Divinity can be expected to understand.

On the interesting subject of fashionable amusements, as they are
called, I own I feel more difficulty. It chiefly arises from the
consideration that the youth who is old enough to take an interest in
such amusements, is at a more unmanageable age than formerly. It is
not so easy to restrain him, without letting him be conscious of the
restraint. It is not so easy to draw him off from a pernicious
pursuit, to one less dangerous. He is no longer to be satisfied with
those cheap equivalents for forbidden gratifications, which made it
easy to command his obedience, without estranging his affections. The
whole business of education at this stage, is a difficult and delicate
operation. I cannot imagine any general rule for a class of cases as
various as all the infinite varieties of the human character. Let us
suppose some of them.

If, in spite of all the care that had been taken to soften and subdue
his heart, and beguile him from self-love to the love of his friends,
and of God his best friend, if in spite of all this he continued
obdurate, wilful and rebellious, I am conscious that I should be at my
wit's end. I do not know but that in such a case, it would be the part
of wisdom to yield to those feelings which a parent would naturally
experience, and, acting as in obedience to the unerring instincts of
nature, to resort to severity instead of tenderness, and endeavor to
bring down his heart with sorrow. As a part of such a system, it would
be a matter of course, to deny him this indulgence.

A different case would be that of a youth of mercurial temper, and
warm feelings, who had grown up in habitual love and reverence for his
parents and his Maker, and whose buoyant spirit and restless temper,
and keen appetite for enjoyment, might render him impatient of such
restraint. Even in this case I should not too readily relax it. I
should endeavor if possible to ascertain whether it might be enforced
without impairing those tender and reverential sentiments. If so, I
should enforce it. If not, I would yield with undissembled reluctance,
but without reproach. I should endeavor to draw him into a contest of
generosity, with a hope that he would not long consent to be outdone.
But in no case would I surrender the end for the means, and do
violence to the best, and kindliest, and holiest affections of the
human heart, and run the risk of destroying them, by restraining a
youth from things not evil in themselves, but only evil in their
tendencies. The only antidote to the love of pleasure, is the love of
God. In truth the great evil of the love of pleasure, is that it is an
antidote to the love of God, and when the authority of God is used to
force one away from a much coveted enjoyment, there is danger that it
may but make him love God less, and pleasure more. But it is the
saying of a wise man, that where an appetite for any thing actually
exists, the best security against excess, is in a regulated
indulgence; and to this indulgence I would resort with an humble hope
that my pupil might find wisdom to add this too to the list of
blessings experienced at the hands of his Maker, until the victory
should at last result to him to whom it belongs.

For the remaining case of a young man having no taste for such
pleasures, and content to spend his time in reading and meditation, I
would prescribe nothing more than this; that he should not be
encouraged to bless God that he was not as other men, but be kept on
the alert by a warning that sin enters into the heart by more avenues
than one.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXTRACTS FROM MY MEXICAN JOURNAL.

Festival of San Agustin de Las Cuevas--El Paséo de Las Vigas.


MAY 23d, 1825.--Yesterday and to-day we attended the festival at _San
Agustin de las Cuevas_. The avenues leading to this little town, were
thronged with people on foot, on asses, on mules, on horses, and in
coaches drawn by six or eight mules. The whole population of Mexico
seemed flocking to it and to _Istapalapa_, at which latter place is
the feast of the Indians. Most persons take lodgings for the three or
four days of the _Pascua_,[1] for which they pay enormous rent. From
day-light until ten o'clock, these pious christians hear mass in the
parish church. We had to travel four or five leagues, and, therefore,
did not arrive in time to witness these religious solemnities; but at
twelve, we were introduced into the cock-pit--a rough, circular
building, with seats around it rising one above the other--and in the
centre, an area serving as an arena for the combatants. Its roof, high
and open to admit light and air, was decorated with long wide shreds
of various colors--diverging from the centre--all in scenic taste. The
seats were soon filled with spectators of all ages, sexes and classes.
The {436} most fashionable ladies of Mexico were present, and the most
distinguished men of the republic were engaged in betting heavily on
the champions of the pit. The noisy clamor of fifty voices, seeking
bets with stentorian cries, warned us of the approaching fight. The
cocks, armed with sharp slashers, like double edged sabres, are
arrayed before us--suddenly the pit is cleared--an awful silence
prevails--they rush to the conflict--a few moments decide the fate of
one--and all is again confusion. For three hours the sport continues,
to the great diversion of the spectators, who appear to take an eager
interest in the cruel scene. The women around me were betting and
smoking, and two friars sat at my right hand. What a picture of
Mexican customs is before us! Women--fashionable women, and priests in
a cock-pit on a Sunday! 'Tis quite bad enough for us to be seen here,
but we are curious travellers, and must observe every thing we can.
After witnessing a few fights, we visited the gambling rooms, to see
the game of _monte_, which resembles faro. The tables were loaded with
doubloons and dollars, and surrounded by players, who, in a few
minutes, won and lost many hundreds.[2] Here I saw no women betting,
but there was one a looker on like myself, but I don't know if the
scene was as novel to her as to me. On walking next through the plaza,
I observed all species of games, at which the blanket gentry--male and
female--young and old--were trying their fortune, invited in many
instances by an image of the Virgin or of some patron saint. Gambling
is, I may safely conclude, the general vice of this nation.
Drunkenness is not common in these assemblages, and is confined
chiefly to the Indians.

[Footnote 1: Whitsuntide is the period for this festival.]

[Footnote 2: Mr. Ward, who is good authority, states that "the bank at
these tables varies from 1,000 doubloons (16,000 dollars) to 3,000
doubloons, (48,000 dollars.) Fifty or sixty of these (800 or 1,000
dollars,) are an ordinary stake upon the turn of a card; but I have
seen as many as six hundred and twenty, (9,920 dollars,) risked and
won."--_Ward's Mexico_.]

After dinner, we walked to a green plot without the village, where the
ladies were dancing to the music of two or three guitars. At this
amusement we left them each evening, and returned to the Hacienda. At
night the cock-pit is carpeted, and converted into a ball room. Thus
the fashionable people of the city of Mexico, celebrate for three
successive days this religious feast.

In choosing San Agustin for these amusements, the selection is
certainly a good one. Conveniently situated at the edge of the plain
of Mexico, about twelve miles from the city, to the south, the site is
very pretty, and the scenery is extremely gay in contrast with the
sterility which immediately surrounds the capital. Water is so
abundant in this village, that every garden is irrigated, and the
trees and plants always possess a freshness of verdure which is rarely
seen upon the table land. The mountain of _Ajusco_[3] rises behind the
town--the tallest peak of this southern ridge--its top is rugged and
barren. It is sometimes sprinkled with snow during the winter. A
remarkable bed of lava from an adjacent peak, overlays a large corner
of the plain near _San Agustin_, round the point of which the road
leads from Mexico--so distinctly is it defined, that it is easy to
imagine the melted mass flowing from the furnace of the volcano till
it gradually congealed.

[Footnote 3: The _Cerro_ of Ajusco is, according to Humboldt, 12,119
feet above the sea--consequently 4,649 feet above the plain on which
the city of Mexico is situated.]

       *       *       *       *       *

FEBRUARY 26th, 1826. I have just returned from witnessing the gayest
sight which Mexico ever presents. This is the promenade of _Las
Vigas_.

_El Paséo de Las Vigas_ is a beautiful road just without the inhabited
part of the city, at its south-eastern extremity. It is bordered by
double rows of aspins and willows; and upon one side of it, passes the
canal which connects the lakes of _Chalco_ and _Tescuco_. Though it is
the month of February, nature has assumed the gay mantle of
spring--all is verdant--all is smiling with luxuriant sweetness. The
temperature of the shade is most delightful.

At the moment when the sun, sinking behind the mountains, has lost its
oppressive warmth, the population of Mexico pours itself upon this
charming spot. Hundreds of coaches roll along amid multitudes on
horseback and on foot. These ponderous vehicles, uniform in shape, are
various in their decorations, showing the several fashions which
prevailed at the time of their construction;--some adorned with
paintings commemorative either of heathen mythology or of remarkable
historical events; the pannels of some tell us of sieges or of battles
in days long gone by; some represent the perils of the deep; others
exhibit Neptune riding gently upon his subdued waves, or perhaps the
"pale Diana" or the "laughing Venus," or Calypso in her grotto using
her bewitching sorceries to win the youthful hero. These, and similar
devices, mark the period of vice-regal magnificence, and are now
peculiar to the hackney coach. Those of modern date, are in better
taste, being painted modestly, of a uniform color, but the wheels and
carriage part are generally richly gilded.

The coaches are filled with well dressed women--I won't say that many
of them are beautiful--who recognize their acquaintances by a
coquetish quirk of the fan--(a never-failing attendant even in coldest
weather)--or an active play of the fingers, at which the Mexican
ladies are very dexterous, and which might be misconstrued by the
uninitiated as a beckon to approach. Horsemen, in the characteristic
costume of the country elsewhere described, pass and repass,
exhibiting their proud and gallant steeds; and the multitude on foot
display their Sunday dresses, in which there has been of late a
manifest improvement.

The canal is strewed with boats, crowded with passengers of the lowest
class, who are amusing themselves with guitars, to which they sing and
dance. They return decorated with flowers woven into a chaplet, which,
contrasted with the black hair hanging down in a single plait behind,
of a pretty Mestiso girl, renders her quite interesting,
notwithstanding her copperish color.

All these in themselves present a highly exhilarating picture; but
added to the fine prospect of the mountain barriers of the Mexican
plain, and especially of the snowy peaks of the volcanoes of Puebla
which rise in full view to the south-east, this scene can scarcely be
equalled.

As pleasing however, as the scene is, and though we meet none but
smiling faces, yet I cannot refrain from observing that remarkable
inequality so revolting to the feelings of a republican. Marchionesses
and countesses with the richest jewels, are seen at one glace with the
poor _lepero_, whose all is the single blanket which hides {437} his
nakedness. Nor is it agreeable to see a strong guard of cavalry, whose
attendance it must be presumed, is necessary to prevent disorder.
Sentinels, indeed, are posted around and in all the public buildings
of Mexico--they are posted at the entrance to the halls of Congress
and to the galleries, in various parts of the palace, (a name by which
the government house is still known,) where the President resides, and
in which are the public offices--and they are posted even in the
theatre. I am sorry thus to detract any thing from the scene which I
witnessed this evening with so much pleasure, but candor requires it.

Lent has now commenced. Public amusements (except occasionally a
concert at the theatre,) and large parties are suspended for a while.
The ladies complain occasionally of ennui. Their present diversion is
stupid enough. They assemble in small _tertulias_ every night at each
others' houses, and play an uninteresting game with cards, called
lottery. The sole object achieved is to kill time, of the value of
which Mexicans have no idea, for in themselves they have no resources
whatever. Reading is so irksome they cannot endure it--and work of any
kind costs labor. They can do naught but eat, sleep, smoke, talk, and
visit the theatre.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

NATURE AND ART.

There is extant a beautiful tradition relative to the visit of the
Queen of Sheba to King Solomon, when she "proved him with hard
questions," in order to ascertain the greatness of his wisdom and the
acuteness of his ingenuity. She ordered before him two vases of
elegant flowers--one natural, the other artificial, but of workmanship
and colors so exquisitely beautiful, that to detect in them any
unlikeness or inferiority to the genuine ones, seemed beyond the power
of the human eye. They were placed in a lattice which opened on a
parterre of the royal palace, the appropriated residence of swarms of
bees, which were engaged in gathering their delicious food. The King
ordered the lattice to be opened, and the gathering and nestling of
the bees among the honied petals of the natural blossoms, developed at
once the eye-defying secret and the ingenuity of the monarch.


  The wily Queen at the lattice placed
    Twin vases, rich and rare,
  Each with a cluster of blossoms graced,
    Beautiful, bright and fair.
  Roses, the glory of Sharon's vale--
    Lilies of thousand hues,
  Such as are rock'd by Judean gales
    And nursed by her crystal dews,
  Mingled in beauty their tints of light;--
    "Which," said the royal dame,
  "Are the fresh-born buds of the day and night?
    And which from the artist came?"
  The Tyrian dyes and the Tyrian skill,
    Glow'd in the art-made flowers,--
  Those that were nursed by the gurgling rill
    Or petted in Flora's bowers,
  No grace of fashion or shade could show
    With the beauteous things to vie;
  Alas! for him who the truth must know
    Alone by his own keen eye.
  But the lattice ope'd on a soft parterre
    That blushed to the sun's warm kiss,
  And Bees at their nectar banquet there
    Revelled in summer bliss.
  "Open the lattice," the Monarch cried--
    Sweet in the melting ray
  The humid blossoms the Bees descried,
    And pilfered the sweets away.
  Trembled in pride on their wiry stems
    The flowers that the artist made,
  But show'd not a cup where the honied gems
    Or soft farina laid.
  _Fragrance was not!_ oh! the blighted heart,
    Lured in a fatal hour,
  By the dazzling glow of deceptive art,
    Like a Bee to the scentless flower,--
  How it turns in the blight of its grief away
    From the figure that _looks_ so fair,
  But in Love's own blessed, unclouded ray,
    Is soulless and senseless there!

ELIZA.

_Maine_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A TALE OF THE WEST.

FOUNDED ON FACT.

  The course of true love never did run smooth.--_Shakspeare_.


The incidents which I am about to relate, suggest some very natural
reflections. He who now migrates to the mighty west, in pursuit of
wealth or fame, encounters none of those innumerable hidden and open
dangers which thronged the way of those who turned their faces
thitherward half a century ago; he feels not, nor need he possess, the
adventurous spirit, the intrepidity, and the astonishing resoluteness
and daring of those brave and hardy pioneers. They ascended the lofty
Alleghany, and looked off upon the ancient and almost unbroken forest,
extending far beyond the Mississippi, and covering the vast valley
which lay between them and the Rocky Mountains; while only here and
there a small settlement, composed of a few families collected
together for mutual convenience, and defence against their common
enemy, disturbed its solitary reign. So soon as they entered upon it,
they met with a foe the most wary and subtle, the most sleepless and
untiring in his hostility, the most vigilant to seize every
opportunity to satiate his bloodthirsty disposition, inflicting the
most cruel and merciless tortures, and murdering indiscriminately
every age and sex; the bold and dauntless husband, who met him hand to
hand in murderous conflict, the helpless imploring wife, and the
innocent babe sleeping upon her bosom, ruthlessly torn from her dying
grasp, fell alike beneath the deadly blow of the savage, as he smiled
with a fiendish satisfaction over his bloody deed. And is there no
cause to mitigate our anger when contemplating such scenes? Is there
no excuse for the wild, uncivilized Indian, though pursuing with a
hatred the most vindictive his enemy, yet displaying towards his
_friend_ a noble and disinterested conduct which puts to blush the
enlightened white man? Yes! They had discovered the designs of the
whites; oppressed with a thousand wrongs, driven from their homes and
the tombs of their ancestors, to which they are more fondly attached
than any other people,--"hunted down like the partridge upon the
mountain," they had formed a deadly hostility, an undying revenge
against those, whom, when few and defenceless, they had received with
open arms, and by {438} whom they were now, viper like, stung to the
heart; and they had stationed themselves upon the verge, and lurked
throughout what they believed to be their own possession, their own
inheritance,--determined to dispute every foot of it with those who
were encroaching upon them, and pursuing with a steady purpose their
extermination.

Slowly would the emigrant plod his weary and fearful way, for months,
before he could reach the place of his location, his thoughts
frequently recurring to the peaceful and quiet abode he had left, for
a home in the wilderness filled with multiplied hazards. Here a small
hut was erected to shelter his family, while he labored from morn till
night, with his rifle by his side to protect him from his insatiate
enemies, bent upon the destruction of all who invaded their territory.
Almost every day, reports of aggravated murders perpetrated by the
Indians reached his ears, filling his family with alarm and terror
lest they should become the next victims; and himself liable at every
moment to be hurried off from them upon an expedition to drive back
the enemy, and check for a while their invasion of the settlements. No
one ever felt secure; and never did they retire to rest without taking
all necessary precaution to repel an attack, and barring securely
every entrance into the house. And even in the more dense settlements,
should they collect together for the purpose of divine worship, it was
necessary that every one should meet well armed, lest even _there_
they might be attacked by their relentless and implacable enemy.

Now how changed the scene! What wonders have fifty years effected! The
mighty tide of emigration has rolled on rapidly, diffusing prosperity
and every convenience in its train. The vigorous and powerful arm of
the government, after all other proffered terms had been rejected, has
forced the savage hordes beyond the limits of the Union, or reduced
them to a tame submission, and subdued their natural warlike and
ferocious disposition by the introduction among them of the arts and
principles of civilization. The inhabitant upon the most extreme
western frontier, feels as secure in his log cabin as the wealthy
farmer upon the seaboard. Under the fostering protective wing of a
free constitution, the population has swelled to an astonishing
amount. _States_ have sprung up, exercising a large degree of weight
and influence in the government, where but yesterday the red man, now
constrained to retire, pursued through the tangled woods the wild
deer, secure and undisturbed in his enjoyment by the presence of one
single envious _pale face_. Where once the savage held his frantic
revels or pitched his wigwam, now stands the populous and flourishing
city, whose spires pierce the clouds, and where arts, science, and
literature, flourish in all the vigor of maturity. Cultivated farms
and splendid mansions, occurring at short intervals, beautify the
interior, where but lately the wild beasts roamed their native
forests. Upon the placid bosoms of the most noble and beautiful
streams, where once naught was seen or heard but the rough hewn canoe
of the Indian and the dip of his paddle, now may be constantly heard
"the puff of the engine and flutter of the wheel" of that most
beneficial production of Fulton's immortal genius, as it rides
majestically by, wafting to a profitable market the productions of a
fertile and alluvial soil. For the advantage of commerce and the
facility of communication, distant waters have been united and noble
thoroughfares constructed from one section of the country to the
other; mountains have been levelled and plains elevated. An energetic
government sends with unrivalled rapidity, and unerring certainty,
intelligence of every kind from one end of the Union to the other, so
that the most distant friends scarcely realize their separation. The
whole region now teems with industry and enterprise. Independence,
ease, contentment and hospitality characterize the inhabitants. The
emigrant from the eastern states now leaves his home and his friends
with a light heart, for a country where merit receives its reward,
where he will meet with success in every undertaking, and where wealth
or fame will crown his labors. And all this in fifty years! The valley
of the Mississippi, _then_ a wilderness, _now_ a populous and mighty
empire! What unbounded resources, what powerful energies do the people
of this country possess! What glorious and encouraging fruits are
these, of self government--of a republican constitution.

Among the emigrants to Ohio, just after the revolution, were a Mess.
Claiborne and Newton, who removed, with their families, from one of
the tide-water counties of Virginia, and settled upon the beautiful
banks of the Scioto, some distance above its mouth. Mr. Newton
selected as a site for his dwelling, a small hill upon the west side
of the river, gently descending to the water's edge, sparsely covered
with the tall majestic trees of the forest, and commanding a
delightful prospect of the river, as it lay like a polished mirror
reflecting the sunbeams from its smooth surface, or gently rippling as
the soft breezes of evening played upon its bosom; also, of the
extensive rich bottoms on either hand, and of the extensive woodland
in front. Behind, the country gracefully undulated, presenting the
pleasing variety of hill and dale, of wood and prairie. It was, in
fact, a charming situation. And long since that time, the enterprise
of another owner has made it the most handsome country seat in the
state. A noble mansion now crowns the hill with every ornamental
appurtenance, while the flats on each side, regularly divided, wave in
golden plenty, or are clothed in living green, on which hundreds of
cattle graze, or repose beneath a few of the old trees which are yet
standing. It fails not to arrest the attention and call forth the
admiration of the passenger along the Scioto. 'Twas here Mr. Newton
built him a tolerably convenient cabin, and commenced his labors. He
had taken up a large tract of country, sufficient to present each of
his children with a handsome patrimony. To the bank was moored a
graceful sail boat, such as had never floated on those waters before,
and which glided upon their even current as "a thing of life." This
was kept principally for the purpose of visiting Mr. Claiborne, who
had selected a level grove about half a mile above, on the other side,
in full view of Mr. Newton's. Directly to the rear, a frowning cliff
reared itself to the clouds; the river laved the rocky bank in front,
down which there was a descent by a flight of steps hewn out of the
limestone, where also was tied a small sail boat. There was, however,
a broader and better way a little above. Mr. Claiborne too, had made
extensive surveys in the country, intending to divide his large
possessions among his children. Modern improvements have also made
this a spot upon {439} which the eye of the delighted and tasteful
traveller is pleased to linger.

An undisturbed intimacy had ever existed between these two families;
and now that they were separated entirely, as it were, from the rest
of the world, exposed to a common danger, and were pursuing no
clashing interests, it had refined into a warm and steady friendship.
A constant intercourse was kept up between them, and means provided to
communicate immediately the alarm, should danger threaten. These two
gentlemen being in the prime and vigor of manhood, labored with
untiring industry. As there was no underwood, and the trees were tall
and did not grow very thick together, _girdling_ sufficed, and they
soon had a considerable farm prepared for planting Indian corn.

The woods abounded in excellent game, and they frequently accompanied
each other in hunting excursions, but never venturing too far, for
fear of accidents or attacks from the Indians; and always taking along
their eldest sons, in order to gratify their anxiety; but principally
to instil into them a bold, fearless, and adventurous spirit,--to
teach them some of the rudiments of the arts and stratagems of border
warfare,--and to train them to a skilful management of their
rifles,--all qualifications indispensably necessary for the
inhabitants of an unsettled and hostile country.

Among all the youths of these two families, Charles Claiborne had
early attracted notice. He displayed indubitable evidences of a
superior intellect, the most gratifying to his father, and which at
the same time won for him the respect and love of his associates. No
envious feelings rankled in their pure bosoms; they sincerely admired
him, and felt that in hours of peril to his skill, intrepidity and
bravery, they must principally look for safety. He had now nearly
attained his eighteenth year, tall and erect as an Indian Chief,
possessing an ease and grace the most simple and natural. No mark of
effeminacy was visible about his manly frame; compact, nervous, and as
active as the wild panther which he hunted. His high, broad and open
forehead, over which his smooth dark locks fell in neglected richness,
betokened the freeness and equability of his disposition, and at the
same time his resoluteness and determination; and a slight wrinkle
betrayed the existence of busy thought. Beneath an arched projecting
brow, his dark gray eye shot forth the fire of youth and genius. It
shone with a peculiar lustre; it would kindle with indignation or
contempt, as he contemplated crime or baseness, or soften down to
tenderness as a tale of woe or distress enlisted his sympathies. The
whole contour of his face was of a perfect mould. Devotedly fond of
intellectual culture, of acquiring information, he soon made himself
master of the little library which his father had brought with him,
composed of a few standard histories, Shakspeare and the Spectator;
and was now, at every spare interval, drawing rich stores of legal
knowledge from a musty old Coke, which he found among the rubbish
brought in his father's wagon, determined to "offer his professional
services" to the litigious part of the community when the country
should become more densely populated.

Several other families had already settled in the neighborhood, and
Charles was deservedly the favorite of them all. But there was _one_
to whom I shrewdly suspect he was even now _peculiarly_ agreeable, and
for whom the kind and obliging neighbors,--who will have their young
acquaintances in love or engaged, any how, and who arrange all such
matters in their gossiping conclaves without the conusance of the
parties,--had already allotted him. In this case they were not (as
usual) without some ground for their suspicions.

Eliza Newton was now arrived at that most interesting period in a
woman's life, just sixteen, when combined with the simplicity and
coyness of the girl, she possesses many of the graces and charming
attractive attributes of maturer womanhood. Like the opening rose,
which displays its crimson folds at morn before one sunbeam has kissed
the dew-drop from its leaves of softest texture, or dimmed its fresh
rich tints, her loveliness was unfolding every day. Like the wild
flowers which she loved to gather from the meadow, she had grown up
without any artificial culture of fashionable _hot beds_, in all her
native sweetness, unpretending beauty, and unaffected modesty. Roaming
at will among the delightful groves around her father's dwelling,
brushing the early dew with her pretty feet from the fragrant herbage,
or wandering at even along the silent banks of the gentle Scioto, when
each zephyr

  Offered his young pinion as her fan,

she acquired all the freshness and buoyancy of perfect health. Agile
as the young roe upon the mountain, she moved with the ease, elegance
and elasticity of a Sylph. Not too low to want a sufficient dignity of
mien, she was not so tall as to exceed the proper stature of her sex.
"Her hair's long auburn waves," curbed by a silken fillet, rolled back
from her small white forehead, flowed upon a chiselled neck white as
an Alpine mountain top; her dark blue eyes lay sleeping behind long
raven lashes, until roused, when they betrayed every sentiment of her
soul, beaming with affection or melted with pity; the transcendent hue
of her cheeks contrasted finely with the pure, healthful whiteness of
her complexion, and her sweet moist lips, just curved out enough to
bespeak her mild and even temper. In fine, she was so perfect a model
that

  The eye might doubt if it were well awake,
  She seemed so like a vision.

Amiability and kindness were the prominent traits of her character,
accompanied with the other female graces. Of a most delicate and acute
sensibility, she was keenly alive to the slightest insult, and would
repel it in a firm and dignified manner; but was ever ready to pour
the balm of reconciliation into a wound mistakenly inflicted. She
carefully forebore to speak disrespectfully of any one, and always
endeavored to place their conduct in the fairest light, which sprang
from the pure benevolence of her heart. And yet withal, she had no
little of the pride of her sex, ready to tear herself from a heart
where she had reason to believe she reigned not sole empress; slightly
imbued with jealousy, which is frequently a concomitant of the most
ardent and devoted attachment, as the deadly viper oft lays encoiled
under the bed of violets upon which we are tempted to repose. From the
small stock of substantial literature which her father's poorly filled
book case afforded, she had cultivated her mind to a degree which
thousands fail to do who have _skimmed_ over an Alexandrian library.

Let no one deem these portraitures exaggerated in {440} any respect,
for these families were among the most respectable and intelligent on
the eastern shores of the Old Dominion; but the barrenness of their
sandy plains yielded them but a small quantum of what was necessary to
sustain them in their high and expensive mode of living. They found
that vast retrenchments were to be made, or they must experience the
pinchings of poverty; and, too proud to endure the mortification of
either in the midst of their old associates and visiters, they
determined to emigrate to the west, where the rich soil affords, with
but little labor, abundance of the necessaries of life, while the
woods and rivers furnish many of its luxuries.

The parents of Charles and Eliza themselves, had marked with
satisfaction and pleasure their growing attachment, and failed not by
evidences of approbation to encourage it. And for _once_ the designs
of prudent parents and the inclinations of inconsiderate, confiding
youths coincided, and promised to result in the happiest of
consequences. Would that it _could_ be always so! How many gray hairs
would it save from going down to the grave loaded with a weight of
sorrow! how many tender hearts would it preserve from an early and
hopeless blight! How many lovely and interesting females would it save
from tortures worse than the fabled one, of being linked to dead
bodies, those of being wedded to rich fools, or sots, or knaves, upon
whom they can never place their affections, and whom they frequently
hate from their inmost hearts.

Though they had ever been in habits of constant intimacy, taught to
view each other in the light of brother and sister, and mingling
freely for years in every sport of their childhood, yet a year or two
having almost magically brought Eliza to womanhood, she began to feel
a strange restraint in the company of Charles, which the presence of
no one else produced. As rapidly as the sweet accents might be falling
from her active tongue, his entrance hushed them completely; and even
he would _labor_ for some time, through a few short sentences. Yet
notwithstanding these unusual effects, each felt that the cause which
produced them was not unwelcomed; and when _plagued about it_, (as the
phrase is) the crimson blush that mantled their burning cheeks,
indicated too clearly where arose this sudden alteration in their
deportment towards each other,--what had put an end to all the little
familiarities before so frequent. Gradually, however, would the leaden
weight fall from Charles' tongue; and as he would relate to the
company in most graphic and thrilling terms his dangerous pursuit of
the fierce panther or infuriated wolf, following them into the most
retired recesses, encountering them in their darkest caverns, and
drawing them forth dead, to the astonishment of his less venturesome
associates,--or his "hair breadth escapes" in wresting from the
infuriated she-bear her whelps, the very great interest vividly
manifest in Eliza's countenance, the breathless attention with which
she hung upon every word and caught each syllable as it fell from his
lips, and the quickly averted glance, her color slightly heightening
as he _frequently_ directed his eye towards her, soon convinced
Charles that he was the object of something more than an ordinary
regard in her bosom; nay, that he had actually won her affections. As
for himself he had long since been enthralled; nor could it be
otherwise. There is in every bosom, susceptibilities for all the
emotions; and so soon as causes calculated to excite them are
presented, quick as an electric flash the emotions succeed. Thus in
love, there is a susceptibility in every mind to be pleased with
certain virtues or actions; and when we perceive them, it is as
impossible not to admire them as to believe that they have never
existed. And when a combination of such qualities without a blemish is
discovered in any person, he had as well try to drive back the current
of the Mississippi as to resist the inevitable consequence. The
emotion of _love_ involuntarily arises; he _must_ love, for such is
his mental constitution; the feeling becomes a part of himself; he had
no agency in effecting it; he feels not, nor can he feel a disposition
to divest himself of it. Circumstances may induce him to check it, to
trample it down, to clip each bud as it appears, but he can never
extinguish it; he cannot destroy it. But let him give himself up to be
bound in its pleasant fetters; let him suffer it to sway an undivided
sceptre over him; let him give loose reins to it; let him plunge
himself into its delicious tide, and drink with a quenchless thirst
its intoxicating draughts; and then let him be thwarted, and no one
may safely predict the consequences to even the most powerful
intellect, that contemns every other loss or reverse of fortune. Until
something is done to excite a contrary emotion, ages of separation
cannot dim or extinguish it. For as in some fluids the application of
heat may entirely alter their qualities, so in love, a deception or
disappointment in some admired or prominent qualification, frequently
changes every feeling of regard for the object, into the most bitter
and relentless hatred.

A very short time intervened, before Charles summoned the resolution
to communicate the existence of his passion. Upon a mild evening in
May, as the shadows stretched their gigantic lengths across the plain,
Charles moored his little boat at the foot of the hill, and ascended
to Mr. Newton's. Eliza (as usual) met him at the door, and ushered him
into an apartment denominated the parlor, though appropriated to
various uses. They were seated by an open window toward the west,
along the frames of which a honey-suckle twined its clinging tendrils;
the mild, red rays of the setting sun peered through its thick
foliage, and added a brighter tint to Eliza's fine complexion; the
evening dews were falling upon the blooming honey-suckle, which
breathed its fragrant odors upon the happy pair. She seemed to look
peculiarly sweet and lovely. A few desultory remarks upon the serenity
and pleasantness of the evening, and then--in language which I shall
not detail--he poured out his heart's fulness into her ear. At this
avowal, her face budded into a rich rubescent glow, and the veins in
her clear, round neck, swelled almost to bursting. She replied not;
but a yielding of her soft little hand, which be involuntarily pressed
to his lips, confirmed the happiness of the enraptured swain--and blew
into an inextinguishable flame, that spark of love, which he had long
cherished within his heart, and fanned with a sleepless assiduity. He
soon departed for his father's; he rowed slowly up the river, whose
waves reflecting the moonbeams, seemed like molten gold, while the
stars twinkled brightly above him: the scene was enchanting, and his
already excited feelings caught the inspiration. A plunge against the
bank awakened him from his reverie, and he {441} discovered that he
was far above his father's. The delighted girl retired to her room,
and wept herself to sleep--when she dreamed incessantly of Elysian
fields, and happy islands upon the bosom of the deep blue sea, through
which she and her Charles roamed happy as their fabled inhabitants.
Very _frequently_ after this, was Charles' little boat seen gliding,
in the cool of the evening, towards Mr. Newton's; and he seemed much
more addicted to hunting of late, particularly on the _west_ side of
the river, especially as he never failed, on his return from his
fatiguing rambles, to meet at Mr. Newton's the best refreshments,
prepared in Eliza's most tasty style.

Thus a year marched onward in the track of time, unmarked by any
unusual incident. The parties heeded not its rapid flight, but
enjoying together every amusement and innocent pleasure which their
imaginations could devise, they lived in a state the nearest to bliss
they ever saw on earth.

Early however, in the following summer, as Mr. Claiborne's family were
sitting beneath a large oak in the yard, being refreshed by the pure,
cool breezes from the river, Charles espied Eliza wandering, with a
little sister, along the meadows on the opposite side, gayly and
joyously taking her accustomed recreation, and plucking the
innumerable wild flowers that decorated her path. So long had this
settlement been undisturbed, that a dread of the savages no longer
existed; both children and females walked miles unaccompanied, and
without the least apprehension of danger, relaxing their precaution in
many particulars. While Charles was eyeing with delight Eliza's
graceful movements, he saw two Indians dart suddenly from the edge of
a thick copse of pawpaw, and seizing the frantic girl and child, bear
them off, shrieking, into the woods. Charles distinctly heard the
screaming, which pierced his inmost soul. "My God!" he exclaimed, "she
is taken;" and springing from his seat, he rushed into the house. The
affrighted family followed him, to learn the cause of his conduct; but
all he said was, "the Indians have taken her! have taken her!" Excited
almost to madness, seizing his rifle, he flew to the stable, mounted
his fleet hunter without his saddle, and calling his faithful
bloodhound, went as fast as his charger, urged on by every incentive,
could carry him; and at the same time crying, "Indians! Indians!" He
swam the river, and the astonished family soon saw him entering the
woods, his fierce dog upon the track. The alarm was soon given, and
the whole neighborhood was in commotion. Charles pursued, as well as
he could through the trees, the course of his unerring bloodhound.
Swift as the wind, had the Indians run over hill and dale towards the
lakes, until long after midnight; thinking they had not been seen, and
had eluded pursuit; weary with bearing upon their backs their helpless
captives, and reaching a deep ravine, they determined to kindle a fire
and prepare some refreshments. They bound each of the girls to a
sapling with a strip of bark, and commenced their culinary operations.
Scarcely had they been seated an hour, before Charles approached, and
seeing the light, called in, softly, his hound, and dismounted to
reconnoitre. A moment's observation satisfied him. He could see but
one of the Indians, and he sat just beyond Eliza, his _head_ only
perceptible above her's. The least tremor or precipitancy might defeat
his purpose--kill the prized object which he wished to rescue, or
place them both at the _mercy_ of the savages. With deliberation, a
firm and steady arm, he levelled his rifle, and fired,--the impatient
dog at the same time springing forward with the fierceness of a tiger.
Charles rushed to the spot, with a drawn knife. One Indian lay
senseless weltering in his blood; and seizing a tomahawk, he plunged
it into the head of the other, who was engaged in mortal strife with
the eager hound, which clung to his throat with an iron grasp. He
severed at a stroke the cursed cords that bound the pretty form of his
Eliza. As the truth opened to the vision of the enraptured girl,
overpowered with joy, she fell insensate into his arms: he drew her
closely to his bosom, felt the wild fluttering of her little heart,
and kissed to life again her bloodless lips. Gradually she revived,
and in the bewildered consciousness of waking, threw her arms around
his neck, calling his name in the most tender, affectionate accents.
"Could all the hours of hope, joy and pleasure in Charles' previous
life, have been melted down and concentrated into a single emotion,
that emotion would have been _tame_ to the _rapture_ of Eliza's
momentary embrace."[1] Upon complete restoration, she wept with real
pleasure; poured out upon her benefactor, her deliverer, her own
Charles, ceaseless expressions of gratitude and love--renewed her
faithful vows, and "plighted them upon her heart." Ah, why not, in
such a moment, let the bright spirit wing its upward flight, nor keep
it here to feel the stings of remorse or pain. Day had dawned. This
was the first human blood Charles had ever shed; and as he left this
eventful spot, yet pointed out to the traveller, he cast an eye of
pity upon the senseless corpses, and even then a sigh of regret
escaped his tender bosom. Taking Eliza behind him, and her sister
before, he pointed out the way to his hound, and commenced his return.
He soon met with some of the party who had commenced the pursuit, and
with them, returned to bear the precious, rescued captives, to their
anxious, miserable parents. Such a day of rejoicing, the settlement
had never seen before, when the glad tidings were made known; and the
heroic adventure of Charles received the merited applause of all.

[Footnote 1: Bulwer.]

Of late years, there had been a rapid influx of emigrants from the
east to this part of the Ohio; and a small village had sprung up, as a
mushroom in the night, a few miles below this settlement. To this
place all the produce of the country was carried, by the inhabitants,
to be exchanged for such articles of necessity or luxury as they
wanted. It soon became a flourishing little town. Its necessities
called for a post office, to which there was a weekly mail on
horseback from the East, and from Fort Washington, (now Cincinnati.) A
very respectable merchant of that place was appointed, with general
satisfaction, the post master. His name was Bryant, a native of
Pennsylvania. He was considered a very honorable and active young
gentleman--very prepossessing in his appearance, easy and agreeable in
his manners, intelligent, and quite popular. His evident fondness for
drinking was not _then deemed_ a disgrace, and his tendency to
extravagance was attributed to his generous and liberal disposition;
and every body sagely predicted, that age would lop off these
excrescences {442} from a character otherwise very good. He had seen
Miss Newton several times, and had become enamored of her, and his
visits to her father's became very frequent; for though he received no
encouragement whatever from the daughter, he was always treated
politely and respectfully, and with true old Virginia hospitality, by
the parents.

The earnest efforts of the President of the United States, to give
security to the northwestern frontier by pacific arrangements, having
proved unavailing, it became evident that vigorous offensive
operations only would bring the Indian war to a happy conclusion.
Accordingly, in 1791, General Harmer was ordered to leave Fort
Washington with a considerable body of troops, and to bring the
Indians to an engagement, or at least to destroy totally their
villages upon the Scioto and Miami rivers. A general call was made
upon the militia of Ohio and the surrounding states, to join in this
expedition, which if successful, would permanently secure them against
the dreadful incursions of their savage foes. Fired with indignation
at the late outrage committed in the neighborhood, and impelled by a
noble ambition for distinction, young Claiborne commenced enlisting a
company of volunteers. He soon succeeded in obtaining a hundred
signatures to his list, from the extensive county of Ross, and was
unanimously elected their captain. The first of October was appointed
as the day for commencing their march.

As much as Eliza admired this manifestation of bravery and patriotism
in Charles, and how highly soever she might be pleased to hear of his
distinction, this resolve of his was a source of real pain to the
affectionate and devoted girl. The innumerable dangers and hardships
of Indian warfare, magnified by her attachment to him who was to be
subject to them, overwhelmed her with grief and sad apprehensions.
Charles' visits to Mr. Newton's were no less frequent than heretofore,
and his efforts to console his weeping Eliza, and relieve her fears,
were unceasing. He painted to her, her own late fortunate escape, and
told her of the salutary consequences to their own security and
prosperity, which must ensue from a subjugation of the enemy. She was
partly reconciled and resigned. But banish she could not, her
forebodings of ill, so natural. Ah! love, why

  "With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers?"

Why is the brimming cup of bliss dashed down just as it touches the
opening lips? Why are all our fond hopes delusions--all our realities
as fruit of the dead sea, beautiful to the eye, but turning to bitter
ashes on the tongue--but to loosen the already too tenacious hold with
which we cling to this world, and fasten it on the skies? Who reads
not this in every day's experience? Yet who, alas! obeys the warning?
With painful, tortured feelings, did this devoted pair note the
merciless rapidity with which time bore off the two short weeks yet
remaining, before his departure. The last day of September had
arrived, and to-morrow Charles must meet his company at the village.
Towards evening he rowed over to Mr. Newton's, with a heavy heart; yet
fearful of no consequences from his absence, but the pain of a
separation from one whose being constituted a part of his own
existence. Charles had given up his whole heart, and loved with an
ardency stronger than death itself. A melancholy sadness sat upon
Eliza's countenance, and a crystal tear-drop glistened in her pensive
eye,--which made her appear peculiarly interesting to the devoted
Charles. The reader must imagine the thousand mutual vows of unaltered
and unalterable affection--the unreserved surrender of the whole
heart--the frequent oaths by the immoveable hills--the pressing
importunities never to forget or forsake--to casket in each other's
heart but one jewel, each other's image--and the innumerable other
such things which lovers are wont to pour forth on far less serious
occasions. He promised to write frequently; and to insure her of his
purpose, he said that should he not, she might properly think that he
had forgotten her, and that all his vows were false; for there would
be a constant intercourse between the army and Fort Washington,--to
which place he could forward his letters, and thence they would
certainly come safely by mail. When about to leave, he took her pretty
little hand, and drawing a plain gold ring from his pocket, placed it
on her slender, tapered finger; and knowing that the blood which
flowed beneath his grasp, came warm from a heart that throbbed for him
alone, he impressed it with a thousand kisses, and washed them off
with his manly tears. Let not the callous, cold-hearted worldling,
curl his worthless lip in derision--or the _proud_ man made of sterner
stuff, "blush for his sex." Unfeeling indeed, would he have been, had
he done otherwise; for there stood the prettiest creature in the
world, who had enriched him with an enviable affection, one arm around
his neck, her aching head leaning against his breast, and her pure,
innocent bosom, which never yet felt the piercings of sorrow's icy
dart, heaving with the most convulsive sobs. Who has not felt that the
thought of a month's separation from one we love, though conscious of
its short duration, sickens the heart? But hope, the mild soother of
every ill which betides us, and which brightly gilds our darkest
forebodings, could here scarcely administer its delusive consolation;
and they were to separate, pained and tortured by the "undying
thought, that they _no more_ might meet." He who can look with scorn
or coldness on such a scene as this, or calling it weakness, laugh at
it,--may keep his poor enjoyment for me, and without my envy, go along
his cheerless path, unillumed by a single ray of true and warm
affection, himself a stranger to one tender emotion.

The volunteers commenced their march on the morrow, intending to unite
with the main body of forces on the Miami; but in a few days met
General Harmer on his way to reduce the savages upon the Scioto, and
did much brave service in the severe but fruitless conflict on that
river,--Claiborne gallantly and heroically distinguishing himself at
their head, and obtained a particular notice in the public despatches
of the commanding officer. He returned with the troops to Fort
Washington, and addressed a letter to his father, and one to Eliza,
giving a glowing description of the deadly engagement.

In the disastrous battle upon the Miami, under General St. Clair, he
was among the bravest of those who, under General Darke, so daringly
charged at the point of the bayonet the concealed Indians, and drove
them from their covert twice, but without material advantage; and
among those who greatly distinguished themselves for fearlessly
fronting the most threatening danger, was Captain Claiborne--and
justice was done to {443} his intrepidity and cool bravery in the
official despatches. In the glorious battle upon the Maumee, where
General Wayne commanded--refusing to surrender the station of
commandant of his own brave and hardy volunteers, now greatly reduced,
for the office of Colonel in the regular army, he was in the front
rank of that legion, which advanced with trailed arms, and hunted the
Indians from their concealment, which produced the utter route of the
enemy, terminated in their overthrow, and forced them to a tame
submission--which eventuated in a definitive treaty of peace in 1795,
and brought joy and gladness to the heart of every western citizen.

Four tedious and eventful years had Charles been absent from one,
around whom his heart's tenderest affections clung with a deathless
tenacity, and for whose sake not one hour in the day o'erslipped him,
that he sighed not. Why he never returned while the army was stationed
at its various winter quarters, I am unable to say. But unnumbered
times had he written the most passionate and affectionate letters; and
to them all he had never received an answer. For this he consoled
himself with the thought, that they had supposed it fruitless to send
letters to one whose situation was so uncertain, or to Eliza's
delicacy to entrust her communications to so precarious a mode of
conveyance, which was rendered probable by his _father's_ not having
written. Any excuse satisfied him, and quelled every doubt of the
fidelity of one whose constancy it was painful to _suspect_. 'Twas the
thought of her--the thought that the unyielding opposition of these
savages so long detained him from her presence, that drove him upon
their unshrinking ranks with a tiger-like ferocity, and nerved his arm
for the resistless stroke. And now that his object was accomplished,
at the head of the few remaining volunteers who started with him, he
took up his line of march for the peaceful valley of the Scioto, where
he flattered himself he should close his life in tranquillity and with
honor, possessed of a treasure, richer far

  "Than all the trophies of the victor are."

How false, alas! all human calculations! What a cheat our every hope!

After a long and painful journey, he reached a hill which overlooked
his home--that silent valley, where he had enjoyed his only bliss
unmixed with grief.

  "He stopped. What singular emotions fill
   Their bosoms who have been induced to roam,
   With fluttering doubts if all be well or ill?"

He reached his father's house, and was received with the greatest joy
by its inmates. They had almost despaired of his return, so long had
they been ignorant of his very existence; and his arrival dissipated
the cloud of grief which had frequently overshadowed them. The bustle
of first greetings over, he had some excellent refreshments set out
for his companions; and when they drank his health with repeated
cheers, he addressed them for a few minutes in the most feeling
strains, expressed his gratitude for the noble and faithful manner in
which they had discharged their duties, and wished them years of
prosperity and happiness to compensate them for their toils and
dangers. When he finished, each one pressing his hand, shouldered his
knapsack and left for his own _home_.

And now he hurried to his mother's apartment to gather some
intelligence concerning his friends; and to his first inquiry about
Eliza, the old lady rather pleasantly remarked, "you staid too
long--she's married!" Little did she anticipate the effect this
communication produced. With an incredulous air, he replied, "you
jest. Eliza Newton, married! dead, rather! no, never. But to whom!"
"To Mr. Bryant?" At once the fatal truth flashed upon his mind, and
pierced his brain like a hot fire-brand. "_Eliza Newton_, so
forgetful, so ungrateful, so inconstant, so _deceitful!_" His heart
sunk within him. The object which he adored, _unworthy!_ Suddenly his
head drooped to his knee, and one convulsive groan told the anguish of
his soul. His mother called to him in soothing accents. He lifted
himself, deadly pale, his lips all dabbled with blood, a vein had
burst, his fiery eyes gleamed with a wild and unnatural glare, and
gazing with a piercing stare upon his petrified mother, he shrieked in
a thrilling, fearful tone, "impossible, _she_, false! then where is
truth?" and springing to his feet, he fell senseless on the floor. His
distracted mother just recovered from her alarm, flew for assistance;
he was soon consigned to a bed, and a messenger despatched to the
village for a physician. He gazed on all with a vacant stare--his old
broken-hearted father sat beside him, and he turned himself away. His
weeping sisters sat around his pillow, but he knew them not. His
temples throbbed furiously, and his blood coursed through his veins in
rapid, boiling waves. All feared that his manly intellect had been
shivered by this sudden and tremendous stroke. The physician
arrived,--and assured them, that he had hopes that his mind was not
irreparably impaired, and by keeping him still and quiet, with the
help of some cooling draughts, he might yet recover, though his brain
was considerably affected. He remained a while to watch the symptoms,
and then leaving such directions as his skill suggested, he left this
afflicted family. He returned and reported the case and its cause. The
report soon reached the ears of Mrs. Bryant--when with a chilling
effect, the remembrance of early affection came across her--the ghosts
of by-gone joys stalked around her--but no distraction ensued--_tears_
came to her relief, and quenched the fires that seemed to consume her
heart. Frequently the stroke which crushes the stout and stubborn mind
of man, only bruises the more pliable and yielding intellect of woman,
as the storm before which the slender reed bows to the ground, but
rises when it is past, tears up by the roots, and dashes to a thousand
pieces the gnarled oak. There was one consoling thought, however,
which mitigated the pains that Mrs. Bryant felt. There was another
reason which calmed her troubled bosom. Whenever there appears an
object of pity, or charity, every feeling of woman is enlisted to
administer relief; and as the lighter bodies float upon the surface,
self, with all its concerns and every other consideration, for the
present, sinks to the bottom,--while tenderness, sympathy and
kindness, direct every sentiment and exertion in favor of the
sufferer. Such was the case in the present instance. Her husband was
from home, and Mrs. Bryant loaded with every thing suited to
Claiborne's situation, hastened to her father's, and then to Mr.
Claiborne's. She was kindly and affectionately received by the family.
Pale and agitated, she entered the apartment of her unfortunate
Charles. He turned an unmeaning glance upon her, but recognised her
not. {444} This she scarcely regretted, as she might administer each
healing potion, or bathe his burning temples, without his knowing the
hand which did it. For a week or two she remained at her father's,
going over every day, and frequently sitting beside his bed through
the long silent watches of the night, ruminating with a bleeding
heart, upon her own unfortunate situation, all her affection revived
for one she had driven to madness, and whom she could never
possess--keen despair and biting remorse, her only reward for the part
she had acted in this sad tragedy. As memory retraced upon her mind
with a burning finger each happy moment of her youth now gone, and her
fond hopes disappointed--she cursed bitterly the hour in which she
first saw the light. Unspeakable anguish!--Mr. Bryant returned, _and
thought her presence necessary at home_. Reluctantly she obeyed, she
feared to see his face. She was deceived--she had never rendered him
her whole heart, and even that little seemed now to quit its hold.
Censure her not, but listen further. With a sharp reproof for her
_imprudence_, Bryant suffered her no more to visit her father's.
Submissively she obeyed. She endeavored to respect and appear
agreeable to her husband. And by her unceasing exertion she partly
succeeded, and he seemed reconciled, but from her heart of hearts, his
image was excluded. 'Twas true the nuptials had been celebrated, the
troth plighted, but it was all a sacrilege, they had never been united
"heart in heart." Her affections had never been _wholly_ estranged
from Claiborne. Assidiously after his departure, did Bryant urge his
suit, but without the least prospect of success: yet the ardency of
his love, suffered no denial to frustrate his designs. He however grew
apace, in favor with her father; his bland, and agreeable manners, and
business habits, made him quite acceptable to the old gentleman. Two
years had now gone by, and yet not one word in any shape from Charles.
The defeats of Harmer and St. Clair had reached their ears, and
probably he had fallen among the heroic officers, who met their fate
in those calamitous engagements. So thought Mr. Newton,--if not, he
had treated them very disrespectfully. Eliza was loath to think so.
But we have observed that she was acutely sensible, and possessed of
some of the pride of her sex. She remembered Charles' last words, and
began to suspect they were designedly spoken, and that probably he had
gone on this expedition for the express purpose, else why would he
have staid so long unnecessarily, as she supposed; and not a syllable
had he written her, though two years had elapsed. Even to a less
jealous mind these incidents would have been strong confirmations. And
dwelling upon them, she wrought herself into the belief that Charles
had deceived her--and she determined to be independent, and to tear
her affections from him, cost what it might. She sighed that it was
so, but gave him up without an effort. Had he never returned, she
might probably have lived at least a contented life.

Bryant was scrupulously silent on the subject of Charles' absence or
his neglect, suffering it to produce its own effects. Yet Eliza loved
_him_ not. But since she had loosed her hold on Charles, she seemed to
be out on the boundless sea--without a spot on which to cast hope's
anchor; and woman must love something--she loves to love. And yielding
to the importunities, the frequent suggestions of her father, who
thought it would be a very _prudent_ match, and a very agreeable one
with a little exertion on her part--she determined to _hazard_ the
throw, and granted Mr. Bryant her hand. Would that parents grown
prudent with age, and thinking only of _wealth_, would recall for a
moment their own youthful sentiments, and not urge their children into
engagements against which every feeling revolts--for however small the
defect objected to, or how groundless soever each little prejudice,
yet they may produce jars and schisms the most disagreeable and
painful, and for which no splendor of equipage or name can ever
compensate. The nuptials of Eliza and Bryant were celebrated the fall
before Charles' return, with considerable eclat for that quiet
settlement. And though the bride seemed calm and contented, yet she
had lost her former gaiety and buoyancy of spirits. With the exception
of a slight ebullition of anger, occasionally, things had glided on
smoothly till Charles' return, and thus they stood at that time.

Slowly and gradually Claiborne recovered his senses and health. After
three months close confinement he was so far improved as to be able to
ride a little on horseback, or take short excursions upon the river in
the sail boat. The presence of old scenes revived his memory, and
seemed to strengthen his other faculties. Though pensive ever, yet his
alienation returned not. After he had fairly recovered, for the first
time, he inquired, if they had never heard from him. When told
_never_, he said it was mysterious, as he had written hundreds of
times, and first from Fort Washington itself. He said a black deed
might yet develope itself. And when informed that Eliza had kindly
waited on him, until prohibited by her husband, he exclaimed,
"deception! I am satisfied. But let me not stay where every scene
sends a dagger to my heart." All preparations were soon made and the
unhappy Claiborne left his home, his weeping friends, the haunts of
his early youth, and the theatre of his only blissful hours, for the
territory of Mississippi, where he practised law. He soon became
popular throughout the whole country, and was finally elevated to the
Chief Magistracy of the state. After having filled his term of office
with distinguished honor, he retired to private life; and soon after
sunk to an early grave, "unregretting--regretted by all." Like the
meteor flash, his career was brilliant, but transient. With his health
he never regained his natural gay and lightsome temperament. Gloomy
and melancholy he shunned the abodes of pleasure or merriment--lived
in retirement, and cherished within his bosom an unextinguishable
flame, that "finally corroded each vital part," and sunk him to the
tomb.

Not long after Claiborne's departure, Bryant went upon a trading
expedition, and for the first time left his keys with his wife, with
the charge, that if a certain person called for some money, to let him
have it out of his desk. While there for that purpose, her
curiosity--I might say her suspicions--led her to examine the contents
of the drawers, when in one, oh! blackest deed on memory's record! oh!
most base and villainous deception! She met with a large packet of
letters addressed to herself and Claiborne's father. Pale and
motionless she stood, struck with amazement and horror. She saw
herself the _wife_ of a vile hypocrite--the author of all her own
misery and sorrow--the demon of the desolation and blight of happiness
she had witnessed in an {445} excellent family--the injurer and almost
_murderer_ of the noble and generous Charles Claiborne. The idea froze
the blood in her very heart. She read Claiborne's repeated
declarations of increasing affection in every letter--the irksomeness
of all his pursuits uncheered by her smiles,--his kind but touching
reproofs for not writing--his marked effort in every line to please
and delight--they were all unsealed and had been read by this
cool-blooded villain. The blackness of the deed was aggravated by the
deliberation with which it was done, and that too, while he perceived
the anxiety and painful suspense of the dearest friends of one, whom
he was thus so deeply injuring. The poor Eliza had borne up under all
but this; and now that she saw her _husband_ a fiend at heart--her
anguish was insupportable--her bosom was racked with every conflicting
emotion--her eyes swam--her bewildered brain whirled, and she sank to
the floor. How long she lay in this state she knew not; but when she
recovered, she replaced every thing carefully, and retired. Ten
thousand agonizing reflections inflicted their torments upon her mind.
She soon resolved upon her course. Erring on the better side, she
determined to endure every suffering, to preserve her _husband_ from
ignominy, but to cherish her sorrows, which she hoped would very soon
wear out the little of life that remained--

  But life's strange principle will often lie,
  Deepest in those who long the most to die.

And she _did_ live, to be chained yet longer to one she could but
hate--she lived to receive the abuse of one who by a hell-engendered
artifice seduced her from the sheltering, peaceful roof of her
father--she lived to see him a beastly slave to intoxication--she
lived to see her whole family reduced to want and misery by becoming
sureties for this now unprincipled spendthrift--she lived to see the
just retribution of heaven poured out upon the defenceless head, of
this serpent, which wound his way into Paradise and brought its
inmates to shame and poverty--she lived to see him die in want and
disgrace, raving with the agonies of despair. And she herself survived
but a short time, a pensioner upon the bounty of a few friends, who
received her into their houses, to cheer, if possible, the approaching
close of her painful and wretched existence;--which blind,
presumptuous man, ignorant of the wise designs of Providence would
fain pronounce too severe a fate, for a flower so tender and beautiful
in its first buddings.

_Lovingston, Virginia, March 25, 1835_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A TALE OF A NOSE.

BY PERTINAX PLACID.

  I had a dream, which was not all a dream.--_Byron_.


The story which I am about to relate may by some be considered
extravagant. I shall not argue the point; but content myself with the
reflection that mankind have never yet been unanimous in their
opinions in relation to any subject which admitted of a question.
There are two special merits which I claim for my story, viz: that it
is _brief_, and that it has a _moral_. Such as it is I offer it to the
consideration of the reader.

It was a beautiful night in July.--The noble steamer "Dewitt Clinton"
was speeding her way through the moonlit waters of the Hudson,
thronged with passengers. We had left Albany late in the afternoon;
already we had passed the majestic Cattskill, and were entering among
those gorgeous scenes of nature which have been celebrated by an
hundred pens.--Julia and myself had escaped from the crowd below, to
the upper "round house" or roofing of the boat, which commanded an
unobstructed view of the objects on either side of the river, and
where we were secure from interruption, the myriads below being too
busily engaged in contending for berths, and preparing for their
night's lodging, to seek out our retreat or participate in the
enjoyment of the beauties we were contemplating.

After paying due homage to the magnificent scenery around us, our
conversation took a more common-place turn, and, as we had met that
day after a long separation, during which Julia had paid a visit to
some of our old friends in the north, she detailed to me the many
happy meetings and amusing incidents of her excursion. She had gone
through a long narration of the sayings and doings of aunts and
cousins, and had given me a full list of new members of several
families which we remembered in their simple elements, when the
fathers and mothers were girls and boys, innocent of all thoughts of
matrimony, and ignorant of its joys and sorrows. She enumerated the
births, deaths and marriages of a whole village, in each individual
resident of which we had felt more or less interest in our early
years, and detailed their various changes of fortune and situation. In
fact she brought up many years' arrearages of information, to me of
more importance than the result of the Kentucky election, or the fate
of the prime match on the Union Course between the best horses of the
north and south. The private history of the old associates of my
youth, as thus narrated to me, might have afforded a moral to adorn a
tale of much higher interest than this I am now writing.

"And you saw my Aunt Deborah," said I. "Pray how does she look, and
what did she say? I remember the eccentric old soul, as if the ten
long years since I have seen her had been but as many months. Many a
lecture did she utter on the extravagance, the impetuosity, and the
recklessness of my boyhood; and much did she preach to me of prudence
and moderation, I fear, in vain. Does she still remember my wild
pranks?"

"Oh yes--but her censure of your wildness was so mingled with praises
of your good qualities, that I doubt whether she would have permitted
another person to speak ill, even of those points in your character
which she blamed the most."

"Kind old woman! It was so when I was a boy. She was perpetually
lecturing, and yet she was most kind to me. And somehow, in spite of
her irksome admonitions, for which I had then no great relish, I soon
discovered that I was a favorite with her."

"On one point she was particularly urgent. She questioned me whether
you had as yet learned the value of money, observing, that in your
younger days you had been a good-for-nothing little spendthrift."

"I hope you did not deceive the good old lady. It would be but fair
that she should know that the prudence with which I was not born, has
failed as yet of obtaining a lodgment in my head. It would have been a
pity to deprive her of the glorious consolation of {446} knowing that
her predictions of my improvidence have been fully realized."

"Well, I did not think it necessary to inform her of the full extent
of your delinquency; but I admitted to her that you had not the gift
of _saving_, which she admires so much."

"She often told me that I would never acquire it."

"Oh, now I remember, she charged me to deliver to you a renewed
admonition to prudence and economy. 'Tell E----,' said she, with great
solemnity, made still more solemn by the huge pinch of snuff which she
disposed of at the moment, 'that he must look forward to the future,
and now, while he is prosperous, prepare for a less plentiful time,
which may come. Tell him that, unless he studies prudence and economy,
sooner or later, _his nose must come to the grindstone_.' I hope you
will profit by the exhortation."

"I wish I could, I hope I may," said I, with something like a sigh
interrupting for a moment the laugh, which I could not resist, at the
expense of my good-hearted aunt Deborah.

Some further conversation occupied us for a short time, when we were
admonished by the comparative quiet which had taken place of the
bustle below, that it was time to seek such rest as we might find
among the crowd.

Those persons who have not travelled in a "night-boat," as a steamer
is called which performs its trips during the night, are probably not
aware of the kind of lodgings which it affords when the number of
passengers is large. The disposal of five hundred lodgers on board a
steam boat is no trifling task. The berths are of course limited in
number, and when crowded, the floors of the cabins are covered with
sleeping contrivances of various descriptions. Settees, cots, and a
kind of oblong box, having thin mattresses spread over them, with a
sheet and blanket perhaps, are wedged together, each calculated to
hold the body of a human being, by the most scanty and economical
measurement. The berths are first exhausted by those who are most
prompt in looking after their own comfort; and then comes the scramble
for the cots, settees, &c. In this contest high words often occur, and
in some instances I have heard of serious conflicts for the possession
of one of these miserable dormitories.

On this occasion I had enlisted the good offices of the younger
Captain Sherman, who promised to secure me a lodging, and when I
entered the cabin it was pointed out to me. Numbers had been less
fortunate, and unable to procure a place of rest below, had
accommodated themselves upon benches, chairs, &c. above,--or wrapped
in cloaks, had stretched themselves on the deck. Clambering over those
who had already retired, I stretched myself on my pallet. In doing so
I awoke my next neighbor, a gigantic Kentuckian, who lay cramped up in
his scanty cot, like a stranded leviathan among a shoal of porpoises.

He cast his eyes upon me, and with an ineffectual attempt to extend
his limbs, muttered, "Close stowing this, stranger."

I assented to the truth of his remark; but he seemed in no mood for
conversation, and was soon fast asleep. The heat was suffocating from
the effusions of so many human bodies lying in rows, almost touching
each other,

  "Thick as the autumnal leaves which strow the brooks
   In Vallombrosa."

I found it impossible to sleep. The feverish state of the atmosphere,
and the tumult around me, scared the drowsy god from my pillow--[I had
no pillow by the way, but made my great coat serve as a substitute for
one.] The thundering and crashing of the engine,--the dashing of the
paddles in the water--the stamping of feet above our heads--the uproar
of many voices, heard at intervals when some order was given to the
crew--the _banging_ of the wood upon the planks, at it was transferred
from the pile to the engine-room--the rumbling of ballast-boxes, as
they were occasionally transferred from side to side, for the purpose
of _trimming_ the steamer--the harsh rattling of the tackle, as a boat
was lowered, to land or take off passengers by a _tow line_,[1] and
the simultaneous rush to the gangway of those who were to go on shore,
while the subtile fluid which gave motion to our floating caravan,
being partially restrained, emitted a wheezing and uncomfortable
sound.

[Footnote 1: This method of landing and taking off passengers was
practised for many years on the Hudson, but finally abolished by law,
on account of its risks, several fatal accidents having been caused by
it. The steamer was not brought to during the operation; but a tow
line attached to the small boat, was out from the steamer, and drawn
in by the machinery with great velocity.]

But who shall describe the varied and terrific music of the steam
engine? I do not attempt it, not doubting that in the march of
improvement, the poet will hereafter make it a special theme; and that
some American Mayerbeer or Mozart, will consider the composition of a
passage by steam from Albany to New York, as affording facilities for
expression and contrast, equally sublime with the March in Saul or the
Battle of Prague.--Occasionally we came to a dead stop at some
principal landing place. For a moment the engine was hushed, as silent
as death; then a feeble whistle was heard from the steam pipe, (sweet,
shrill and almost plaintive,) followed by a roar of the imprisoned
element, fiercely exulting at its recovered liberty, as it was _let
off_ from the engine, and rushing forth with such gigantic impulse as
to shake every timber in the vessel.--Gradually the roar subsides;
slowly, slowly, until a humming sound succeeds, as though all the bees
of Hybla were swarming around our heads. Suddenly it ceases, and for a
moment the steam is silent. Then again, the hoarse thunder of the
machinery commences, the paddles dash the water from beneath them,
with giant strides, and the motion of the vessel is distinctly felt,
as she rushes onward in her course.

Such were the sounds above which afforded to the hundreds of sleepers
a discordant lullaby, sufficiently hostile to repose, one would think,
to drive slumber from the eyelids of Somnus himself. But all this
"mortal pudder o'er our heads," was less distracting than the concert
of discords which was in a coarse of performance immediately around
me, comparatively, it is true, in a _minor key_.--One hundred and
fifty _wind instruments_ of various constructions and dimensions, were
playing _ad-libitum_, in every diversity of tone and time, concertos,
fantasias and airs, which breathed of any thing but heaven. Here could
be heard the mournful strain of a proboscis which seemed attuned to
{447} melancholy--there, the fierce blast of a nostril which emulated
the magic horn of the wild huntsman; while in ludicrous contrast,
hard-by were heard the stifled eruptions of a snout, which might have
been taken for the rehearsals of an inexperienced porker. One drew in
his breath with a painful squeel and a low whistle, and puffed it
forth as he would have done in extinguishing a candle--another, began
in a gentle strain, "like the sweet south, breathing upon a bed of
violets"--gradually rising to a full and manly tone--still gaining
strength as it advanced--now louder and more rapid--dashing onward
with alarming impetuosity--louder, louder still; and now, the very
brink of this musical cataract having been reached--a _crash_ ensues,
like the termination of that terrific passage in the overture to Der
Freyschutz, which almost freezes the blood. The explosion past, this
fantastic nose commenced again its tender strains, and again rose to
its climax. Another rolled forth a heavy bass, deep, solemn and
monotonous, like the muttering of distant thunder, or the roar of the
vexed ocean heaving its waves on the shore after a storm. Another,
with teeth compressed, seemed to draw in breath repeatedly without
respiration, and suddenly to disembogue this over supply of air with a
single emphatic snort, which threw his mouth open to its full extent.
Some squeeled continuously; some groaned; and others whistled through
their mouths in drawing in breath, and through their noses, in
respiring it.

It will not be wondered that I could not sleep, yet my fellow
travellers seemed unannoyed. I fell into a train of profound thought
upon the causes of the various cadences of different noses, and
puzzled myself upon the shapes and dimensions suitable to produce
certain simple or compound tones in the concert. In following out
these reflections, I wondered what description of music I must make
myself, and could not but wish to hear myself snore--(a thing I
believe impossible.) I could not avoid handling my own nose, to fix
according to my imperfect theory, the extent and character of its
musical capacity. By an association of ideas, the consideration of
this question brought back to my mind the prophecy of aunt Deborah. I
pondered upon it until the reflections which it suggested became
painful. I endeavored to banish it from my thoughts, but could not
entirely succeed. After a considerable time, I fell into a kind of
_snooze_--a state which was neither absolute sleeping or waking--a
kind of conscious unconsciousness, partaking of both in nearly equal
degrees. Visions of imaginary objects glanced before me, which seemed
to partake of or to be blended with the scene and sounds around me.
Dim figures came and went between me and the lamp, hanging at the
extremity of the cabin, on which my eye was fixed. Among these beings
my aunt Deborah two or three times made her appearance; her starch'd
cap, peaked nose, and keen grey eye, were not to be mistaken. I could
identify even her tortoise snuff-box, which seemed as new as when I
saw it ten years ago. Her look was rigid and menacing, and seemed to
bode me no good--for I dreaded a lecture. These objects were the
materials of dreams:--active thought and volition had nothing to do
with their production. Yet my eyes were open,--my senses were awake. I
could see and mark the motion of the red curtains, swinging to and
fro--I still heard the unwearied nasal minstrelsey to which I have
alluded, as distinctly as before.

The philosophers, I believe, have explained this contradictory state
of the body and mind. I fear I have not described it so as to make
myself clearly understood; but I am no philosopher, unless it be a
laughing one. Those who have experienced a visitation of the "night
mare," will I presume, comprehend my meaning.--I am not aware that
this state of things had ceased, but believe the combat between real
and unreal impressions was still going on in my mind, when I plainly
perceived two large, gaunt blackamoors (whom I well remembered to have
seen when at home in Richmond, pursuing their daily toil in Myers's
tobacco factory,) descend the cabin stairs, and approach the spot
where I lay. The obstacles of a crowded room did not seem to impede
them; and I soon felt their iron grasp on my limbs. I was lifted by
them from my pallet, and borne, I know not how, up the stairs, past
the engine, to the forward deck. I endeavored from the moment they
laid hands on me, to struggle with them; but my limbs were powerless:
I endeavored to call out, and awaken my fellow lodgers; but my voice
had lost its sound, my tongue seemed paralyzed: I could not articulate
a syllable. The cold sweat of terror stood upon my brow. I had a
presentiment that some awful fate awaited me, but I could form no
conception what it was to be.

At the place where they halted in their progress, I saw a huge
grindstone, from behind which a little black urchin leaped up, and
seizing the handle, commenced turning it with surprising velocity,
looking into my face and laughing with that hearty glee so peculiar to
the cachinations of his race. I knew the imp too well, for I had seen
him in his tatters an hundred times, hopping the gutters in front of
the Eagle Hotel. A horrible consciousness of my fate now flashed upon
me. The prophesy of my aunt Deborah came into my mind, and I felt that
it was to be fulfilled. I cast my eyes around me in despair, when they
fell upon the figure of the old lady herself, standing upon the prow
of the vessel. Her look was severe and reproachful. The finger of her
right hand was uplifted, as if she would have said, "I have warned you
in vain!"--while her left hand conveyed a pinch of snuff to her
nostrils, which they received with an inspiration so keen that it
hissed in my ears like hot iron. My glance at this figure was but
momentary. Scarce had the imp commenced turning the instrument upon
which I had now become aware that I was to be tortured, when the
Titans in whose gripe I was held, forced my head downward, until my
proboscis rested upon the revolving stone, and I felt its horrid
inroads upon that sensitive member. The first excoriation was severe.
I writhed and struggled to free myself, but the power which held me
was indomitable. Gradually the urchin relaxed in the rapidity of his
motions--the stone revolved slowly, and I saw that my torment was to
be a lingering one.

In the midst of their task the inhuman wretches began to chaunt songs
and incantations adapted to the horrid ceremony. I remember some
snatches of the ballads they sung. Never shall I forget them, for the
cruel mockery of their fiendish merriment was more galling than the
pain I endured, or the awful reflection {448} that I must pass the
rest of my days the noseless object of pity and contempt. One of the
stanzas ran thus:

  De man who hold he nose too high
    Mus' be brought low:
  Put him on de grinstone
    And grind him off slow.
            Wheel about, and turn about,
            And wheel about slow;
            And every time he wheel about
            De nose must go.

I was at no loss to recognize in this a parody on a popular ballad by
James Crow, Esquire, very skilfully arranged for the piano-forte by
Mr. Zephaniah Coon; and I despised my tormentors the more for their
plagiarism and want of originality. At the end of each _refrain_, the
barbarians sent forth as a kind of supplementary chorus, shouts of
laughter, which seemed to come from their very souls. It was none of
your civilized _ha ha's_--nor your modish _he he's_--but the hearty,
pectoral _yeoh yeoh yeoh_ of the unsophisticated "_nigger_."

All this time my nose was gradually diminishing. The imp at the handle
turned it slowly but steadily; the grasp upon my shoulders was firm,
and the pressure upon my head was so heavy, that the inexorable stone
was fast penetrating flesh, cartilage and bone, and reducing to a
level the inequalities of my visage. This could not last forever; and
at length I felt that the sacrifice had been consummated--the friction
of the stone upon my cheeks, gave fearful evidence that what had been
a nose, existed no longer, and brought the horrid reflection that I
was noseless! That the pride of my countenance was gone, and forever!

The awful consciousness of my bereavement made me desperate, and
strung up my sinews to a gigantic effort for freedom and
revenge.--Suddenly the grasp upon my body was loosened, and as
suddenly the agents and the instrument of my torment vanished.

I awoke, covered with perspiration and in a mortal tremor. The cabin
was dark, and but for the snoring of my neighbors, I should not have
known where I was. My nose was still suffering a most uncomfortable
sensation, and I breathed with difficulty from some unknown
obstruction. Although instantly aware that, to use the language of
Molly Brown, I had merely "dreampt a dream," I instinctively lifted my
hand to my face to reassure myself that my nose remained in
undiminished amplitude and longitude. In searching for that
interesting feature, I found that it was eclipsed and borne down by
some weighty substance, which the sense of feeling soon informed me
was the ponderous fist of my Kentucky neighbor, who had in shifting
his position during his slumbers, unceremoniously thrust it into my
face. I was cramped for room, and tugged to rid myself of the
incumbrance, when its owner awoke.

"Halloo stranger!" said he, "you kick about like an eel out of water."

I explained to him the cause of my uneasiness, for which he briefly
asked my pardon; and re-adjusting himself, again fell asleep. I could
not follow his example, my mind being occupied in recalling the
incidents and sensations of my dream, which fully engaged my thoughts
until I was made aware, by the shouting and scampering upon deck, that
we had reached New York.

And now for the _moral_ which I promised my readers. It is this--Do
not think too much of your nose--or hold it too high,--lest it should
be brought to the grindstone in good earnest; and moreover, never
sleep in a steam boat cabin, where men are planted, like Indian corn,
_in rows_--if you can avoid it.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MORELLA--A TALE.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

  Auto kath' auto meth' autou, mono eides aei ou.
  Itself--alone by itself--eternally _one_ and single.
                                            _Plato_. _Sympos_.


With a feeling of deep but most singular affection I regarded my
friend Morella. Thrown by accident into her society many years ago, my
soul, from our first meeting, burned with fires it had never
known--but the fires were not of Eros--and bitter and tormenting to my
eager spirit was the gradual conviction that I could in no manner
define their unusual meaning, or regulate their vague intensity. Yet
we met; and Fate bound us together at the altar: and I never spoke of
love, or thought of passion. She, however, shunned society, and,
attaching herself to me alone, rendered me happy. It is a happiness to
wonder. It is a happiness to dream.

Morella's erudition was profound. As I hope to live, her talents were
of no common order--her powers of mind were gigantic. I felt this, and
in many matters became her pupil. I soon, however, found that Morella,
perhaps on account of her Presburg education, laid before me a number
of those mystical writings which are usually considered the mere dross
of the early German literature. These, for what reasons I could not
imagine, were her favorite and constant study: and that in process of
time they became my own, should be attributed to the simple but
effectual influence of habit and example.

In all this, if I err not, my reason had little to do. My convictions,
or I forget myself, were in no manner acted upon by my imagination,
nor was any tincture of the mysticism which I read, to be discovered,
unless I am greatly mistaken, either in my deeds or in my thoughts.
Feeling deeply persuaded of this I abandoned myself more implicitly to
the guidance of my wife, and entered with a bolder spirit into the
intricacy of her studies. And then--then, when poring over forbidden
pages I felt the spirit kindle within me, would Morella place her cold
hand upon my own, and rake up from the ashes of a dead philosophy some
low singular words, whose strange meaning burnt themselves in upon my
memory: and then hour after hour would I linger by her side, and dwell
upon the music of her thrilling voice, until at length its melody was
tinged with terror and fell like a shadow upon my soul, and I grew
pale, and shuddered inwardly at those too unearthly tones--and thus
Joy suddenly faded into Horror, and the most beautiful became the most
hideous, as Hinnon became Ge-Henna.

It is unnecessary to state the exact character of these disquisitions,
which, growing out of the volumes I have mentioned, formed, for so
long a time, almost the sole conversation of Morella and myself. By
the learned in what might be termed theological morality they will be
readily conceived, and by the unlearned they would, at all events, be
little understood. The wild Pantheism of {449} Fitche--the modified
[Greek: Palingenesia] of the Pythagoreans--and, above all, the
doctrines of _Identity_ as urged by Schelling were generally the
points of discussion presenting the most of beauty to the imaginative
Morella. That _Identity_ which is not improperly called _Personal_, I
think Mr. Locke truly defines to consist in the sameness of a rational
being. And since by person we understand an intelligent essence having
reason, and since there is a consciousness which always accompanies
thinking, it is this which makes us all to be that which we call
_ourselves_--thereby distinguishing us from other beings that think,
and giving us our personal identity. But the Principium
Individuationis--the notion of that Identity _which at death is, or is
not lost forever_, was to me, at all times, a consideration of intense
interest, not more from the mystical and exciting nature of its
consequences, than from the marked and agitated manner in which
Morella mentioned them.

But, indeed, the time had now arrived when the mystery of my wife's
manner oppressed me like a spell. I could no longer bear the touch of
her wan fingers, nor the low tone of her musical language, nor the
lustre of her melancholy eyes. And she knew all this but did not
upbraid. She seemed conscious of my weakness, or my folly--and,
smiling, called it Fate. She seemed also conscious of a cause, to me
unknown, for the gradual alienation of my regard; but she gave me no
hint or token of its nature. Yet was she woman, and pined away daily.
In time the crimson spot settled steadily upon the cheek, and the blue
veins upon the pale forehead became prominent: and one instant my
nature melted into pity, but in the next I met the glance of her
meaning eyes, and my soul sickened and became giddy with the giddiness
of one who gazes downward into some dreary and fathomless abyss.

Shall I then say that I long'd with an earnest and consuming desire
for the moment of Morella's decease? I did. But the fragile spirit
clung to its tenement of clay for many days--for many weeks and
irksome months--until my tortured nerves obtained the mastery over my
mind, and I grew furious with delay, and with the heart of a fiend I
cursed the days, and the hours, and the bitter moments which seemed to
lengthen, and lengthen as her gentle life declined--like shadows in
the dying of the day.

But one autumnal evening, when the winds lay still in Heaven, Morella
called me to her side. There was a dim mist over all the earth, and a
warm glow upon the waters, and amid the rich October leaves of the
forest a rainbow from the firmament had surely fallen. As I came, she
was murmuring in a low under-tone, which trembled with fervor, the
words of a Catholic hymn:

  Sancta Maria! turn thine eyes
  Upon the sinner's sacrifice
  Of fervent prayer, and humble love,
  From thy holy throne above.

  At morn, at noon, at twilight dim,
  Maria! thou hast heard my hymn.
  In joy and wo, in good and ill,
  Mother of God! be with me still.

  When my hours flew gently by,
  And no storms were in the sky,
  My soul, lest it should truant be,
  Thy love did guide to thine and thee.

  Now, when clouds of Fate o'ercast
  All my Present, and my Past,
  Let my Future radiant shine
  With sweet hopes of thee and thine.

'It is a day of days'--said Morella--'a day of all days either to live
or die. It is a fair day for the sons of Earth and Life--ah! more fair
for the daughters of Heaven and Death.'

I turned towards her, and she continued.

'I am dying--yet shall I live. Therefore for me, Morella, thy wife,
hath the charnel house no terrors--mark me!--not even the terrors of
the _worm_. The days have never been when thou couldst love me; but
her whom in life thou didst abhor, in death thou shalt adore.'

'Morella!'

'I repeat that I am dying. But within me is a pledge of that
affection--ah, how little! which you felt for me, Morella. And when my
spirit departs shall the child live--thy child and mine, Morella's.
But thy days shall be days of sorrow--that sorrow which is the most
lasting of impressions, as the cypress is the most enduring of trees.
For the hours of thy happiness are over, and Joy is not gathered twice
in a life, as the roses of Pæstum twice in a year. Thou shalt not,
then, play the Teian with Time, but, being ignorant of the myrtle and
the vine, thou shalt bear about with thee thy shroud on earth, like
the Moslemin at Mecca.'

'Morella!'--I cried--'Morella! how knowest thou this?'----but she
turned away her face upon the pillow, and, a slight tremor coming over
her limbs, she thus died, and I heard her voice no more.

Yet, as she had foreseen, her child--to which in dying she had given
birth, and which breathed not till the mother breathed no more--her
child, a daughter, lived. And she grew strangely in size and
intellect, and was the perfect resemblance of her who had departed,
and I loved her with a love more fervent and more intense than I
believed it possible to feel on earth.

But ere long the Heaven of this pure affection became overcast; and
Gloom, and Horror, and Grief came over it in clouds. I said the child
grew strangely in stature and intelligence. Strange indeed was her
rapid increase in bodily size--but terrible, oh! terrible were the
tumultuous thoughts which crowded upon me while watching the
development of her mental being. Could it be otherwise, when I daily
discovered in the conceptions of the child the adult powers and
faculties of the woman?--when the lessons of experience fell from the
lips of infancy? and when the wisdom or the passions of maturity I
found hourly gleaming from its full and speculative eye? When, I say,
all this became evident to my appalled senses--when I could no longer
hide it from my soul, nor throw it off from those perceptions which
trembled to receive it, is it to be wondered at that suspicions of a
nature fearful, and exciting, crept in upon my spirit, or that my
thoughts fell back aghast upon the wild tales and thrilling theories
of the entombed Morella? I snatched from the scrutiny of the world a
being whom Destiny compelled me to adore, and in the rigid seclusion
of my ancestral home, I watched with an agonizing anxiety over all
which concerned my daughter.

And as years rolled away, and daily I gazed upon {450} her eloquent
and mild and holy face, and pored over her maturing form, did I
discover new points of resemblance in the child to her mother--the
melancholy, and the dead. And hourly grew darker these shadows, as it
were, of similitude, and became more full, and more definite, and more
perplexing, and to me more terrible in their aspect. For that her
smile was like her mother's I could bear--but then I shuddered at its
too perfect _identity_: that her eyes were Morella's own I could
endure--but then they looked down too often into the depths of my soul
with Morella's intense and bewildering meaning. And in the contour of
the high forehead, and in the ringlets of the silken hair, and in the
wan fingers which buried themselves therein, and in the musical tones
of her speech, and above all--oh! above all, in the phrases and
expressions of the dead on the lips of the loved and the living, I
found food for consuming thought and horror--for a worm that would not
die.

Thus passed away two lustrums of her life, yet my daughter remained
nameless upon the earth. 'My child' and 'my love' were the
designations usually prompted by a father's affection, and the rigid
seclusion of her days precluded all other intercourse. Morella's name
died with her at her death. Of the mother I had never spoken to the
daughter--it was impossible to speak. Indeed during the brief period
of her existence the latter had received no impressions from the
outward world but such as might have been afforded by the narrow
limits of her privacy. But at length the ceremony of baptism presented
to my mind in its unnerved and agitated condition, a present
deliverance from the horrors of my destiny. And at the baptismal font
I hesitated for a name. And many titles of the wise and beautiful, of
antique and modern times, of my own and foreign lands, came thronging
to my lips--and many, many fair titles of the gentle, and the happy
and the good. What prompted me then to disturb the memory of the
buried dead? What demon urged me to breathe that sound, which, in its
very recollection, was wont to make ebb and flow the purple blood in
tides from the temples to the heart? What fiend spoke from the
recesses of my soul, when amid those dim aisles, and in the silence of
the night, I shrieked within the ears of the holy man the syllables,
Morella? What more than fiend convulsed the features of my child and
overspread them with the hues of death, as, starting at that sound,
she turned her glassy eyes from the Earth to Heaven, and falling
prostrate upon the black slabs of her ancestral vault, responded 'I am
here!'

Distinct, coldly, calmly distinct--like a knell of death--horrible,
horrible death, sank the eternal sounds within my soul. Years--years
may roll away, but the memory of that epoch--never! Now was I indeed
ignorant of the flowers and the vine--but the hemlock and the cypress
overshadowed me night and day. And I kept no reckoning of time or
place, and the stars of my Fate faded from Heaven, and, therefore, my
spirit grew dark, and the figures of the earth passed by me like
flitting shadows, and among them all I beheld only--Morella. The winds
of the firmament breathed but one sound within my ears, and the
ripples upon the sea murmured evermore--Morella. But she died, and
with my own hands I bore her to the tomb, and I laughed, with a long
and bitter laugh as I found no traces of the first in the charnel
where I laid the second--Morella.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

CONTENT'S MISHAP:

A VERITABLE HISTORY.

BY PERTINAX PLACID, ESQUIRE.


  CONTENT once dwelt in humble cot
    Beside a stream with music flowing,
  Embower'd in shade--a verdant spot--
    Woodbines and wild flowers round it growing.

  There NATURE lavish of her store
    Breath'd fragrance over plain and mountain;
  A soft entrancing aspect wore,
    And sang sweet strains by brook and fountain.

  Within the cot where dwelt the maid
    PEACE ever reign'd, with mild dominion,
  And LOVE, reform'd, no longer stray'd,
    But loos'd his bow, and furl'd his pinion.

  There PLENTY crown'd each savory meal
    With simple food from NATURE'S bounty;
  And HEALTH contemn'd the boasted skill
    Of all the Doctors in the county.

  One morning PRIDE, a city belle,
    In FASHION'S gaudiest trappings glaring,
  The fragrant meads for once to smell,
    That way had driven to take an airing.

  By chance, a vagrant cloud sent down
    A shower to cool the sultry weather,
  When PRIDE protested with a frown,
    'Twould spoil her riding-hat and feather.

  CONTENT'S snug dwelling stood hard by,
    And thither PRIDE her car directed:
  Welcomed with homely courtesy,
    She smiled to find her dress protected.

  The first brief salutations o'er,
    PRIDE view'd with scorn the humble cottage,
  Its narrow rooms, its sanded floor--
    And turn'd her nose up at the pottage.

  Then thus, to meek CONTENT she spoke:
    "I wonder so genteel a maiden
  Should dwell in this secluded nook,
    As dull as ever hermit pray'd in.

  'Tis shameful such a form and face
    Should hide themselves in this mean hovel:
  That so much loveliness and grace
    Should with such stupid people grovel.

  How would you grace those splendid halls
    Where I and PLEASURE lead the million!
  There you would shine at routes and balls,
    Queen of the _waltz_ and gay _cotillion_.

  These humdrum folks you live with now
    Are _cut_ by all who aim at fashion:
  To see you so beset, I vow,
    It puts me quite into a passion.

  Here's PEACE, a tiresome, dowdy thing,
    Fit only for the chimney corner,
  To listen while the crickets sing,
    And teach the brats their _Jacky Horner_.

  PLENTY is well enough 'tis true,
    Where hungry peasants gorge their rations;
  But her rude fare would never do,
    For FASHION'S delicate collations.

  And LOVE,--who once was all the rage,
    And turn'd the heads of half the city, {451}
  Dealing his shafts on youth and age,
    As you have learnt from many a ditty--

  Has long been voted quite a bore,
    He made so many a sad miscarriage;
  And now, the part he play'd before,
    CONVENIENCE takes at every marriage.

  This rustic-looking, sheepish boy
    I ne'er should dream was master CUPID,--
  Whom once I knew so full of joy--
    He looks so quiet and so stupid.

  I cannot bear that you should dwell
    In such a lonely sequestration,
  When you might reign a city belle,
    And taste the sweets of admiration.

  Come then, nor longer tarry here
    In this retreat so lone and dreary:
  In PLEASURE'S brilliant throng appear,
    Where TIME'S bright pinions never weary."

  The artless nymph, ta'en unawares,
    Was dazzled by PRIDE'S invitation;
  But still she fear'd the City's snares,
    And answer'd with great hesitation.

  She said a happy life she led,
    That care had ne'er her bosom enter'd
  Tho' tenant of an humble shed,
    Here all the joys she ask'd for centred.

  But PRIDE protested 'twas a sin,
    That so perversely she should prattle,
  When HOPE, (the jade) who just dropp'd in
    That moment--closed the wordy battle.

  HOPE whisper'd in the maiden's ear--
    What 'twas I never could discover,--
  But from her beaming eye, 'twas clear
    CONTENT'S resistance all was over.

  Suffice to say, the car was brought,
    The ladies in it soon were seated:
  PRIDE took the reins, and quick as thought,
    The valley from their vision fleeted.

  'Tis true CONTENT some sorrow felt
    At leaving PEACE and LOVE behind her;
  But HOPE sat by, and fondly dwelt
    On all the happiness design'd her.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Soon by Dame FASHION'S mystic aid
    CONTENT became another creature;
  Such _art_ was in her form display'd,
    She needed not the charms of nature.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Behold our country maiden now!
    In PLEASURE'S train a gay attendant;
  Before her throng'd admirers bow;
    Her beauty was pronounced transcendent.

  In every scene where PLEASURE reign'd
    CONTENT was found, a radiant charmer;
  And while the novelty remain'd,
    Her wild career did not alarm her.

  Months pass'd in one continued round
    Of parties, balls, and routes and levees,
  And tired CONTENT at length had found
    No happiness in PLEASURE'S bevies.

  Jaded in this unceasing maze,
    Her eye grew dim, her cheek grew pallid:
  PRIDE only could her spirits raise,
    And oft her melancholy rallied.

  But long even PRIDE could not hold out;
    Sorely the maid her change repented--
  Her dreams had all been put to route--
    CONTENT was sadly discontented.

  One morning HOPE, who scarce had seen
    The maiden since she sought the City,
  To make a flying call, popp'd in,--
    And saw her alter'd looks with pity.

  "Ah faithless HOPE!" exclaim'd CONTENT:
    "Why did you flatter and deceive me--
  Why urge the step I now repent,
    And be the first to scorn and leave me.

  Oh, but for you, deceitful friend,
    I still had lived untouched by SORROW,
  Where beauteous flowers their fragrance blend,
    Nor blushes from cosmetics borrow.

  I might have dwelt, a happy maid,
    With PEACE and LOVE, in blest seclusion,
  Afar from FASHION'S dull parade,
    Her endless throngs of gay confusion.

  Fain would I to my cottage fly,
    But PRIDE resists, and SHAME upbraids me;
  And PLEASURE, ever hovering nigh
    With some delusive tale dissuades me."

  HOPE, with a woman's ready wit,
    From all reproach herself defended;
  And forced her listner to admit
    Her counsel "_for the best_" intended.

       *       *       *       *       *

  CONTENT at length "made up her mind"
    ('Gainst PRIDE'S usurp'd control rebelling,)
  To leave the bustling town behind,
    And seek again her humble dwelling.

  'Twas a bright morn in early Spring,
    When, HOPE her languid steps attending,
  Through vales where birds were on the wing,
    To that lone cot the maid was wending.

  The sun shone bright on hill and lea,
    The flowers from leafy shades were peeping;
  The brook ran murmuring merrily,
    And flocks were in the valleys leaping.

  The Cottage reach'd, she met once more
    The smile of PEACE, and LOVE'S embraces;
  JOY lit the maiden's eye again,
    And from her brow chased sorrow's traces.

  Soon HEALTH return'd, with genial glow,
    Her languid frame with strength induing,
  The blood resumed its wonted flow,
    The roses on her cheeks renewing.

  HOPE views the change with fond delight;
    Vows from CONTENT she ne'er will sever;
  Controls each wild impassion'd flight,
    And points where mercy beams forever.

  What more could Providence bestow
    To yield CONTENT an added blessing?
  Each hour her heart's pure offerings flow,
    To Heaven its gratitude addressing.

  And ever since, CONTENT has dwelt
    From the gay crowd, in vale secluded:--
  Their joyless strife she once has felt,
    And cannot be again deluded. {452}

  Oft have I seen the humble roof,
    Where, with PEACE, LOVE and HOPE uniting,
  She dwells, from worldly cares aloof,
    Even while her story I am writing.




The following beautiful reply to the stanzas of Mr. Wilde, published
in the first number of the Messenger, is attributed to Mrs. Buckley,
the wife of a distinguished physician of Baltimore, a lady whose fine
taste and poetic capacity are most happily displayed in these touching
lines. The answer is a very perfect counterpart of Mr. Wilde's
stanzas, and if we were called on to decide upon their relative
merits, we do not know which of the two would most demand our
admiration.


ANSWER

  To "_My Life is Like the Summer Rose_."


  The dews of night may fall from Heaven,
    Upon the wither'd _rose's_ bed,
  And tears of fond regret be given,
    To mourn the virtues of the dead:
  Yet morning's sun the dews will dry,
  And tears will fade from sorrow's eye,
  Affection's pangs be lull'd to sleep,
  And even love forget to _weep_.

  The _tree_ may mourn its fallen _leaf_,
    And autumn winds bewail its bloom,
  And friends may heave the sigh of grief,
    O'er those who sleep within the tomb:
  Yet soon will spring renew the flowers,
  And time will bring more smiling hours;
  In friendship's heart all grief will die,
  And even love forget to _sigh_.

  The _sea_ may on the desert _shore_
    Lament each _trace_ it bears away;
  The lonely heart its grief may pour
    O'er cherish'd friendship's fast decay:
  Yet when all trace is lost and gone,
  The waves dance bright and gaily on;
  Thus soon affection's bonds are torn,
  And even love forgets to _mourn_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO ---- ----


  We parted--not as lovers part--
    No tear was in thine eye;
  No mantling blush was on thy cheek,
    Thy bosom heaved no sigh;
  Yet there was something in thine air
    That seemed to all unmoved,--
  Something that told my bursting heart,
    Dearest, that I was loved.

  For, when I took thy gentle hand
    To bid a short adieu,
  Methought within my trembling clasp,
    That white hand trembled too;
  And when too, from my faltering tongue
    The parting accents fell,
  Thou didst not, dearest--can it be
    Thou couldst not say farewell!

  Forgive, if I have boldly erred--
    If fancy 'twere alone,
  That check'd thy voice, and lent thy hand
    The tremors of my own.
  Forgive, forgive the daring thought--
    Forgive the hopes--the love--
  That bids me seek thee soon again,
    My bliss or wo to prove.

T. H. T.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

WHAT I LOVE.


  I love to stray at early morn,
    'Mid flowers along the verdant dale,
  Inhale the fragrance of the thorn,
    And hear the Dove's low plaintive wail.

  I love within some forest deep,
    At sultry noon reclined to lie,
  And watch the fleecy clouds that creep,
    With quiet pace along the sky.

  I love at quiet eve to go,
    Far from the noisy crowd, and dream
  Of all the glorious hopes which throw
    Their sunshine o'er life's gloomy stream.

  But more than all, at silent night,
    I love with one fair form to rove,
  Beneath the pale moon's pensive light,
    And whisper burning words of love.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO ---- ----

  Let not your heart be troubled.--_John_ 14: 1.


  Let Ocean swell with angry spite,
    And yawn and lash the heedless shore;
  And billows rage with mount'nous height,
    As if they'd be at peace no more.
  Let storm 'gainst storm their fury hurl,
    And loudly roar with fearful might,
  Till sea and land--yea, all the world--
    May seem to grope in trouble's night.

  But let _thy heart_ thy Saviour know,
    Whose word once calmed the troubled deep,
  Who spake to winds that dared to blow,
    And _hushed_ them in the lap of sleep.
  Tis He can quell each rising sigh,
    And calm thy heart from cruel fears,
  As when the storms in silence lie,
    And not a wave the Ocean mars.

SIWEL.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

AN ITALIAN EXTRAVAGANZA.

  Addressed to a beautiful lady.


  Se tutti gli alberi del mondo
      Fossero penne--
      Il cielo fosse carta,
      Il mare, inchiostro--
  Non basterebbero a descrivere
  La minima parte della vostra perfexione!


AN ATTEMPT AT TRANSLATION.


  Could we the sky's unbounded range,
      To paper all convert--
  And had we power, miraculous, to change,
      To _pens_, the _trees_,
      To _ink_, the _seas_--
  These would not all suffice to paint, in part,
  The rich perfections of thy mind and heart--
      Thy _graces_--thy _desert_!

ELLA.


{453}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

WHERE IS MY HEART?

BY ALEX. LACEY BEARD.


          Where is my heart?
  Its place of rest is not within this aching breast;--
          Where does it dwell?
      It is not in the glittering hall,
      Where sunbright glances gaily fall
          'Neath pleasure's spell.

          Where is my heart?
  Not in the crowd 'mid mirth and wine and revel loud;--
          It is not there.
      Nor is it where the summer's sky
      Gives birth to flowers of brightest dye
          And balmy air.

          Where is my heart?
  Upon the sea, where dwell the joyous and the free,
          It has not gone.
      My withered heart, it has not flown
      Where love or hope or joy is known,
          Or pleasures dawn.

          Where is my heart?
  To the cold grave, where yew and cypress darkly wave,
          My heart has fled.
      Yes, where the form it worshipped sleeps,
      My blighted heart its vigil keeps,
          Beside the dead.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

INVOCATION.


  Come my love--O! come with me,
  We will wander wild and free,--
  Where the pale moon sheds her light,
  And the dew-drops glisten bright;--
  Where is heard the gurgling flow
  Of the streamlet, we will go,
  And our joyous feet shall tread,
  Near the humble violets bed.
  We will breathe the rich perfume,
  Born of fragrant flowers in bloom;
  All that's sweet and all that's fair,
  From green earth or scented air,
  Nature brings in vesture gay,
  Laughing strews around our way.

  We will seek the shady grove,
  Through its mazes we will rove,
  Sit upon the moss-grown seat,
  And our youthful vows repeat.
  Years have passed since we were there,
  Still thy cheeks are fresh and fair,
  Not a single care-worn line,
  Mars that lovely brow of thine.
  Many gay and gladsome hours,
  We have spent in sunny bowers;
  Not one cloud of care or strife,
  E'er has dimmed our path thro' life,--
  And our pilgrimage doth seem
  As one long and happy dream.

  Come my love the Moon's on high,
  Sailing o'er the summer sky,
  And the stars are twinkling through
  Boundless fields of azure-blue--
  Faintly from the leafy trees,
  Sighs the balmy southern breeze.
  Down the valley we will stray,
  Where the night-flowers scent the way;
  Arm in arm we'll wander o'er
  Many a scene beloved of yore;
  Tell the oft repeated tale,
  By the fountain in the vale,--
  Talk of deep, confiding love,
  And of hearts that never rove.

ALEX. LACEY BEARD.

_Aldie, Va._




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

AUTUMN.


  Come to the forests, while the leaves are falling
    In rustling showers from every yielding bough--
  Seek the wild haunts, where, save some lone bird calling
    Its mate departed, all is silence now.

  Leave the bright hearth, where love and peace are smiling,
    To dream awhile 'midst Autumn's falling leaves,
  To watch her power the Summer's charms despoiling
    As time of early joys the heart bereaves.

  There, as the year's bright glories fade around thee
    Bring home the lesson to thy saddened heart;
  Muse on the loves and friendships that have bound thee,
    Which thou hast seen like autumn leaves depart.

  Or if the Past yield no sad recollection,
    Upon the Future let thy thoughts be cast;
  Nor check the current of the sad reflection
    That whispers, human life is fleeting fast.

  Then bow to Him, in meek and low contrition,
    Whose Wisdom, full of Mercy, doth ordain
  To man a second spring in realms elysian,
    Where the bright hues of Summer ever reign.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

NAPOLEON.


  Aye! there he lies,--the mighty one!
    Death's hand is on him now;
  And fearfully he puts his seal
    Upon that haughty brow.

  What boots it that his own proud name
    In foreign lands has rung?
  That orators his fame have spoke,
    That bards his deeds have sung?

  What boots it that the hills of Spain
    Shook 'neath his lordly tread--
  That with the blood of her best sons,
    Her vallies' streams ran red?

  That over Moscow's battlements,
    His flag-folds he shook out--
  That e'en the lofty pyramids
    Rang with his charging shout?

  He who subdu'd so many lands,
    Must now from England crave
  (Although she is his deadliest foe)
    What man last wants--a grave!


{454}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.


MR. WHITE,--You have published at page 199 of your January number,
four outlandish-looking lines, with a hope that some one of your
numerous readers may not only be able to inform your correspondent who
furnished them, in what language they are written, but let him still
further into the secret by giving their meaning. Happening to know a
little of the Gaelic, I have no hesitation in saying that that is the
tongue in which they are written; and further, I think I have
succeeded, after a good deal of trouble, in discovering to a certainty
that they are a translation of the first stanza of Sappho's celebrated
Ode addressed "_To the Beloved Pair_," and commented upon at some
length by Longinus, in the tenth section of his De Sublimitate. The
stanza in question runs thus:

[For want of proper type we cannot give it in the Greek.--_Ed._]

  Videtur mihi ille æqualis Diis
  Esse Vir, qui oppositus tibi
  Sedet, et prope te dulce loquentem audit
  Et rides amabiliter.

  Blest as the immortal Gods is he
  The youth who fondly sits by thee,
  And hears and sees thee all the while
  Softly speak and sweetly smile.

An interesting critique upon the Ode, with the whole of Ambrose
Philips' spirited translation of it, is to be met with in the two
hundred and twenty-ninth number of the Spectator. Yours, &c.

UDOCH.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE FINE ARTS.

No. II.

          ----If the painter saw
  Naught but the prose of things, and dared but draw
  The literal, aged, uninspiring truth,
  And saw not nature in her winged youth
  Her rainbow aspect, when she stands array'd
  In floods of sunshine and in nights of shade,
  What would he gain?--_Barry Cornwall_.


In my last number, I undertook to show, that "uncultivated taste, is
incapable of estimating excellence in art" and that, "the beautiful in
nature, like philosophy and science, can only be comprehended by those
who study it profoundly and observe it habitually." But those who
think nature an unveiled beauty to be gazed upon by every wanton eye,
or that the arts aspire no higher than the "prose of things;" those
who are resolved to admire what they like, rather than learn to like
that which is admirable, may spare themselves the trouble of reading
this article,--as my object is, to instruct the teachable, to ramble
with the lover of nature amidst the shades of rural life, and converse
with the amateur of art, about all that is excellent in ancient or
modern works.

Before we can perceive what is beautiful in art, we must comprehend
what is beautiful in nature; and without entering into the abstruse
question of _beauty_, which has so much divided the erudite in all
ages, we may say, that every thing from the hand of the Creator is
beautiful in its _proper place_: and it is precisely this, that is
beautiful in art. But to know the place where beauteous nature lurks,
and to trace the harmony and fitness of every object to the part it
supplies in the picturesque of scenery, requires a mind

  "----by nature's charms impress'd,
  An ardor ever burning in the breast,
  A zeal for truth, a power of thought intense;
  A fancy, flowering on the stems of sense;
  A mem'ry as the grave retentive, vast
  That holds to rise again, the imprison'd past."

Beauty is not confined to the waving line of Hogarth, or to objects
smooth and soft, as Mr. Burke thought, but is multiform in nature, and
therefore admits of a diversity of tastes; yet it is not an arbitrary
principle subject to the fancy of every individual, but like harmony
in music, it vibrates on the imagination and affections of a
cultivated mind, as doth the octave in a well tuned instrument;--the
tutored ear perceives the slightest discordance in sounds, and the
cultivated eye detects with equal facility the want of harmony in art
or nature. It has been said "that the peasant youth, would require
more red in the cheek of his beauty, than would be agreeable to a man
of cultivated taste," and the inference was, "that the delicate is
more beautiful than the florid," but in fact, they are each beautiful
in their _place_. In rustic life, amidst the scenes of the vintage, in
the hay field, or milking the cow--how beauteous is the flush and
healthful bloom of the cottage maiden! The ruby lip and liquid
laughing eye bespeak the joyous heart, pleased with its vocation.
Here, the delicate and courtly dame of polished life would appear
unequal to the task; would be incongruous to the scene, and as much
out of place as epic verse in pastoral poetry;--yet in her proper
sphere

  "----those downcast eyes, sedate and sweet
  Those looks demure, that deeply pierce the soul,
  Where, with the light of thoughtful reason mix'd
  Shines lively fancy and the feeling heart,"

she moves the attractive star of cultivated taste.

The choice of these subjects, constitutes the difference between the
Dutch and the Italian schools of art. The former painted pastoral
scenery with a fidelity incomparably superior to the Italians, yet
greatly inferior in the higher excellencies of art. They are justly
admired for their attention to detail, to exact finish, and all the
results of "mere mechanic pains," but are void of classical taste, of
moral instruction, and the poetry of the imagination, that highest
effort of genius. Their works may therefore be beautiful, but never
sublime, and their attempts at historic painting degrade it to
something worse than caricature. I remember to have seen in the
Louvre, a little painting of this school, designed for "Peter denying
his Lord in Pilate's house." The interior was a _Holland kitchen_;
boors _were smoking_ before a _chimney_ place, or _playing at cards_
on a tub reversed; a coarse looking woman held Peter by his collar,
and chanticleer sat perched on a beam of the house. The costume and
furniture were equally out of keeping, but executed with the most
harmonious tone and finest touch of the pencil. Now the same subject
in the schools of Italy would represent a hall becoming the governor
of Judea, soldiers in Roman costume would be grouped around an antique
vase of embers, placed upon a tripod, and Peter would quail under the
pert recognition of a beautiful damsel; the grey dawn would appear
through the intercolumniations of the portico, and the warning {455}
clarion of the cock would be expressed on the brow of the
conscience-stricken Apostle.

This may not be considered a fair comparison, but rather the
antithesis of the two schools. What then shall we take as the highest
effort of Dutch genius? The Bull of Paul Potter![1] As well might we
compare a wax figure of Tecumseh with the Apollo Belvidere, or the
Sleeping Beauty with the Venus de Medicis. But, if indeed, it be the
highest effort of genius to produce an _exact representation_ of
things, the modeller in wax, is superior to the sculptor in marble,
and the Bull at the Hague, to the Transfiguration in the Vatican. As
no one of any pretension to taste will ever assent to this conclusion,
I must again insist, that art aspires to a higher attainment than the
mere portraiture of nature, and claims poetic honors; it is the poetry
of form and color: it selects the agreeable from the discordant parts
of the great prototype--combines and disposes them--and without
changing the features, elevates and ennobles them; it seizes upon
incidental effects to cast a shadow over the asperities of objects,
and throws a broad and brilliant light on the more beautiful parts.
When Dominichino was asked what obscured a part of his picture, "_una
neblia si passa_," was his reply; and by thus imagining a passing
cloud, he was enabled to preserve that breadth of light and shade so
remarkable in the English school at present. The Italians however, did
not often seek after _effect_; they did not address themselves so much
to the eye, as to the judgment; and their distinguishing excellence is
_correctness_ of _design_ and _dignity of character_. It was this that
acquired for them the praise of a "grand gusto," or sublimity of
style, superior to all other artists.

[Footnote 1: This is esteemed the greatest of the Dutch school.]

G. C.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ETYMOLOGY.

----The inventor of a new word must never flatter himself that he has
secured the public adoption, for he must lie in the grave before he
can enter the Dictionary.--_D'Israeli_.


_Mr. White_:--I am an odd old fellow, and fond of etymology, and
frequently amuse myself with tracing to their roots, words in familiar
use. Having been confoundedly puzzled of late by the term CAUCUS,
which is in every body's mouth, and not being able to satisfy myself
as to its origin, I have determined to have recourse to you, and will
be infinitely obliged to you or any of your readers for a solution of
the difficulty. If it be true as D'Israeli says, that the inventor of
a new word cannot be secure of its adoption by the public, for he must
lie in the grave before he can enter the Dictionary--the man who made
the aforesaid word must be still living, though at a very advanced
age. I rather suppose however that D'Israeli is mistaken, and that the
inventor has been dead a long time, and lived to see the general
adoption of his word, notwithstanding it has as yet no place in any
Dictionary that I have seen. Supposing it to be an English word, I
consulted Walker, and was mortified to find that he took no notice of
it. I then made sundry combinations of other terms, but could light
upon none that seemed at all plausible, except the words _calk us_,
which, united into caucus, may produce a kind of _onomatopoeia_,
descriptive of the assemblage in question; for to calk, is, according
to the abovementioned lexicographer, "to stop the leak of a vessel;"
and inasmuch as a caucus is urged by the admirers of Mr. Van Buren, to
be the means of stopping all leaks in our political vessel, there
seems to be some show of reason in this derivation. Upon further
reflection, however, I concluded that the word must be Greek, and
having recourse to Schrevelius, found the paronymous term _kakos_,
malus. This I presently rejected, though apparently descriptive of the
pernicious tendency of a caucus, because the institutors of that
pestilent oligarchy would hardly have selected so barefaced an
epitheton, such a cacophony, if I may so speak. On further search,
upon meeting with _kaukis_, I was so much delighted with the near
resemblance of sound, as to jump up and cry out _eureka_; but
moderated my rapture on discovering that "_genus calceamenti_," the
explanatory terms in Latin, could not be tortured to any manner of
application, unless indeed it was intended to indicate that the
members of a caucus would be willing to stand in the _people's shoes_,
upon the occasion of electing a President of the United States; or
unless we observe further the _aliter baukos, jucundus_; for it is
literally a very pleasant and right merry way of getting rid of the
difficulty of a choice by the people. So far the Greek. As for the
Latin, I have consulted every Dictionary in my possession, from
Ainsworth and Young, up to _old Thoma Thomasius_, printed _Coventriæ
Septimo Idus, Februarii 1630_, and can find nothing resembling our
Caucus, but the three headed robber _Cacus_, who by paronomasia, might
be considered as the grand prototype of that modern monster, which has
stolen, if not the _cattle_, at least the property of the great
American Hercules, and will keep it, unless he rise in his might, and
crushing the political thief, resumes his original rights. Now, Mr.
White, I am disposed to rest here; though not quite so well satisfied
as Jonathan Oldbuck was about the locality Of Agricola's camp, from
those mysterious initials which the mischievous Edie Ochiltree so
wickedly interpreted to mean "_Ailie Davy's lang ladle_," and not
"_Agricola dicavit libens lubens_," as _Monkbarns_ would have it;--but
do observe, sir, the singular coincidences between Cacus and Caucus;
the one a three headed rogue--the other a sort of political Cerberus;
the first slily taking away the cattle of another--the second
insidiously cajoling the people of their rights; the former hiding
them in a cave, where they were discovered by their bellowing--the
latter betrayed by a bellowing from Maine to Georgia; and finally
Cacus demolished by Hercules, and Caucus easily demolished by the
Herculean force of public sentiment.

I acknowledge, however, that I am not entirely satisfied,
notwithstanding this "_confirmation strong_," and hope you will
speedily relieve the perplexity of

Your most obedient,

NUGATOR.

P.S. A friend facetiously suggests that Caucus is nothing more than a
corruption,--Caucus, quasi cork us; that is, shut close the doors that
nobody may hear us.


REMARK.

We will do all in our power to assist our esteemed friend Nugator in
his etymological researches.--We remember to have read in a work of a
New {456} England author, some years since, an elaborate inquiry into
the origin of the word which so much puzzles our correspondent. If our
memory serve us faithfully, that writer fixes the nativity of the term
in the city of Boston, and the date of its birth previous to the
revolution. The circumstances out of which it sprang he asserts to be
these. In that stormy period, when every class of citizens was
agitated by the sentiments which exploded shortly afterwards in the
thunders of revolution, public meetings were frequently held by the
different trades and professions. For reasons which we now forget,
particular attention was attracted to one called by the _Calkers_, a
large body of citizens in so commercial a town. Their proceedings
being peculiar, (perhaps in exclusiveness or secrecy,) caused this
assemblage to be much talked of; and every subsequent meeting
characterized by similar peculiarities in its formation or
proceedings, was called a "_Calker's Meeting_." Gradually, in the
lapse of time, although the term continued to be used, its origin was
forgotten; and a knowledge of its etymological parentage no longer
preserving it from corruption, an erroneous pronunciation, and
consequently an erroneous manner of spelling it, gave to it the form
and shape which it now wears--a change not at all surprising in regard
to a word which was probably _unwritten_ during the first thirty years
of its existence. We give this derivation from memory alone; we cannot
even recall the work in which we saw it. If it be the true one, our
friend will perceive that in one of his surmises he is not far wrong.
It is high time that the birth, parentage and early condition of a
particle of our language, which has of late become a word of power,
equal in its magic influence to the fabled spells of ancient
necromancers, should be settled beyond dispute. Seeing what Caucus now
means, it is natural that we should desire to know from what
beginnings it has arisen to its present stupendous importance in the
ranks of our modern political vocabulary.




CRITICAL NOTICES.


THE CRAYON MISCELLANY. By the author of the Sketch Book. No. 1.
Containing a Tour on the Prairies. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea &
Blanchard. 1835.

A book from the pen of Washington Irving, is a _morceau_, which will
always be eagerly sought after by literary epicures. He is decidedly
one of the most popular writers in this country: his sketches of
character and scenery, are always true to the life, full of freshness
and vigor; and there is usually a clear stream of thought pervading
his pages, in fine contrast with the crude and indistinct conceptions
of ordinary writers. The volume before us cannot be said indeed to
rival some of its predecessors from the same pen, but the cause is not
so much in the author as in his subject. In spite of an agreeable and
highly descriptive style, the mind becomes wearied with the monotony
of a journey through the solitudes of the Western Prairies, and after
we have once formed a tolerably distinct idea of a buffalo hunt, and
the lasoing of the wild horse, we become tired of the repetition of
adventures, which possess so little variety. Considering his
materials, however, Mr. Irving has contrived to sustain his narrative
with his usual ability. It is true, that most readers will somewhat
regret that he did not present more finished portraits of some of the
personages who accompanied the expedition. We have quite satisfactory
sketches of that "swarthy, meager, braggart" Tonish, and of the
"sullen saturnine" half breed Beatte, but we desire to know something
more of the wild young Swiss Count, of his travelling companion and
mentor, the virtuoso, and of the hardy old hunter, Ryan, a true member
of the leather-stocking family.

Notwithstanding the famed perspicuity and purity of Mr. Irving's
style, he occasionally adopts a form of expression which creates some
surprise. We will give one instance, in particular, because the
inaccuracy, if we may so term it, is repeated several times in the
volume before us:--"The horse, which was fearless as his owner, and
like him, had a considerable spice of devil in his composition, and
who beside, had been familiar with the game, no sooner came in sight
and scent of the buffalo, than he set off _like mad_, bearing the
involuntary hunter," &c. &c. &c. (Page 232.)

We should have supposed the expression, "_like mad_," a typographical
error, if it had not been frequently used.

We copy for the reader's amusement, a short chapter, containing an
account of "_A Republic of Prairie Dogs_," a kind of quadruped, with
which we, at least, in this portion of North America, are not very
familiar. The harmony, vigilance and energy, with which these little
brutes rally around their rights and their laws, might whisper a sage
lesson even to the wisdom of rational and intellectual beings:--

A REPUBLIC OF PRAIRIE DOGS.

On returning from our expedition in quest of the young Count, I
learned that a burrow, or village, as it is termed, of prairie dogs,
had been discovered on the level summit of a hill, about a mile from
the camp. Having heard much of the habits and peculiarities of these
little animals, I determined to pay a visit to the community. The
prairie dog is, in fact, one of the curiosities of the far West, about
which travellers delight to tell marvellous tales, endowing him at
times with something of the politic and social habits of a rational
being, and giving him systems of civil government and domestic
economy, almost equal to what they used to bestow upon the beaver.

The prairie dog is an animal of the coney kind, and about the size of
a rabbit. He is of a sprightly mercurial nature; quick, sensitive, and
somewhat petulant. He is very gregarious, living in large communities,
sometimes of several acres in extent, where innumerable little heaps
of earth show the entrances to the subterranean cells of the
inhabitants, and the well beaten tracks, like lanes and streets, show
their mobility and restlessness. According to the accounts given of
them, they would seem to be continually full of sport, business and
public affairs; whisking about hither and thither, as if on gossiping
visits to each other's houses, or congregating in the cool of the
evening, or after a shower, and gambolling together in the open air.
Sometimes, especially when the moon shines, they pass half the night
in revelry, barking or yelping with short, quick, yet weak tones, like
those of very young puppies. While in the height of their playfulness
and clamor, however, should there be the least alarm, they all vanish
into their cells in an instant, and the village remains blank and
silent. In case they are hard pressed by their pursuers, without any
hope of escape, they will assume a pugnacious air, and a most
whimsical look of impotent wrath and defiance.

The prairie dogs are not permitted to remain sole and undisturbed
inhabitants of their own homes. Owls and rattlesnakes are said to take
up their abodes with them; but whether as invited guests or unwelcome
intruders, is a matter of controversy. The owls are of a peculiar
kind, and would seem to partake of the character of the hawk; for they
are taller and more erect on their legs, more alert in their looks and
rapid in their flight than ordinary owls, and do not confine their
excursions to the night, but sally forth in broad day.

Some say that they only inhabit cells which the prairie dogs {457}
have deserted, and suffered to go to ruin, in consequence of the death
in them of some relative; for they would make out this little animal
to be endowed with keen sensibilities, that will not permit it to
remain in the dwelling where it has witnessed the death of a friend.
Other fanciful speculators represent the owl as a kind of housekeeper
to the prairie dog; and from having a note very similar, insinuate
that it acts, in a manner, as family preceptor, and teaches the young
litter to bark.

As to the rattlesnake, nothing satisfactory has been ascertained of
the part he plays in this most interesting household; though he is
considered as little better than a sycophant and sharper, that winds
himself into the concerns of the honest, credulous little dog, and
takes him in most sadly. Certain it is, if he acts as toad eater, he
occasionally solaces himself with more than the usual perquisites of
his order; as he is now and then detected with one of the younger
members of the family in his maw.

Such are a few of the particulars that I could gather about the
domestic economy of this little inhabitant of the prairies, who, with
his pigmy republic, appears to be a subject of much whimsical
speculation and burlesque remarks, among the hunters of the far West.

It was towards evening that I set out with a companion, to visit the
village in question. Unluckily, it had been invaded in the course of
the day by some of the rangers, who had shot two or three of its
inhabitants, and thrown the whole sensitive community in confusion. As
we approached, we could perceive numbers of the inhabitants seated at
the entrances of their cells, while sentinels seemed to have been
posted on the outskirts, to keep a look out. At sight of us, the
picket guards scampered in and gave the alarm; whereupon every
inhabitant gave a short yelp, or bark, and dived into his hole, his
heels twinkling in the air as if he had thrown a somerset.

We traversed the whole village, or republic, which covered an area of
about thirty acres; but not a whisker of an inhabitant was to be seen.
We probed their cells as far as the ramrods of our rifles would reach,
but could unearth neither dog, nor owl, nor rattlesnake. Moving
quietly to a little distance, we lay down upon the ground, and watched
for a long time, silent and motionless. By and bye, a cautious old
burgher would slowly put forth the end of his nose, but instantly draw
it in again. Another, at a greater distance, would emerge entirely;
but, catching a glance of us, would throw a somerset, and plunge back
again into his hole. At length, some who resided on the opposite side
of the village, taking courage from the continued stillness, would
steal forth, and hurry off to a distant hole, the residence possibly
of some family connexion, or gossiping friend, about whose safety they
were solicitous, or with whom they wished to compare notes about the
late occurrences.

Others still more bold, assembled in little knots, in the streets and
public places, as if to discuss the recent outrages offered to the
commonwealth, and the atrocious murders of their fellow burghers.

We rose from the ground and moved forward, to take a nearer view of
these public proceedings, when, yelp! yelp! yelp!--there was a shrill
alarm passed from mouth to mouth; the meetings suddenly dispersed;
feet twinkled in the air in every direction; and in an instant all had
vanished into the earth.

The dusk of the evening put an end to our observations, but the train
of whimsical comparisons produced in my brain, by the moral attributes
which I had heard given to these little politic animals, still
continued after my return to camp; and late in the night, as I lay
awake after all the camp was asleep, and heard in the stillness of the
hour, a faint clamor of shrill voices from the distant village, I
could not help picturing to myself the inhabitants gathered together
in noisy assemblage, and windy debate, to devise plans for the public
safety, and to vindicate the invaded rights and insulted dignity of
the republic.

       *       *       *       *       *

_North American Review_.--The April number is for the most part
excellent. But we are forcibly reminded by it of a defect in the
Reviews of this country, which it seems to us, might with some little
exertion, be remedied. The fault to which we allude, is their
tardiness in noticing the publications of the day. In this number of
the North American, we find several pages devoted to a review of
_Burkhardt's Travels in Africa_, which have been before the public
_sixteen years_, while the crowd of new works of undoubted merit which
fill our book stores, have not as yet, with but few exceptions,
attracted the attention of the reviewers. In this book-making age, we
are aware that it is impossible for a Quarterly to review the
twentieth part of the productions constantly issuing from the press:
but if, as we suppose, it is the design of these periodicals to direct
the taste of the public in every department of science and literature,
surely they should contain reviews of such works selected from the
mass, as are best worthy attention; and should endeavor to keep pace
with the stream of publication. We can see little value in a review of
a book after every reading man in the community has perused it, and
formed his opinion upon its merits. Thus to lag behind the march of
current literature, deprives the criticisms of the reviewer of much of
their value and weight. In the instance to which we have alluded, it
might well be asked whether the travels of Burkhardt, English reviews
of which we read ten or twelve, or more years ago, could have the same
claim upon the public interest as the newer works of Burnes,
Jacquemont, Bennet and many others, whose books possess the charm of
novelty? We subjoin the contents of the April number: 1. Politics of
Europe: 2. Coleridge: 3. Mineral Springs of Nassau: 4. Life of G. D.
Boardman: 5. National Gallery: 6. Italy: 7. Last Days of Pompeii: 8.
Immigration: 9. Burkhardt's Travels in Africa: 10. Popular Education.

The first article contains a spirited review of the political events
in France since the revolution of 1830, and of the foreign and
internal policy of Louis Philippe. The progress of the _juste milieu_
system is well delineated, and a forcible picture is drawn of the
present posture of the French government. We do not entirely coincide
with the writer's ideas of the onward course of the cause of liberty,
(or perhaps more correctly, of revolution) in France; but consider the
article generally correct and instructive. That on Coleridge is
admirable: and we heartily rejoice that in a work so much looked up to
in England as is the North American, for the expression of our
literary opinions, justice so ample should have been done to that
extraordinary mind. A Baltimore newspaper, in allusion to the article
in question, speaks of "the pitiful shifts to which the reviewer is
driven to account for a fact which he admits, viz.--that there is but
here and there an individual who understands him," [Coleridge.] "What
stronger proof do we want," says the journalist, "of that confusion of
thought and mysticism with which he has been charged?" We think _far_
stronger proofs are necessary to support the accusation. That but few
comprehend the metaphysical treatises of Coleridge, is owing to the
simple fact, that few are so thoroughly versed in psychological
knowledge as to maintain a position in the van of the science, the
post universally acceded to Coleridge by the learned in ethics. It is
for this class of men that he has written, and in whose applauses he
has received a plentiful reward. These, at least, will not hesitate to
say that so far from being justly charged with confusion of thought,
and its consequence confusion of expression, no man who ever lived
thought _more distinctly even when thinking wrong_, or more intimately
felt and comprehended the power of _the niceties of words_. That his
philosophical {458} disquisitions are abstruse, is the fault of the
subjects, and not of the language in which he has treated them, than
which none can be more lucid or appropriate.

The article on Italy is interesting--also that on the National
Gallery. In the notice of the _Last Days of Pompeii_, justice is by no
means done to that most noble of modern novels.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _London Quarterly Review for February_, American Edition, No. 1.
Vol. 2. is printed on good paper, with excellent type. It contains, 1.
Wanderings in New South Wales, by George Bennet, Esq. F. L. S. Fellow
of the Royal College of Surgeons: 2. Correspondence of Victor de
Jacquemont: 3. Population of Great Britain and Ireland: 4. Coleridge's
Table Talk: 5. Egypt and Thebes: 6. Rush on the Prophecies: 7. The
Church and the Voluntary System: 8. Recent German Belles Lettres: 9.
England, France, Russia and Turkey: 10. Sir Robert Peel's Address. The
eighth article contains much information on a subject with which
Americans are, for the most part, indifferently conversant.
Coleridge's Table Talk is highly interesting, as every authentic
fragment of his sentiments and opinions must be. The work reviewed in
this article, is published by Mr. Henry Coleridge, a near relative of
the departed philosopher and poet, and is made up from notes of
numerous conversations, taken down by the publisher immediately after
their occurrence. They bear the impress of Coleridge's mind, will be
read with interest by all classes, and probably do more to make the
general reader acquainted with him and his opinions, than all else
that has been written.--We take this opportunity of noticing the
excellent American Edition of the London, Edinburg, Foreign and
Westminster Reviews, combined. It does much honor to Mr. Foster of New
York, the publisher; and the compression of matter is such, without
being printed too fine, as to give to subscribers for the sum of eight
dollars, these four periodicals for which upwards of twenty dollars
was formerly paid. The paper, type, and execution, are good.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The Life of Samuel Drew_, the shoemaker and philosopher of Cornwall,
by his son, is published by Harper & Brothers, and consists of 360
pages. Drew was an extraordinary man, whose works, especially his
theological ones, have gained him no little celebrity. It now appears
that he had much to do with the writings attributed to Dr. Coke.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The Life of the Emperor Napoleon, Vol. 1, by H. Lee. New York,
Charles De Behr._ This work has great merits and remarkable faults.
Published ostensibly as a corrector of the numerous errors of other
biographers of Napoleon, and especially those of Sir Walter Scott and
Lockhart, it cannot but be read with interest. The errors detected and
set right, are numerous and important. In most instances Mr. Lee
clearly makes out his charges--in some we are sorry to see that he
seems to be governed by a spirit of captiousness: And we cannot but
object to the tone of his strictures upon Sir Walter Scott. Milder
language would better have graced his cause. We have prepared a review
of this work, which we are compelled to postpone to the next number of
the Messenger.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Celebrated Trials of all Countries, and remarkable cases of Criminal
Jurisprudence, selected by a Member of the Philadelphia Bar.
Philadelphia, E. L. Carey and A. Hart._ Such a book as this was much
wanted. The records of criminal trials were scattered through the
newspapers or buried in some huge tomes of antique law reports, almost
inaccessible to the ordinary reader. And this book seems fitted to
supply the deficiency to a considerable extent. It is a large octavo,
and contains a selection of criminal trials from the early period of
1588, down to the present day, among them some of the most celebrated
cases on record, such as that of Sir Walter Raleigh in 1602, of the
Earl of Strafford in 1643, of Alexis Petrowitz Czarowitz in 1815, of
the rebels, Kilmarnock, Cromartie, Balmerino, &c. in 1745, and others
of equal interest--the judicial proceedings in relation to which,
belong to history. The contents of the work are highly interesting,
but we cannot withhold our censure of their arrangement. The trials
are huddled together without the slightest attention to chronological
order; and it would seem that the gentleman of the Philadelphia Bar,
who is made responsible for the compilation of the work, could merely
have selected the several cases leaving the printer to arrange them as
he pleased. The consequence is, that the reader finds himself shifting
backward and forward, from century to century, in a complete medley of
dates. This is to be lamented, because the history of criminal
jurisprudence is a history of the progress of civil liberty, and of
the expansion of the human mind. And the interest which we find in
tracing the progress of just and equitable rules in the trials of
malefactors, is marred by this defect of arrangement. As future
volumes of this work are partly promised, it is to be hoped that in
them this fault will be amended.

       *       *       *       *       *

_No Fiction_. _A Narrative founded on recent and interesting facts, by
the Rev. Andrew Reed, D.D._ has been republished by the Harpers. With
a plot of great simplicity, and with diction equally simple, this work
has attained much celebrity. It is indeed thrillingly interesting.
_Martha_, a more recent effort by the same writer, is however, in
every respect a book of greater merit.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Memoirs of Celebrated Women of all Countries. By Madame Junot.
Philadelphia, Carey, Lea and Blanchard._ These memoirs are amusing,
and so far we can recommend them highly, but no farther. Their
morality is questionable indeed; and they bear upon their face, in a
certain pervading air of romance, sufficient evidence of their own
inauthenticity. There is a sad mistake too in the title of the work.
These are not memoirs of celebrated women in _all_ countries: they are
merely Madame Junot's celebrated women in a few particular regions.
The greater part of them have no pretensions to celebrity. It has been
remarked that the sketch of Marina Minszech will afford a fair sample
of the Duchess's biographical style. In this opinion we concur, and as
it is a pretty fable, we advise all to read it who have no inclination
for the book entire.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Influence, a Moral Tale, by the author of Miriam. Philadelphia, Key
and Biddle._ There is an air of modest tranquillity about this book
which we admire. It is a pleasing tale addressed to the young, to
serious parents, and to friends--and it pretends to be nothing more.
{459} Its style too is unobjectionable. If the work developes in the
author no extraordinary capabilities, it is, we think, because there
was no intention of developing them.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Lives of the English Pirates, Highwaymen and Robbers, by Whitehead.
Philadelphia, Carey and Hart._ These lines will be read in spite of
all that a too fastidious taste may say to the contrary. We see no
very good reason why they should not be.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Confessions of a Poet, 2 vols. Carey, Lea and Blanchard._ The most
remarkable feature in this production is the bad paper on which it is
printed, and the typographical ingenuity with which matter barely
enough for one volume has been spread over the pages of two. The
author has very few claims to the sacred name he has thought proper to
assume. And indeed his own idea on this subject seem not to satisfy
himself. He is in doubt, poor man, of his own qualifications, and
having proclaimed himself a poet in the title page, commences his book
by disavowing all pretensions to the character. We can enlighten him
on this head. There is nothing of the _vates_ about him. He is no
poet--and most positively he is no prophet. He is a writer of notes.
He is fond of annotations; and composes one upon another, putting
Pelion upon Ossa. Here is an example: "_Ce n'est pas par affectation
que j'aie mis en Francais ces remarques, mais pour les detourner de la
connoissance du vulgaire._" Now we are very sure that none but _le
vulgaire_, to speak poetically, will ever think of getting through
with the confessions: thus there the matter stands. Lest his book
should _not_ be understood he illustrates it by notes, and then lest
the notes _should_ be understood, why he writes them in French. All
this is very clear, and very clever to say no more. There is however
some merit in this book, and not a little satisfaction. The author
avers upon his word of honor that in commencing this work he loads a
pistol, and places it upon the table. He farther states that, upon
coming to a conclusion, it is his intention to blow out what he
supposes to be his brains. Now this is excellent. But, even with so
rapid a writer as the poet must undoubtedly be, there would be some
little difficulty in completing the book under thirty days or
thereabouts. The best of powder is apt to sustain injury by lying so
long "in the load." We sincerely hope the gentleman took the
precaution to examine his priming before attempting the rash act. A
flash in the pan--and in such a case--were a thing to be lamented.
Indeed there would be no answering for the consequences. We might even
have a second series of the Confessions.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The Language of Flowers, embellished with fine colored engravings.
Philadelphia, Carey, Hart and Co._ This is a book which will find
favor in the eyes of the ladies, and thus, _par consequence_ in the
eyes of the gentlemen. Its motto is pretty and apposite:

  By all those token-flowers that tell
  What words can never speak so well.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Mr. and Miss Edgeworth's Practical Education_ has been republished by
the Harpers. Its character is well established.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The Highland Smugglers. By the author of Adventures of a Kussilbush,
&c. 3 vols. Carey, Hart and Co._ This book is very much praised and we
think justly. It is full of exquisite descriptions of that region of
romance the Scottish Highlands, and has _a manner of its own_.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Lockhart's excellent novel _Valerius_ is republished by the
Harpers. The scene is in the time of Trajan, and the subject is
managed in that masterly style which we look for in Lockhart. We have
heard objections urged to the antique nature of his tale--ill-mannered
sneers, and by men who should know better, at travelling back to Roman
history for interest which could as well be found at home. _Procul--O
procul este profani!_ Valerius is a book _to live_.

       *       *       *       *       *

_An Account of Col. Crockett's Tour to the North and Down East,
written by himself. Carey, Hart and Co._ We see no reason why Col.
Crockett should not be permitted to expose himself if he pleases, and
to be as much laughed at as he thinks proper--but works of this kind
have had their day, and have fortunately lost their attractions. We
think this work especially censurable for the frequent vulgarity of
its language.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Illorax de Courcy, an auto-biographical novel, by Josiah Templeton,
Esq., 2 vols. Baltimore, William and Joseph Neal._ We have looked at
this book attentively--for we confess it was impossible to read it. A
glance over one or two pages will be sufficient to convince any
reasonable person that it is a mere jumble of absurdities. The
gentleman should not have thrust his name (if it be not a _nom de
guerre_,) into the title page.

       *       *       *       *       *

_A Winter in the West, by a New Yorker. New York, Harper and
Brothers._ This is a work of great sprightliness, and is replete with
instruction and amusement. The writer evinces much talent in producing
an interesting narrative of a journey performed in the most
unpropitious period of the year. His observations on life in the
backwoods are sensible, and we should imagine correct, and his details
in relation to Michigan particularly interest us. The adventures of
the road are told with great vivacity, and although there are no
thrilling scenes or surprising incidents in the book, it cannot be
read with indifference. The traits of Indian character scattered
through its pages are vivid and striking, and the reflections on the
condition of that fast failing race mark the philanthropic spirit of
the author. Mr. Hoffman, formerly connected with the New York
American, and now Editor of a Monthly Magazine, is the reputed author
of this spirited work.

       *       *       *       *       *

Note: The journal of Mrs. Frances Ann Butler, better known as Miss
Fanny Kemble, has, after a long delay, made its appearance; but at so
late a period that we are unable to present our readers with our
opinions at large of its merits, which we regret the more, as the work
has created much excitement in the literary and fashionable world.
Numerous extracts from its pages have been published in the
newspapers, and the daring authoress has received but little mercy
from any quarter. It will be reviewed in our next.


{460}


EDITORIAL REMARKS.


We recommend the contents of our present number with entire
confidence, to our readers.

The article on the "_Influence of Free Governments on the Mind_," is
from the same gifted and exuberant pen which produced the
"_Impediments to Literature_," republished in our fifth number, from
the Western Monthly Magazine.

The selection from Mr. Mitchell's Manuscripts, or the story of the
"_White Antelope_," will, we doubt not, be read with zest enough to
create a strong desire for future contributions from the same source.
The peculiarities of those wild sons of the forest who have never been
_corrupted by civilization_, (we hope the solecism will be pardoned,)
cannot fail to attract the curious. The story we publish is truly
_unique_ and excellent of its kind.

Chapter I. on "_English Poetry_," tracing as it does the rude and
early dawnings of that divine art in our own venerable vernacular,
will deeply interest by its antique spirit, and by the accurate and
profound investigation which its author has evinced. We shall look for
the remaining chapters with much eagerness.

We hope that no one will be deterred, by the length of Professor
George Tucker's discourse on the "_Progress of Philosophy_," from
reading it attentively. We acknowledge the value our pages derive from
its insertion, and we earnestly desire that all should share in the
pleasure and improvement which it will undoubtedly impart. Besides
that some of its views possess all the freshness of originality, the
whole address is couched in that felicitous diction for which its
author has been already justly distinguished, ennobling the subject,
while it familiarizes it to readers of all classes.

The 5th "_Letter from New England_" is full of thought, and deserves
the serious consideration of every man who claims to be a patriot.
When will the disastrous conflicts of party strife so far subside, as
to authorise a thorough, if not exclusive devotion to our own state
institutions and concerns? There are many things in our own internal
policy which might be judiciously reformed: The allusions of the
letter writer to the system of fixing the age by law at which judges
shall leave the bench, are expressed in his best style, and forcibly
remind us of the veneration and respect due to the "gigantic Coryphæus
of the United States' Judiciary."

Our excellent and able friend who writes the article on "_The Waltz
and Gallopade_," is mistaken if he supposes that we have favored those
outlandish innovations upon Virginian simplicity. We are advocates for
new inventions, only when they contribute to human happiness and
virtue; and we heartily join with him in censuring those of the
votaries of fashion who would corrupt the purity of our manners and
the innocence of our amusements, by introducing among us practices of
even doubtful effect upon the morals of the rising generation.

In "_Christian Education_," much wholesome admonition will be found,
directly addressed to the consideration of parents. The writer shows
in this article, that the spirit of a christian renders the much
neglected exhibition of childish intellect worthy the attention of an
accomplished and masculine mind.

The "_Extract from a Mexican Journal_," contains much valuable
information in relation to a country but little known.

The Tales, of which we publish several in the present number, comprise
a variety of talent. "_A Tale of the West_," written as we are
assured, by a novice in composition, certainly displays much ability,
although a little more experience would have taught the writer the
value of compression. But amplification is generally the fault of
youth and inexperience, and in this case it does not conceal the
talent unequivocally displayed by the writer.

"_Morella_" will unquestionably prove that Mr. Poe has great powers of
imagination, and a command of language seldom surpassed. Yet we cannot
but lament that he has drank so deep at some enchanted fountain, which
seems to blend in his fancy the shadows of the tomb with the clouds
and sunshine of life. We doubt however, if any thing in the same style
can be cited, which contains more terrific beauty than this tale.

The favors and contributions of our friend Pertinax Placid, Esquire,
are particularly welcome; and we hereby give him due notice that we
adopt him as a member of our literary family. In the "_Tale of a
Nose_," he has illustrated with admirable humor the curious philosophy
of dreaming; and in "_Content's Mishap_," he has clothed a fine moral
in the charms of flowing verse.

No. II. on the _Fine Arts_ will be read with more than ordinary
pleasure, by all who can estimate glowing descriptions of beauty and
grace, and the enthusiasm of an artist. The style of the article is
most captivating.

We are pleased to welcome again to our columns, our old and much
respected friend "_Nugator_," and equally so to learn that he is
convalescent from a severe illness which has kept his pen idle for
some time. His letter contains some allusions to politics, which in
general we deem an unsuitable subject for a journal on the plan of the
Messenger. But his remarks are expressed in so good humored a manner,
that we are convinced they can afford no offence. The detail of his
researches is highly amusing, and given in his usual agreeable style.

The selected article, a "_Scene in Real Life_," is characterized by
deep and impressive pathos. We are happy to say that its author will
probably become a contributor to our columns.

It would be uncourteous and in violation of our feelings, to omit
noticing the poetical contributions to this number. We particularly
recommend to our readers the "_Apostrophe of an Æolian Harp_," a
strain of harmony and sentiment struck by a master hand from the
chords of a truly poetic lyre.--"_The Last Gift_" is also the product
of a fertile and glowing spirit. It comes to us wrapt in the mists of
the anonymous; but if, as we trust, Corydon has not wept himself to
stone, we should gladly receive his further favors. "_Nature and Art_"
is from a feminine hand, which has before awakened strains of rich
music and sentiment in our pages. "_The Last Indian_" by our valued
friend Larry Lyle, is a magnificent description of a somewhat
extravagant dream. It exhibits even a greater degree of _power_ than
his former contributions. The "_Winter Scenes at Williamsburg_," give
a pleasing and vivid description of the gaiety which reigned at that
interesting place during the past season. There are also several minor
pieces in which we doubt not our readers will perceive much merit.


{461}


SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. I.]  RICHMOND, MAY 1835.  [NO. 9.

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




PUBLISHER'S NOTICE.


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

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

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

T. W. WHITE, _Publisher and Proprietor_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY

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

No. VI.


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

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

For this he soon found an excuse in the blockade of Tripoli. We have
seen that he at first refused to acknowledge this blockade, on the
just grounds that it was not maintained by a competent force; when
that force was increased so as effectually to close the port, he
insisted, that being at peace with the United States, his vessels had
the right of proceeding to any place without interruption by them, and
that the passport granted by the American Consul ought always to
afford them protection from the armed forces of his nation. The
passports granted by the Consuls of Christian powers in the Barbary
states, are merely certificates that the vessel is owned in the
country where the Consul resides, with a statement of her class, her
name and that of her captain, and other particulars requisite to
identify her; it protects the vessel from detention or capture by the
armed ships of the nation in whose name it is issued, for one year
after its date. The Consul in vain represented this to the Bey, and
endeavored to explain the principles of blockade; shewing that an
attempt to enter Tripoli would be a hostile act on the part of the
vessel making it, but on her part only, and {462} should not
necessarily create any unfriendly feelings between the two
governments; and that the vessels of several Christian nations had
been taken by the American squadron, while they were thus endeavoring
to force the blockade, and condemned without any complaints having
been made by their governments.--To these representations, the Bey
refused to listen, contending that Christian laws and usages were not
applicable to affairs in which Oriental States were concerned; and
declaring that the capture of a Tunisian vessel by the Americans would
be followed by a declaration of war against them.

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

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

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

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

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

The Tunisian Ambassador arrived with his retinue at Washington, where
he excited great curiosity and attention.[1] He soon made a formal
demand, in his {463} master's name, for the restoration of the
vessels, or their value, which was complied with from a desire to
conciliate the Bey; but this compliance encouraged the Ambassador to
require a supply of naval stores, as the price of peace for the
succeeding three years, which having been positively refused, he
quitted the United States without retracting the demand. His master
however was at that time engaged in a war with Algiers, and did not
think proper to proceed farther in his exactions; and although
attempts were afterwards made by him and his successor to force the
Americans to pay tribute, they proved always unsuccessful, and no
actual interruption of peace between the United States and Tunis has
occurred since the termination of the difference above stated.

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

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

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

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

The Pasha of Tripoli, as soon as he was relieved from the presence of
the American forces, began with great industry to restore tranquillity
in his dominions, and to repair his finances which had been exhausted
by the war. As he was almost shut out from the sea, he resolved to
establish and extend his authority on land. The fixed population of
this regency is small, and almost entirely confined to the few fertile
spots on the coast; the interior being principally desert or
mountainous, is inhabited by Arabs, who wander with their flocks from
pasture to pasture, or are engaged in the transportation of
merchandize, or live by plundering their more industrious neighbors.
The allegiance of these wanderers is always doubtful; the revenue
derived from taxing them is small, and is never obtained without
considerable difficulty. Whenever the Pasha is known to be in trouble
at home, they become refractory, refuse to pay their tribute, and
attack the caravans or towns on the coast; seldom indeed does a year
pass in which the sovereign of Tripoli is not engaged in war with some
of their tribes. Of these tribes, one called the Waled Suleiman had
long been formidable for its numbers and its rebellious disposition;
under a daring and sagacious chief the Sheik Safanissa, it had set at
defiance the power of the Pasha, and had frequently pushed its inroads
to the gates of the capital. Safanissa at length died; although his
descendants were brave and trained to war, and his tribe continued to
be powerful and influential, yet the magic of his {464} presence was
wanting, to maintain that supremacy which it had so long boasted.
Yusuf saw this, and determined if possible to exterminate these
insolent foes. He began by gaining over to his side another powerful
tribe called the Waled Magarra, the hereditary rivals and enemies of
the Suleimans; and when he had sufficiently secured their fidelity, he
struck a blow which proved perfectly successful, and by which he
gained another object long considered important by the sovereigns of
Tripoli.

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

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

Notwithstanding these proofs of Yusuf's perfidy and ferocity, he
became popular with Europeans; and those who were introduced to him,
generally came away favorably impressed with regard to his character,
and were inclined to attribute his excesses more to his situation than
to his disposition. He spoke Italian fluently, and seemed to be well
acquainted with what was going on in the world: his court was
splendid; his apartments furnished with elegance and taste; he drank
the best champaigne which France produced, and his manners are said to
have been such as to entitle him to be considered a gentleman any
where. The celebrated {465} Portuguese, Badia Castilho, whose travels
and adventures under the name of Ali Bey, are so well known, seems to
have been charmed by the frankness and amenity of the Pasha of
Tripoli. Captain Beechy, who was sent by the British Admiralty in
1822, to survey the shores of the great Syrtis, speaks with gratitude
of the readiness with which facilities were afforded him for the
prosecution of the work. Lyon, Denham and Clapperton, although they
all experienced many vexations in their journey through the Tripoline
dominions, yet seemed to ascribe them rather to the malignity and
knavery of the officers of the government, than to any ill intentions
on the part of the chief. To those who were not his subjects, the
"good old-gentlemanly vice" of avarice seems to have been his
principal failing. His own habits were expensive, and his sons, by
their prodigality, kept his coffers always empty.

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

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

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




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MARGUERITE.


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

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

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

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

M.


{466}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO ANN.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Norfolk, September 13, 1834_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MY NATIVE LAND.

BY LUCY T. JOHNSON.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Elfin Moor, Va. January 14, 1835_.


{467}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MY CHILD.

BY PERTINAX PLACID.


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




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO ----.


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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES

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


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

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

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

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

  Behold my Muse, Colossus like, bestride
    The fallen honors of each beau and lover--
  Ghosts of departed songs, that here have died,
    How many of ye now do o'er me hover? {468}

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A PRODIGIOUS NOSE.


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

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

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

DEMOCRITUS, JR.




SWIMMING.


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

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


{469}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

"THE GRAVE OF FORGOTTEN GENIUS."

BY AN UNDERGRADUATE.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

Walter Dunlap was born in Chestatee Village, which is situated on one
of the tributary streams of the {470} Tennessee river, and surrounded
by those beautiful vallies, so numerous on both sides of the
Cumberland mountains. His father had been the first, and was at his
birth the principal merchant in Chestatee Village. He was not wealthy,
yet his economy had enabled him to afford means for the education of
his sons at one of the first colleges in the east. The procurement of
this had been his whole ambition, and it may well be imagined, that
any evidences of talent and genius in his sons, would please him much.
In his infancy, Walter displayed in his slightest actions, a
nobleness, a generosity, and a dauntlessness which at once won the
heart of his father, and Walter had not been placed under the
instruction of a tutor more than six months, ere he was far in advance
of those who had spent years in the school-room. Already did the
fathers and mothers of Chestatee Village hold up Walter to their
children as a model for their imitation. He had not passed his twelfth
year before he was sent with an elder brother to a college three
hundred miles distant from his paternal home.

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

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

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

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

"If this fail," he concluded, "I am at an end--my last hope is
destroyed and my heart is broken." More than two years had elapsed
since my departure for the college, and for the first time was I
summoned to my paternal home. I returned, and oh, how changed was the
scene! I had left my father's a house of constant happiness, but now
scarcely a smile was familiar to the face of a person in the family.
My father was absent in mind, and talked of forsaking business. I
remained two months, and used all my endeavors to recal his thoughts
to the objects around him, and in some measure succeeded. I again
returned to C---- College--where I remained two years longer, not
forgetting to write often to my father in such a style as to make him
forget that subject which weighed so heavily upon his spirits; nor did
I forget Walter, to whom I often wrote, although my letters were never
answered, and had reason to hope that they were not only agreeable to
him, but gladly received. The last year of my collegiate life ended! I
flew to my home, in obedience to the urgent request of my father, who
still spoke of the disgrace and ruin of Walter, who had just returned.
I was greeted with the sincerest {471} joy--and Walter, as my father
informed me, wept for the first time since our separation four years
before, and I felt, that I had been restored to a long lost brother.
He, indeed, seemed to be suddenly wrested from the gloom which had so
long surrounded him, and we rambled over the hills, sacred to the
memory of school-boy sports, again mingled together in the society of
youthful friends, and were again as happy and as joyous, as we were,
ere we experienced the pestilential influence of a college.

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

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

From the moment he entered the walls of the college, he began a rigid
discipline of the mind. What elevated Milton, he would ask, to an
equality with the gods? What gave to Newton a comprehension of the
mysteries of the universe, and to Franklin a power over the elements?
and then triumphantly answer, study--unceasing study. "If Socrates had
contented himself with only wishing and sighing to enter the field of
philosophical truth--if he had prayed, however fervently, could that
have sufficed to make him the Prince of Philosophers? Naught but the
deepest, unbroken thought could have made him sport familiarly with
the subtleties of philosophy, clothed as they then were, in all the
gloom of ancient mythology." So thought Walter Dunlap. Night after
night did he wear himself away by the intensity of his study and the
depth of his thought. A year had not passed, ere he had run through
much of the whole collegiate course--made himself master of the
ancient languages, and gained a prize in astronomical calculations.
Mind cannot conceive the joy which he felt at this success. The image
of a father, smiling with tenderness and approbation, blessing him
with the unbounded gratitude which a father only can feel, was ever
present to his mind. Who can measure the depth of his joy? Who can
count the sighs of anguish which {472} these moments of joy now
repayed? Well might he say, in reference to his own life,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

_West Point, 18th April, 1835_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE HOUSE MOUNTAIN IN VIRGINIA.


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

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

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

The first time, we were disappointed by the cloudiness of the
atmosphere, and should have made an unprofitable trip, had not an
unexpected scene afforded us a partial reward for the toils of the
ascent. We lodged like Indian hunters not far from the summit, where a
little spring trickles from the foot of the precipice. After we had
slept awhile, one of the company startled us with the cry of _fire!_
He saw with astonishment in the direction of the Blue Ridge, a
conflagration that cast a lurid glare through the hazy atmosphere. The
flame rose and spread, every moment tapering upwards to a point, and
bending before the night breeze. We first imagined that a large barn
was on fire, and then as the flame grew, that the beautiful village of
Lexington was a prey to the devouring element. While we gazed with
fearful anxiety, the fiery object in rising yet higher, seemed to grow
less at the lower extremity, until it stood forth to our joyful
surprise, the MOON half full, reddened and magnified by the misty air
beyond what we {473} had ever seen. Its light afforded an obscure
perception of the most prominent objects of the landscape. Shadowy
masses of mountains darkened the sight in various directions, and
spots less dark in the country below, gave indications of fields and
houses. We perceived just enough to make us eager for a more distinct
and general view of the scene. In the morning, every thing was hidden
by the cloudy confusion of the atmosphere.

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

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

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

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

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

When I was able to withdraw my eyes from the collective whole of this
sublime prospect, and to examine the particular objects that appeared
around me, I was struck with the long narrow vales on the western
side. The cultivated low grounds and streams of water, all converging
towards the wider stream and valley of the James river, presented a
beautiful contrast with the rude {474} grandeur of the mountains among
which they lay. When I looked down upon the country in the immediate
vicinity of the House Mountain, I admired the beauties of the scene.
The woody hillocks and shady dells had lost every rough and
disagreeable feature: the surface of the woods was uniformly smooth
and green, like a meadow, and wound before the elevated eye with the
most graceful curves imaginable. The little homesteads about the foot
of the mountain, the large farms and country seats further away in the
valley, and the bright group of buildings in the village of Lexington,
formed a gentle scene of beauty, which relieved the mind from the
almost painful sublimity of the distant prospect, and prepared us,
after hours of delightful contemplation, to descend from our aerial
height, and to return with gratified feelings to our college and
studies again.

_Lexington, Virginia_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

VISIT TO THE VIRGINIA SPRINGS,

_During the Summer of 1834_.

NO. I.


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

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

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

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

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

Having halted a few minutes, the driver "shod" our coach, and rolling
away with the sound of thunder down the mountain, we reached the inn
where the stage stopped for the night, just as {475} the sun was
sinking behind the western hills. Our landlord and his better half
were themselves Dutch, and had raised up a stout rosy-looking family,
who attended to the domestic concerns of the establishment without the
aid of servants. The house was situated on a level lawn between two
lofty ridges of the Alleghany, part of which was neatly enclosed, and
clothed with the richest green. The domicil itself was one story in
height, with a piazza in front; and the peculiar national taste of the
proprietor could be seen in the free use of red and black paint with
which the establishment was ornamented. But the interior presented an
aspect rather more inviting, after the fatigue of the day's ride. The
snow-white table cloth, and the clean and plain, yet delightful fare,
with which the table was bountifully supplied, gave evidence of the
existence of _taste_ in the culinary department, which amply
compensated for the want of it in matters of less substantial
importance. A handsome coach and four had driven up just as we
arrived. After tea the guests assembled in the piazza, and we passed
away in cheerful conversation the hours of a lovely summer's evening,
in this wild valley among the mountains.

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

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

But the White Sulphur itself must not pass unnoticed. Its charms are
worthy of being celebrated. The buildings, which are situated on a
gradual acclivity, are arranged in the form of a hollow square.
Adjoining the Kanawha turnpike, which passes the springs and parallel
with it, are two large white hotels. One of these contains the dining
and drawing rooms, and in the other there is a spacious saloon for
music, dancing, &c. This is also used on the Sabbath as a chapel. In a
line with these, and running in each direction, is a row of cottages
one story in height, for the use of visitors. With this at the eastern
extremity unites a continued range of beautiful white {476} cottages,
with venitians and long piazzas, forming another side of the
quadrangle. At the distance of several hundred paces from the hotels,
and parallel with them on the hill side, is the third range, which is
built entirely of brick and extends for several hundred yards, until
its lower termination is concealed amongst the trees which form a
thick grove on the brow of the hill. On the western extremity of the
area are the bathing houses, and above all, that which constitutes the
great attraction--the spring. The reservoir in which the spring rises,
is an octagon of about five feet in diameter, from which a constant
and copious stream flows off, supplying the bathing houses. A few
steps lead up from this reservoir, to a platform some twenty-five feet
in diameter, furnished with seats and surrounded by a neat railing.
The whole is protected by a beautiful temple, composed of lofty white
pillars surmounted by a dome. From the interior of this dome is
suspended a chandelier, by which the temple is lighted up in the
evenings. A lawn of the richest green, tastefully laid out with
gravelled walks, and shaded by an abundance of oaks and locusts,
extends over the area of the quadrangle. At the distance of a few feet
from the cottages is a light railing, along which, as also along the
walks, are lamp-posts, from which the area is brilliantly illuminated
in the evening.

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

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

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

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

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

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




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE FINE ARTS.

NO. III.

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

 _Thomson_.


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

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

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

The work most justly to be brought in comparison with this, is the
_Transfiguration_ by Raphael. The subject is equally sublime, and
composed with equal simplicity. The whole scene rises before you with
such propriety of expression in every countenance, that it requires no
interpreter to know them; no trifling ornament diverts the attention
from the subject, and no idle levity detracts from the solemnity of
the occasion. Human infirmity is brought in strong contrast with
omnipotent power, and the mind is led by a natural {478} gradation
from our dependance up to his goodness. An epileptic boy of
interesting age is supported in the arms of his father, and surrounded
with friends and relations, who bring him to the disciples to be
healed, and the imploring mother, the beautiful countenance of the
sister, the anxious parent and suffering boy, excite our sympathy, and
we look to the apostles for their miraculous power of healing, but
their faith had failed them; sweet charity remained, and

  "Hope the comforter lingered yet below,"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

G. C.




For the Southern Literary Messenger.

RECENT AMERICAN NOVELS.


The year '35, rich as may be its promise of social and political good,
has so far done little for the cause of letters. The seductions of
political distinction, or the more substantial attractions of the
lucrative professions, have turned from the paths of literature all
whom genius and education have fitted to attain a high degree of
intellectual rank; while in the peculiar department of romance, the
master spirits, those who ruled the realms of fiction with undisputed
sway, have retired from the scenes of their glory, and left their
neglected wands to be played with by the puny arms of dwarfish
successors. COOPER[1] has sheltered himself from the furious storm,
which an injudicious and silly political pamphlet raised about his
head, in some quiet nook in his own native state; while IRVING, the
elegant, but over-nice, the gentle but languid IRVING, has abandoned
romance for reality, to favor the world with sketches of Indian
manners and scenery. PAULDING and Miss SEDGEWICK have ceased for a
time, to inflict their stories of humor and love, upon the proprietors
of circulating libraries, and provincial book-sellers. But the press
has not ceased: others have been found to succeed to, if not to fill
the places of those, whose genius the sanction of the world had
approved, and whose names ranked high in our infant literature. Who
are the new comers? Do they write as men having authority--the
authority of heaven-stamped genius, to claim to be heard for
themselves, and their cause?--or are they but raw, brawling braggarts,
who have broken into the sacred circle, rioting like buffoons, {479}
disgracing what they could not honor? Are they menials of the mind,
underlings of the intellect, who have filled the rich banqueting hall
just abandoned by their superiors, sitting in squalid rags on the
splendid seats of genius, and gulping down the dregs of the deserted
wine, and the scraps of the half consumed feast--boors rioting in the
sumptuous apartments of their lords? Are they men, who, by a vigorous
and educated intellect, and the patient study of the works of the
great writers of romance, have fitted themselves to pour forth words
of burning eloquence, of bitter satire, of side-shaking humor, and
irresistible pathos? Are they artists, who, by the curious and
intricate construction of their fable, know how to excite and sustain
the deepest interest, ever urging upon the heart some tender
affection, some exalted feeling of honor and chivalry?

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

THE INSURGENTS. We commence with these volumes as decidedly superior,
in point of ability and interest, to other works on our table, from
the pens of American writers. They are the production of one who has
written before, who knows his own strength, and has fallen, (if we may
use the expression,) into the regular gait of authorship--he is broken
to the press. An outline of the plot, will the better enable those who
may not have perused the work itself, to comprehend the justice of the
scenes, and to understand the excellencies or defects of the various
characters that figure on the stage. The story is laid in
Massachusetts, at the period of the insurrectionary movements, among
the inhabitants of some of the interior counties, during the
administration of Governor Bowdoin, and immediately after the close of
the revolutionary war. _Col. Eustace_, an officer of the revolutionary
army, a generous but careless manager of his own affairs, has after
several years of arduous service, and in consequence of ill health,
retired to an estate fast falling to ruin, under the thriftless
conduct of the open-handed thoughtless veteran. _Henry Eustace_, his
eldest son, had served for two years as an adjutant to his father, and
returned after the close of the war, full of ardent aspirations, and
without any regular profession, to his paternal home. _Elizabeth
Eustace_, is the only daughter of the old Colonel, and as the
propriety of the novel requires, a lovely and interesting girl. _Tom
Eustace_, a younger brother, plays a subaltern part in the
developement of the story. _Frank Talbot_, an officer but a few years
the senior of Henry Eustace, succeeds to the Colonelcy, vacant by the
retirement of the elder Eustace; and after the disbanding of the army,
returns to his residence in the village, near the estate of Col.
Eustace, and is soon deeply immersed in professional business as a
lawyer, and in the political duties of a representative of his native
town, in the General Court, the title by which the Legislature of
Massachusetts was then distinguished. Frank too, has a sister, _Mary_,
somewhat the senior of Elizabeth, and distinguished from her by a
reserved manner and studious habit, but little characteristic of her
age and sex. The concluding portion of the second chapter, discovers
the secret attachment, which Elizabeth Eustace already bore the young
legislator, and drops the reader a hint {480} of what the after pages
of the work more fully disclose.

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

As the fidelity to nature, in the character of the principal actors,
must always be one of the highest sources of interest to a critical
reader, we shall notice very briefly, the manner in which the author
of the "Insurgents" has succeeded in the _personnel_ of his
descriptions. The old Colonel, the father of Henry Eustace, is exactly
such a personage as every reader may have met with--brave, generous,
careless, and ignorant, he is, perhaps, a very correct picture of the
better part of the _ancien regime_ of our colonial and revolutionary
times. Without any striking peculiarities of character, and playing
but a subaltern part in the story, he only appears as a piece of the
family furniture, brought into play, by the casual location of the
scene. The reader has no cause to regret the slightness of the
acquaintance. The Colonel's second son, Tom, is but an appendage to
the story. Henry, one of the heroes, begins in the army, a mischief
loving, rule breaking, but active and gallant youth; and in the
progress of the story, becomes an eloquent, restless, rebellious
demagogue--stirring up insurrection among the people--defending in the
Legislature, with consummate ability, their pretended wrongs and
actual treason; and upon one occasion, displaying in the field, the
chivalrous courage of his hot and impatient years. He is, however,
always honorable and sincere. His treason is infatuation, and his
_demagogueism_ (if we may coin a much wanted word,) the frenzy of
passion and thoughtlessness. Talbot, on the contrary, is bold and
eloquent; a brave soldier, and an accomplished advocate; but a cunning
and unprincipled politician, who, in the beginning of his career,
espouses the cause of the malcontents, as the only means of securing
the representation of his native village in the Legislature, and as
quickly {481} abandons it, when a higher office is promised him by the
friends of the government, as the price of his desertion. Dr. Talbot,
a country physician "of long practice and high repute," is an abrupt,
rough, but good natured disciple of Esculapius, and seems to have been
intended for no other purpose, than to enable the author to discharge
his wit at the expense of some of the ill mannered admirers of the
surly blackguardism of the Abernethy school of medical gentility. Of
the two heroines, Mary Talbot is a thoughtful, reserved, bright eyed
_blue_; Elizabeth Eustace is younger, and prettier, but more entirely
the child of nature. Neither of them, however, say or act any thing
that can distinguish them from the common _materiel_ of all
novel-women, and serve rather the necessities of the plot, than the
illustration of any of the more touching or exalted beauties of female
character. Of the _Dii minorum gentium_--the lower order of character,
Zeek Morehouse, a worthless understrapper about the old Colonel's
domestic establishment--Hezekiah Brindle, another domestic, who, when
fortune had abandoned the standard of the Insurgents, with the most
simple hearted treachery, "'lists for a private" in the adverse
army--Deacon Hopkins, a thin visaged, flint hearted knave, the usurer
of the parish--Captain Moses Bliss, the inn keeper, one of those pert,
low rogues, so often found in village taverns--Captain Shays, the
leader of the insurgents, and the very impersonation of the spirit of
the militia service--Mrs. Appleton and Mrs. Shattuck, specimens of the
virago, are all rather amusing examples of Yankee low life, and afford
occasion for much characteristic, if not very interesting dialogue.
The other characters brought out in the developement of the story,
scarcely deserve to be noticed, serving as they only do, like soldiers
drafted from the cobbler's stalls and tailors benches, for the use of
the stage, to help the author through the necessities of his plot.

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

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

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




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

_Coleridge's Table Talk_.


{482}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS ON THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

By a young Scotchman now no more.


_Boston, 1832_.

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

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

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

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

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


{484}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

OBSERVATIONS

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


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

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

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

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

Compare his condition now, with that in which he existed before his
acquaintance with the uses of iron: contrast the savage of the forest
with the cultivator of the field--the scanty and precarious sustenance
of the one, with the regular and abundant subsistence of the
other--the covering of skin, with the garment of wool--the hut, with
the commodious dwelling--the hardships attendant on one mode of life,
with the numerous conveniences that follow as a necessary train to the
other; and from this rough-drawn and very imperfect outline, there may
be formed some slight idea of the revolution {485} effected in the
condition of man, even by a limited acquaintance with the simpler uses
of this single, though most important of all the mineral substances.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nor must we forget, that the useful arts, and among them the art of
working metals, were lost to the {486} generality of mankind, in
consequence of that universal calamity. Gold, silver and copper seem
to be the metals of which the knowledge and uses were earliest
recovered after that period; owing, no doubt, to their being oftener
found on the surface of the earth, or in the beds of streams--to their
more frequent occurrence in the metallic state, and to the greater
ease with which they are separated from their ores. Copper, though
greatly inferior to iron, yet possesses considerable tenacity, and
sufficient hardness to furnish a substitute in the construction of
cutting instruments, and either pure, or alloyed with tin to increase
its hardness, constituted the materials of which were formed the
swords, hatchets, and artist's tools of many ancient nations. The arms
and tools of the American nations were similarly made, and by means of
this awkward substitute, the Mexicans and Peruvians made considerable
advances in manufactures and the arts--greater perhaps than any other
people unacquainted with the use of iron. The inconvenience
experienced by these nations from their ignorance of this metal, and
the awkward expedients to which in consequence they had recourse,
afford an important lesson in teaching us what estimate to make of the
value of a substance, which, its very requisiteness to every common
purpose of life so familiarizes us with, as to cause us daily to pass
by with little or no notice. The evils which we are taught would
inevitably follow its loss, make a deeper impression of its
importance, than all the advantages, manifold though they be, which in
heedless enjoyment, we are continually deriving from its possession.
With no better substitute for iron tools in cutting stone, than the
sharp edged fragments of flint,--without carriages, or machines of any
kind,--how tedious and laborious must have been the work of separating
from the quarry, of shaping, of transporting to a distance, and
elevating to a proper height, the huge blocks of stone with which the
Mexicans and Peruvians contrived to erect their temples and other
public edifices!--structures that have commanded the admiration of
more modern nations. What toil and what time must have been expended
in the operation of dividing a single block, by means of continued
rubbing of one rock against another! What pains and what efforts of
ingenuity must it have cost the artizans of Montezuma, without the aid
of nails, to form the ceilings of his palace, by an arrangement of the
planks so artificial, as mutually to sustain each other! With what
eagerness the Peruvian would have accepted nails of iron, to fasten
together the pieces of timber he employed in building, and have laid
aside as worthless, the cords of hemp his necessities compelled him to
apply to that purpose! What an acquisition would have been even a
common needle, in the place of the thorn, to which, in the fashioning
of their cotton garments, they were obliged to have recourse!

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

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

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

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

We cannot avoid suggesting here, to the owners and workers of coal
property in Virginia, the propriety of investigating the strata
through which they necessarily pass in their mining operations, with
reference to the discovery of argillaceous iron-stone, with more
minuteness than hitherto they have done--if indeed, (which we are
inclined to doubt,) their attention has been in any degree directed to
such examination. It is from this species of iron-stone, accompanying
coal-strata, that Great Britain derives at least nineteen twentieths
of the metals which she possesses in such abundance, and to which, in
connection with its convenient location in the immediate vicinity of
the fuel necessary in its reduction, she owes her towering eminence as
a manufacturing country. The coal formation of Virginia contains the
same clays, shales, sandstones and slates, and these are characterized
by the same vegetable impressions that mark the series in other
countries. And may we not reasonably ask, why should we hastily
conclude this usual concomitant of the coal strata in England,
Scotland, France and Germany, to be wanting here; or rather, why may
not we hope to find it equally abundant in our own coal district. We
are induced to {487} urge this suggestion the more, from the
circumstance, that this species of ore presents in its external
characters, so little indicative of its metallic nature or chemical
composition, that but for its greater weight, it might well escape the
notice of an inexperienced or unobservant eye, unless arrested by some
such hope as we have been induced to hold out. Even in England, where
from its great abundance it might have been expected to be generally
better known, instances have occurred in some districts, of its being
wastefully misapplied, through ignorance, to the common purpose of
mending the roads. The immense benefits that would result from success
attending a research directed to this object, as well to the city of
Richmond, as to a few fortunate individuals, are too obvious to
require comment. It is sufficient to remark, that it would prove an
abundant source of individual wealth, and would, in connection with
her other great advantages and increasing facilities of
transportation, be the means of elevating the metropolis of Virginia
to an exalted rank in the class of large cities, and enable her to vie
in importance with the proudest seat of manufactures, or the most
extensive emporium of commerce.

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

GAMMA.

_Henrico, April 28th, 1835_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM A SISTER.

LETTER ELEVENTH.

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


PARIS, ----.

_Dear Jane:_

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

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

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

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

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

Retracing our steps a short distance, we continued our ride to Saint
Germain en Laye, and observed on our left a stupendous steam engine
which, on inquiry, we found is used for supplying the fountains of
Versailles and Saint Cloud with water from the Seine, and has
succeeded the famous machine of Marly. This machine had become so
decayed in some parts before its removal, that it occasioned the death
of several persons who were examining its construction--and heedlessly
stepped on an old board, which giving way they {488} were precipitated
into the river and drowned, or crushed to death by the wheels. Saint
Germain en Laye derives its name from the extensive forest adjoining
it, which is considered the finest in France, and has ever been the
favorite hunting ground of the French monarchs. While partaking of the
pleasures of the chase they inhabited the spacious palace, that still
exists and is at present a barracks for soldiers. That abject king
James the Second, resided in it twelve years, supported by the
munificence of Louis le grand, and finally closed his earthly career
in this noble retreat. He was buried in the adjoining church, and his
heart is enshrined in a paltry looking altar, before which a lamp is
constantly burning, and upon which is an inscription informing the
reader why it was erected. But what renders the palace at Saint
Germain peculiarly interesting, is its having been the residence of
the Duchess de la Vallière; and in the ceiling of one of the rooms
appropriated to her use there is a trap door, through which it is
supposed her enamored sovereign descended when he visited her
clandestinely. On the left of the castle is a terrace one mile in
length, and bordering an acclivity that overhangs the Seine, and is
highly cultivated in vineyards and fruit trees. This terrace is much
frequented by persons who resort there, for the purpose of enjoying
fresh air and a fine prospect. Some go in carriages, but the usual
mode of conveyance is by a donkey, and this we chose. The streets of
the town are wide and the houses generally large; which might be
expected, as court festivities were so often held here; and
now-a-days, many of the Parisian gentry pass the summer months here.

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

LEONTINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTER TWELFTH.

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


Paris, -----.

_Dear Jane:_--

We have formed acquaintance with some delightful characters since I
wrote to you a few days since. We have been introduced to the good and
brave General Lafayette and his family! On Wednesday he came with his
son, Mr. George Lafayette, to see Mr. Danville, and the latter
presented us to them. The print you have seen of this distinguished
patriarch, is a correct likeness; and his manners are as benevolent as
his countenance. He has a soirée on every Wednesday night, and we have
gladly accepted the kind and pressing invitation he gave each of us to
attend them. The ladies of the family, consisting of his daughters,
his grand-daughters, and daughter-in-law Madame G. Lafayette, have
also called, and we find them very amiable and pleasing. We have
likewise had an introduction to Madame de Genlis, for which we are
indebted to Mrs. Danville; who, rightly conjecturing it would be
gratifying to us to know this celebrated lady, and being well
acquainted with her, requested her permission to present us to her.
This was readily granted, and this morning appointed for the visit.
Accordingly, after an early ride to the Sévres manufactory of
porcelain and the palace of Saint Cloud, the most splendid of all the
king's habitations, we repaired to her residence. On arriving we were
conducted up stairs by a tidy looking _femme de chambre_ and ushered
through a small bed-room, plainly furnished, into an apartment that,
from the variety of its contents, might be compared to Noah's ark.
Besides the usual appendages of a parlor, it contained a piano, a
harp, a guitar, a folding screen, and several tables loaded with
books, papers, baskets and boxes, &c. We found the venerable authoress
seated in an arm chair, near the window. Her regular and delicate
features and fair skin, still indicate former beauty. Her nose is
aquiline, and her eyes clear blue; as they are weak, she is obliged to
wear a green shade to protect them from the light, but has never yet
found it necessary to use spectacles: this is astonishing, for she
will be eighty-two on the 25th of next January! She wore a black silk
gown, and a simple muslin cap; and when Mrs. Danville introduced us
she offered her hand to each, and as soon as we were seated entered
into conversation with a degree of vivacity that quite surprised us;
we were still more so, at her vanity. She talked a great deal about
her own works, and in their praise! We asked her if she continued to
play on the harp. "Oh oui! très bien!" she replied. "And on the piano
and the guitar, Madame?" "Oh, oui, tout, tout, très bien!" She told us
she often practised on the harp and composed in prose at the same
time; and that while reciting verses aloud in a distinct voice and
with strict attention to punctuation and emphasis, she could read a
page from any author and then recount to you in regular rotation,
every idea therein expressed; and this proved, she said, that the mind
is capable of two operations at once. Papa observed that Charles the
Twelfth of Sweden, proved it a century ago, when he played chess while
dictating letters to different persons. She did not notice this
remark, but proceeded to extol a novel she wrote some years since,
entitled "Alfred the Great." She considers it one of her best
productions, and gave it to a physician who attended her during a
dangerous illness and declined being paid for his services. She said
she thought she could not compliment him more, than by making him a
present of her work; that he seemed delighted with it, and declared he
would have it published immediately, but that much to her regret he
had not kept his promise. Alfred is her favorite hero, and she
expressed her wonder that he is not often made the subject of a
romance. She informed us that she always retires to bed at half past
ten o'clock and rises at seven, and is careful to eat very moderately.
Her faculties {489} continue perfect, and she knows fifty-two trades;
such as sewing, knitting, spinning, embroidering, making baskets,
weaving purses, &c. &c. We saw on the chimney-piece a snuff box that
Mademoiselle d'Orleans, her _ci-devant_ pupil, had sent to her. On the
lid she had painted a harp entwined with a garland of flowers, and
below it this sentence was written: "C'est votre ouvrage." Having sat
with her two hours we took leave, and had quitted the room, when she
called us back to show us with what ease she could rise from her chair
without resting her hands on the arms of it to aid herself, as old
people are commonly obliged to do. She has invited us to call on her
whenever we can, and was so polite as to say she felt quite flattered
by our visit.

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

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

LEONTINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTER THIRTEENTH.

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


Paris, ----.

_Dear Jane:_

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

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

We had the gratification of meeting with Lady Morgan last night at
Madame B----'s. Mamma had a {490} great deal of conversation with her
and found her extremely affable and agreeable. You know we were told
she was ugly--we do not think her so, but she certainly dresses too
girlishly, rouges too highly and seems too desirous of admiration.
This cannot be said of Mrs. Opie, to whom we were also introduced. She
was as plain in her attire as a dark grey silk gown and a white muslin
kerchief and cap could make her. In her manners she is unaffected, in
her conversation animated and intelligent. Her countenance is open and
expressive of her lively mind. The moment we beheld her we recognized
her as a lady we had seen at a quaker meeting which we attended from
motives of curiosity on Sunday. A quaker meeting in Paris! you will
exclaim. Even so my dear, for what is there on the face of the earth
(that depends not on _soil_ or _climate_) which may not be found in
this bustling capital? The meeting was held in a house in the Champs
Elysèes, belonging to a quaker family with whom Mr. D. was acquainted,
and who gave him a cheerful permission to bring with him whenever he
wished it, any friends desirous of going there. We were shewn into a
neat parlor, where about twenty persons were sitting in solemn
silence, and for nearly an hour not a sound was heard, save the
occasional sneezes of an old lady who had a violent cold in her head.
At length however the spirit moved a dark eyed gentleman and he gave
us a tolerable sermon. I conclude with love from all of us to
yourself, aunt M. and Albert, and to our relations and friends in the
vicinity of Morven Lodge. I have not always room for affectionate
messages, or be assured they would always be inserted.

LEONTINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTER FOURTEENTH.

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


PARIS, ----.

_Dear Jane:_

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

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

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

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

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

LEONTINE.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES

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


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

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

  With heart as joyous, and foot as light
  As the wild young roe, he scaled the height-- {492}
  The crystal sought in its mountain-bed,
  And the fragrant wild flowers gathered;
  Nature he loved in her freakish mood--
  And sought her, deep in her solitude.

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

ELIZA.

_Saco, Maine_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO SPRING.[1]


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

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

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

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

ELIZA.

_Saco, Maine._

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




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SPRING.


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

ROY.

_Lovingston, April 1, 1835_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger

TO A. L. B.

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


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

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

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

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

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

S. W. W.

_Raleigh, N. C._




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SPRING.


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

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

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

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

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

A PRISONER.


{493}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MR. T. W. WHITE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am, sir, with high respect,

Your obedient servant,

Z. X. W.

_May 12, 1835_.

       *       *       *       *       *

DISSERTATION

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


NO. I.

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

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

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


_Physical Differences between the Sexes, and their Immediate Effects_.

What then is the difference in physical organization? "Woman," says
Voltaire, "is in general less strong than man; smaller and less
capable of lasting labor. Her blood is more aqueous; her flesh less
firm; her hair longer; her limbs more rounded; her arms less muscular;
her mouth smaller; her hips more prominent, and her abdomen larger.
These physical points distinguish woman all over the earth, and of all
races, from Lapland unto the coast of Guinea, and from America to
China."[1] The physiologists all agree in the main points of
difference here asserted. They say that woman differs from man in the
whole of {495} her lower stature--in the delicacy of her
organization--in the predominance of her lymphatic and cellular
system, which softens down the projections of the muscles, and gives
to all her limbs those rounded and graceful forms, of which we see in
the Venus de Medicis the inimitable model. "In woman, sensibility is
also more exquisite; and, with less strength, her mobility is greater.
The female skeleton even, is easily distinguished from that of the
male, by striking differences. The asperities of the bones are less
prominent; the clavicle is less curved; the chest shorter, but more
expanded; the sternum shorter, but wider; the pelvis more
capacious,"[2] &c. Comparing the sexes together then, all over the
world, man appears to be decidedly the stronger and better formed for
war, for hard and persevering labor; woman for retirement, for the
mild and less laborious occupations. The camp, the field, the woods,
and the sea seem to be the natural theatres for the display of man's
powers. Woman fills with peculiar grace, all the domestic occupations
and sedentary employments. In fact, the same amount of exercise is not
necessary to the preservation of her health, as for that of man. Hence
she is more naturally sedentary and quiet, and perhaps less
industrious. Her labor, in a purely politico-economical light, is
universally considered less valuable. The severer labors of cutting,
mauling, ditching, carpentry, masonry, &c. are performed by men. The
management of children, sewing, knitting, washing, &c. are performed
most frequently by women. The working in lace, Rousseau considered an
occupation particularly suited to a delicate modest female. He never
could exercise the slightest patience towards men tailors. The needle
and sword ought not to be managed by the same hands. In his _Emile_,
he says, "If I were sovereign, I would not permit sewing and the
occupations of the needle to any but women and lame men."

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

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

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

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


_Relative Position of the Sexes in Society_.

The relative position of the sexes in the social and political world,
may certainly be looked upon as the result of organization. The
greater physical strength of man, enables him to occupy the foreground
in the picture. He leaves the domestic scenes; he plunges into the
turmoil and bustle of an active, selfish world; in his journey through
life, he has to encounter innumerable difficulties, hardships and
labors which constantly beset him. His mind must be nerved against
them. Hence courage and boldness are his attributes. It is his
province, undismayed, to stand against the rude shocks of the world;
to meet with a lion's heart, the dangers which threaten him. He is the
shield of woman, destined by nature to guard and protect her. Her
inferior strength and sedentary habits confine her within the domestic
circle; she is kept aloof from the bustle and storm of active life;
she is not familiarized to the out of door dangers and hardships of a
cold and scuffling world: timidity and modesty are her attributes. In
the great strife which is constantly going forward around her, there
are powers engaged which her inferior physical strength prevents her
from encountering. She must rely upon the strength of others; man must
be engaged in her cause. How is he to be drawn over to her side? Not
by menace--not by force; for weakness cannot, by such means, be
expected to triumph over might. No! It must be by conformity to that
character which circumstances demand for the sphere in which she
moves; by the exhibition of those qualities which delight and
fascinate--which are calculated to win over to her side the proud lord
of creation, and to make him an humble suppliant at her shrine. Grace,
modesty and loveliness are the charms which constitute her power. By
these, she creates the magic {496} spell that subdues to her will the
more mighty physical powers by which she is surrounded. Her attributes
are rather of a passive than active character. Her power is more
emblematical of that of divinity: it subdues without an effort, and
almost creates by mere volition;--whilst man must wind his way through
the difficult and intricate mazes of philosophy; with pain and toil,
tracing effects to their causes, and unravelling the deep mysteries of
nature--storing his mind with useful knowledge, and exercising,
training and perfecting his intellectual powers, whilst he cultivates
his strength and hardens and matures his courage; all with a view of
enabling him to assert his rights, and exercise a greater sway over
those around him. Woman we behold dependant and weak; but out of that
very weakness and dependance springs an irresistible power. She may
pursue her studies too--not however with a view of triumphing in the
senate chamber--not with a view to forensic display--not with a view
of leading armies to combat, or of enabling her to bring into more
formidable action the physical power which nature has conferred on
her. No! It is but the better to perfect all those feminine graces,
all those fascinating attributes, which render her the centre of
attraction, and which delight and charm all those who breathe the
atmosphere in which she moves; and, in the language of Mr. Burke,
would make ten thousand swords leap from their scabbards to avenge the
insult that might be offered to her. By her very meekness and beauty
does she subdue all around her. The Grecian poet of old has told us
where her power lies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In that darkest and most dismal hour of Josephine's life, when the
dread secret of the divorce was first hinted to her by that great but
wily and unprincipled statesman Fouche, how does she act? In all the
agony and concentrated grief which preys upon her heart, she seeks in
his chamber the solitary chieftain, whose martial prowess had shaken
all the thrones of Europe, and filled the world with a fame which
eclipsed that of the Cæsars and Alexanders--she seats herself in his
lap--she strokes back the hair from his forehead: in the mild and
faltering tone of injured honor, she asks him if it be so? He answers
no! And with beauty, grace and tears supplicating, who could have
answered otherwise! Then imprinting a kiss upon his brow, she asks the
dismission of Fouche as an earnest of his attachment. This was denied
her; {497} and at that moment despair seized upon her heart. She knew
her power was gone--the charm was broken--the spell was dissolved.
Ambition triumphed over love. But the Colossus of Europe could have
told you, that the melancholy triumph of that moment, had cost him
more than the conquest of kingdoms and the dethronement of monarchs;
or he could have told you afterwards, that when he for the first time
beheld the barren rock of St. Helena, with that countenance unmoved
and unchanged, which so astonished those who observed it,--the
internal struggle by which he chained down the conflicting emotions of
his soul, was not to be compared with that which could firmly resist
the request of a beloved but injured wife in tears.


_Points of Honor in the Sexes_.

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

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

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

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

  "To guard that virtue, to supply the place
   Of courage, wanting in her gentle race--
   Lo, modesty was given; mysterious spell,
   Whose blush can shame, whose panic can repel.
   Strong, by the very weakness it betrays,
   It sheds a mist before our fiery gaze: {498}
   The panting apprehension, quick to feel
   The shrinking grace, that fain would grace conceal,
   The beautiful rebuke that looks surprise--
   The gentle vengeance of averted eyes;--
   These are its arms, and these supreme prevail;
   Love pauses--Vice retracts his glozing tale."

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

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

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

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

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

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

All persons placed in situations requiring great self command, by
constantly curbing the passions and allaying the rising emotions,
arrive at last at that self control, that perfect apparent mental
equilibrium which appears so wonderfully difficult to the ordinary
spectator. This is often most strikingly exemplified in statesmen,
diplomatists and gamblers, and sometimes in mercantile men. The great
reserve of Washington on state affairs, is well {499} known: Davilla,
the historian, praises the deep dissimulation of Catherine de Medicis.
Lord Clarendon, and Locke, have spoken with commendations of the same
traits in the characters of the Earls of Bristol and Shaftsbury;
whilst Cicero even, has bestowed his eulogy on the same qualities, and
points to the characters of Homer's Ulysses, Themistocles the
Athenian, Lysander the Spartan, and to Marcus Crassus of Rome, for
examples. Talleyrand, the great diplomatic wonder of the nineteenth
century, it is said, possesses this "_talent pour le silence_," on
state affairs, in a most extraordinary degree. With such a being,
every thing becomes a matter of calculation, down even to the
responses to the ordinary questions of "how do you do?" and "how have
you been?" Such a man may truly be said to carry his heart in his
head, as was said of Mr. Pitt the younger.[4]

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

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

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

The remarks made above, are susceptible of extensive generalization.
Mr. Stuart says, in the third volume of his Elements of the Philosophy
of Mind, "In one of our most celebrated universities, which has long
enjoyed the proud distinction of being the principal seat of
mathematical learning in this Island, I have been assured, that if at
any time a spirit of fanaticism has infected (as will occasionally
happen in all numerous societies,) a few of the unsounder limbs of
that learned body, the contagion has invariably spread much more
widely among the mathematicians, than among the men of erudition. Even
the strong head of Waering, undoubtedly one of the ablest analysts
that England has produced, was not proof against the malady; and he
seems at last (as I am told by the late Dr. Watson, Bishop of
Landaff,) to have sunk into a deep religious melancholy, approaching
to insanity. When Whitefield first visited Scotland, and produced, by
his powerful though unpolished eloquence, such marvellous effects on
the minds of his hearers, Dr. Simpson, the celebrated professor of
mathematics at Glasgow, had the curiosity to attend one of his sermons
in the fields, but could never be persuaded, by all the entreaties of
his friends, to hear another. He had probably felt his imagination
excited in an unpleasant degree, and with his usual good sense
resolved not to subject himself to the danger of a second experiment."
Now it is well known, that mathematical studies exercise the
imagination less perhaps than any other whatever; and the powerful
influence spoken of by Mr. Stewart, was no doubt owing to the fact,
that the individuals in question, had no control over the imagination;
when once excited, they had never learned to manage and restrain it.
Upon the same principles we can explain the wonderful control which
the coquette ultimately acquires over all her feelings. The general
opinion is, that coquettes are cold and feelingless, and have always
been so, and that all their demonstrations of emotion, are the result
of hypocrisy. This may sometimes be the case, but not always. Persons
of this description, may even have intense feelings; but from
constantly watching, restraining and curbing them, after they have
been called into action, they acquire perfect mastery over them. In
some cases, the feelings may be so chained down by habit, as almost to
be destroyed; in fact, this is generally the case with coquettes, and
when they do marry, it is frequently more from policy than love.
Ambition and vanity, in their case, triumph eventually over love and
feeling; and the love of {500} riches, standing, pomp, and show,
determines their choice.[5] There is one species of coquetry for which
I have much compassion and sympathy; it is where the affections of a
lady have really been won by an individual, whom prudence and the
advice of friends, will forever prevent her from marrying. In this
case it sometimes happens, that tenderness on her part, and a desire
to avoid wounding his feelings, may cause her to excite hopes which
are never to be realized. In this case, he may drink too deeply of
what Shakspeare calls

  "The honey'd music of her words;"

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

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

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


_Pride and Vanity._

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

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

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

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

As thus explained, it is very evident that these two great principles,
pride and vanity, must have almost omnipotent sway in the formation of
character. Chenevix, in his work on national character, and Adam Smith
in his theory of moral sentiments, make the whole human character to
hinge on these two qualities. When pride is excessive, you have for
the most part a haughty isolated independent taciturn being, who,
wrapt up in himself, and his own ideal perfections, despises the
opinions of those around him, and treats the world with austerity and
scorn. His social defects are bluntness, rudeness, and a want of
sympathy and {501} compassion. But then he is a being who is firm and
steady in his character, and unwavering in his resolves. He may be
relied on, if you can ever win him to your side. When vanity is
excessive, you have a being the very reverse of the one just
described. He is social, loquacious, polite and attentive to all
around him. He has no fixed character or opinion of his own: the
opinion of the world is the looking glass in which he daily dresses
himself. Affectation and disingenuousness are his social defects. Win
him to your side to-day, and to-morrow when he finds the other the
most popular, he will desert you without hesitation. He is a
treacherous friend. When these two qualities are properly combined,
you have the perfect character.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A person (says Adam Smith,) who has excessive vanity, in attempting
to win the applause of those around him, is apt to fall into the
practice of lying, but the lies are not of a black or very hurtful
character to society; they are intended to deceive you, and make you
think more of the person who tells them, and not to injure others;
whereas a proud man but rarely lies, and when he does, it is apt to be
a dark and malicious falsehood, which he tells; one intended for the
injury of others, not for the exaltation of himself." It is badly
regulated vanity, which produces that character for cunning, {502}
which Rousseau considered one of the distinguishing characteristical
traits in the female. He was so much impressed with the predominance
of this trait in woman's character, that he was disposed to attribute
it, (I think falsely,) rather to nature than to circumstances and
education. He tells us of the following device, practiced by a girl of
six years old, who had been strictly forbidden to ask for any thing at
table. For the purpose of inducing her parents to help her to a dish
which she had not tasted, she pointed her finger at the several
dishes, saying, I have eaten of that, and of that, &c. until she came
to the one of which she had not eaten, passing that by in silence. A
cunning hint was thus given to the parents, without violation of their
commands, that she would like to be helped to it. This little
stratagem Rousseau thinks far beyond what a boy of the same age would
have planned, and hence he comes to the conclusion, that "_La ruse est
un talent naturel au sex_"--he thinks this a wise dispensation of
nature, for, says he, "La femme a tout contre elle nos defauts, sa
timidité, sa faiblesse; elle n'a pour elle que son art et sa beaute.
N'est il pas juste qu'elle cultive l'un et l'autre?" When these
devices and stratagems, which the softer sex practice for the
attainment of their ends, become too apparent, they disgust; when well
concealed, they frequently succeed: but honesty here, as every where,
will prove to be the best policy; and I cannot agree with Rousseau,
that generally they are advantageous to those who practice them: they
always endanger more or less the character of the individual. In
spite, however, of all our caution and advice on this subject, in the
little concerns of life, and the petty tactics of the drawing and ball
rooms, woman will always display more skill and cunning than man.
These are the scenes with which she is more conversant, and which she
studies far more deeply than he. A skilful tactician in the drawing
room, may almost be compared to a general in the field. She notes,
without being perceived, every movement, and by skilful evolutions she
brings about that arrangement of parties which best suits her taste,
and which seems to others, who have not the sagacity to see the game,
the effect of magic, rather than of art. With man it is very
different; concealment and stratagem in the little courtesies and
plans of life, are never expected of him. The maxim of David Crockett,
"go ahead," is the one on which he practices. As woman is the most
skilful manager on these occasions, so is she the most sagacious
observer, and she can sometimes greatly amuse us, by furnishing a key
to the manoeuvring in the social and fashionable world.


_Mother and Child._

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

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

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

          "His ardent flight
  Through the blue infinite;"

numbering the planets, noting their complex but harmonious movements,
and deducing the unerring laws by which they are governed? Or, by
pouring truth after truth upon the world, is he to break up the
prejudices and dissipate the errors which have before bound down the
restless energies of the mind under the fatal spell of ignorance and
superstition? Perhaps he is to be the genuine philanthropist, and like
Howard, to travel from country to country, "not to survey the
sumptuousness of palaces or the stateliness of temples; not to make
accurate measurement of the remains of ancient grandeur; not to form a
scale of the {503} curiosity of modern arts; nor to collect medals or
to collate manuscripts: but to dive into the depths of dungeons--to
plunge into the infection of hospitals--to survey the mansions of
sorrow and pain--to take the gauge and dimensions of misery,
depression and contempt--to remember the forgotten, to attend to the
neglected, to visit the forsaken--and compare and collate the
distresses of all men in all countries." Or is he to be the simple,
but contented being, whose world is bounded by his visual horizon,--

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

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

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

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

  "Explore the thought, explain the asking eye;"

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

Even in women of the most wicked character, those who are the very
fiends of their sex, we sometimes see this maternal fondness bursting
out, and demonstrating at once, the difference between the wickedness
of man and that of woman. Mrs. Jameson admires very much those touches
of Shakspeare's pencil, which mark in the midst of all her atrocities
and dark crimes, the womanly character of Lady Macbeth. How beautiful
is the recollection of a mother's love, even in this fiend: {504}

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

And again she shows the woman, when she exclaims:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So strongly does woman sympathize with the distress and suffering of
those around her, that under peculiar circumstances, she sometimes is
carried to perform acts of enterprise and heroism, which rival the
achievements of the ages of chivalry. Under the impulse of highly
excited feelings, she has sometimes forgotten her inferiority of
strength, and the dangers to which she is exposed by collision with
the rudeness and roughness of the out of door world. On such
occasions, she has braved all the hardships and labors which have
opposed her, has crossed mountains and rivers, and penetrated alone
into Siberian deserts; or visited courts and camps, and importuned
monarchs and generals, until she has accomplished her humane purposes.
How interesting is Elizabeth to us, in the Exiles of Siberia, by
Madame Cottin, when {506} she determines to go alone from the heart of
the Siberian desert, to beg the Emperor for the liberty of her exiled
father; and how much more deeply interested do we become in this tale
when we know that it is not only founded on fact, but that the real
dangers and difficulties which Elizabeth encountered, were of such a
character as to make Madame Cottin suppose that they would not be
believed, if faithfully narrated. The deep and thrilling interest
excited by the character of Jeannie Deans, in the Heart of Mid
Lothian, is due in a great measure to her magnanimous and heroic
resolution, taken under the influence of sisterly love, to make a
journey on foot, unprotected and alone, from her father's mansion near
Edinburg, to London, for the purpose of obtaining the pardon of her
sister, and to the difficulties, dangers and hardships which she is
represented as surmounting with unshaken fortitude. Mrs. Jameson in
her Visits and Sketches, has given us a narrative of the adventures of
Mademoiselle Ambos, equal to those of Elizabeth in the Exiles of
Siberia, or to those of Jeannie Deans in the beautiful fiction of Sir
Walter Scott.

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

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

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

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


_Influence of Love_.

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

Most of our desires, although natural, are determined as to their
particular direction by the operation of circumstances--take for
example the {507} desire for society. There is no doubt that this is a
natural instinctive desire; man is certainly a gregarious animal; he
delights in intercourse with fellow-man; solitude is at war with the
condition of his nature, and so strong is his desire for society, that
if man be deprived of intercourse with man, he will make companions of
brutes and reptiles themselves. Horses, dogs, cats, even spiders and
rats, have become his very dear associates in his solitary condition.
And yet, under the operation of reason, imagination, and the passions,
together with that endless variety of character which we find in the
human family, this desire is directed to particular persons and
particular circles. We may shun the society of A and B--we may court
that of C and D--and indeed, under the very severe pressure of
calamity, when all our hopes and our darling schemes of ambition and
aggrandizement are blasted forever, by the perfidious machinations and
wily projects of those very individuals whom we had fondly called our
friends, there is an almost irresistible tendency in the mind, at such
a melancholy crisis, to indulge the gloomy feeling of misanthropy, and
plunge into the depth of solitude, where we may escape the persecution
and treachery of a dissembling world. Thus do we find circumstances
controling, directing, and sometimes almost exterminating our natural
passions and propensities.

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

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

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

It mixes itself with all our thoughts, our desires, our hopes and
actions. It is the realization of the fable of the fish, which
imparted its own beautiful color to every object that approached it.
How often when we have stood amid the lone majesty of nature's works,
"all heaven above" and earth beneath, with no eye gazing on us, save
that of him _who doeth his will and ruleth in the armies of heaven_,
have we felt this unseen spirit to move within us--to touch, as if
with magic hand, all the springs of our moral sensibility, and waken
up all the tender emotions of our soul. Even with the prayer which we
address to heaven from this great temple of nature we cannot refrain
from {508} mingling the name of her whose beauty and loveliness have
excited within us the sympathetic emotions of virtue and piety. This
passion of love, when it is genuine, accompanies us wherever we go; it
associates the beloved object with all our plans and schemes of
ambition, and casts its own bright radiance over all the objects which
surround us:

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

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

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

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

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

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

At times he realizes the fable of Orpheus; he draws the very trees
after him, melts the hearts of stone that are around him, and makes
them forgive the wrongs which he has done--then his {509} reason seems
to be dethroned, the very demon of malice enters his heart; his shafts
of calumny transfix alike friend and foe, and he traverses seas and
continents almost like the deluded victim of knight errantry, impelled
by a spirit which urges forward with irresistible impetuosity, whilst
it seems to have lost its destination. The world stands amazed whilst
this brilliant meteor is playing above the horizon. One ascribes his
course to the waywardness of nature, and calls him a _lusus naturæ_;
another traces his character to the diseases of the body; another
tells you he was ambitious, and that all his schemes of promotion and
self-aggrandizement were wrecked.

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

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

I will now examine briefly, a few of the effects produced on the
character of the male, during the period of courtship in society,
organized as it is in this country and Europe,--and certainly one of
the most marked effects, is the strengthening of vanity and the
weakening of pride. As it is the province of man to woo and to win,
his constant aim must be to render himself agreeable to the object of
his affections. To gain her esteem, her approbation, _her love_, is
the object of all his efforts. Now this is vanity. The proudest heart,
the soul of sternest stuff, by the operation of this all subduing
passion of love, is made to yield--to become a candidate for the
praise of her whose affections he so much covets. In this condition we
are all more or less like Petrarch, who declared that "she (Laura) was
the motive and object of all his studies--that he coveted glory only
as it might secure _her esteem_--that she alone had taught him to
desire life, and to lift his thoughts towards heaven." In his
"Conversations with St. Augustin," he even confesses that he was more
ardent in his desire for the _Laurel Crown_, on account of its
affinity to the name of Laura. Now, although this vanity seeks the
approbation directly of but one, yet as she is regulated by the
opinion of the world, we quickly find it necessary to gain the good
opinion and esteem of those around us, in order, by their means, to
win the approbation of the object of our affections. Hence, however
proud the man, love and courtship will in the civilized countries of
our globe soon infuse a degree of vanity, which will temper his
overweening pride and make him more social, more loquacious, more
attentive to all the little courtesies of life, and much more cheerful
than he was before. In all the Mahommedan countries, where woman is
bought and locked up, and the alternately sweet and painful
solicitudes of love and courtship are never known--how proud, how
taciturn, how forbidding, unsocial and grave, is the character of man!
In France, where the influence of women is very great, how entirely
opposite is his character; there, vanity is his predominant trait.
Montesquieu, in his "Lettres Persannes," makes Usbeck say to Ibben, in
a letter from Paris, on the characters of the French and Persians, "It
must be allowed that the seraglio is better adapted for health than
for pleasure. It is a dull uniform kind of life, where every thing
turns upon subjection and duty; their very pleasures are grave, and
their pastimes solemn; and they seldom taste them but as so many
tokens of authority and dependence. The men in Persia are not so gay
as the French; there is not that freedom of mind and that appearance
of content which I meet with here in persons of all ranks and estates.
It is still worse in Turkey, where there are families, in which from
father to son, not one of them ever laughed from the foundation of the
monarchy." Now these proud, taciturn, grave {510} beings would at once
be changed, by giving full freedom to the females, and rendering it
necessary for each one to woo, to interest and to delight her whom he
would make his wife.

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

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

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

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

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

So far, I have been describing the nature of man's love, and the
effects which it produces on his character. The love of woman however,
is much more interesting, and if not more ardent, it is perhaps more
devoted, more tender and more constant than that of man. "Man," says
Irving, "is the creature of interest and ambition. His nature leads
him forth into the bustle and struggle of the world. Love is but the
embellishment of his early life, or a song piped in the intervals of
the acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune, for space in the world's
thoughts, and dominion over his fellow men. {511} But a woman's whole
life is the history of the affections. The heart is her world; it is
there her ambition strives for empire--it is there her avarice seeks
for hidden treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on adventure; she
embarks her whole soul in the traffic of affection; and if
shipwrecked, her case is hopeless,--for it is a bankruptcy of the
heart." Madame de Stael tells us that love is but an episode in the
history of man's life, but it is the serious business of a woman's.
And a _man_, says Thomas, is more to a woman than a whole nation.
Under these circumstances, when a woman's affections have been won,
when, casting aside all passions, feelings, joys of earth, save for
one alone, she settles down,

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

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

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

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

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

I have thought proper, in this dissertation, to speak of the effects
produced upon the character of man during the period of courtship and
love; and we have seen that the effects in his case are decidedly
beneficial. I doubt whether the same may be asserted in all cases with
regard to woman. The time which a woman passes between the period of
her entrance into society and her marriage, is perhaps the most
important and the most perilous of her career. Having led a previous
life of retirement and comparative seclusion, unacquainted with the
wiles and stratagems of the world--endowed almost always with a vivid
imagination and warm feelings, she comes forth into society with
buoyant hopes and an animating gaiety, which throw a charm over the
whole face of nature, that conceals from view the snares and
deceptions of the world. She may then fall a sacrifice to some artful
deceiver, and suffer the pangs of disappointment, which I have just
been describing.[8] Or she may acquire a love of conquest in the wars
of Cupid--may become fascinated by the applauses and flattery of the
world, until nothing but the incense of adulation can satisfy her
perverted vanity. This period, is one, during which, a woman enjoys
more fame, more worldly glory, than during any other of her life. It
is not to be wondered at then, that she is so frequently seen
suppressing her feelings and smothering her affections, in order that
she may protract this period of her glory and {512} reputation.[9]
There is nothing more seducing, more captivating to the vanity and
imagination of woman, than to see all hearts enchained, and rendering
the willing homage of love and admiration to her graces and
accomplishments. But she must beware, lest this delightful devotion
implant in the heart a lust for applause and notoriety, at the
sacrifice of all the more feminine and lovely virtues. And she must
recollect too that the very pain of disappointment, which she is
obliged to inflict and to witness from day to day, in her unfortunate
lovers, is of itself calculated to weaken and obtund her feelings and
sympathies, and to generate coldness and hardness of heart.
Metaphysicians tell us that the active feelings are strengthened, but
the passive are weakened by too frequent repetition--the frequent
sight of beggary, of death, of pain and misery of every description,
when it is beyond our power to administer relief, always tends to
weaken our sympathy and harden the heart. Now there can be no
pain,--no anguish more exquisite, than that which the disappointed
lover feels in the melancholy hour of his rejection; and the woman,
who witnesses such scenes too frequently, may at last lose the
generous sympathies of her nature. Like the man of deep feelings and
keen sensibility, who the historian informs us, was at first
unwillingly dragged to the amphitheatre to witness the horrid, the
revolting combats of the gladiators, she may at last by repetition so
conquer the feelings of nature as even to experience a savage delight
in the pain and suffering of human sacrifice and human woe.

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

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

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

                                      "Glass
  Wherein the noble youths do dress themselves,"

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

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




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

DANCING, WALTZING, &c.

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


Amid the various changes in the customs and fashions of society, the
abolition of old, and the introduction of new modes, which an age
prolific in intelligent and important improvement has effected, it is
matter of surprise, that some of the engines of reform, some of the
batteries of satire, have never been unmasked upon the crude and
barbarous fashion of dancing. Start not, gentle reader, when I say
_barbarous_ fashion, for such dancing unquestionably is. Its very
origin is barbarous. In a rude state, when the untutored savage is
agitated by any strong emotion, as joy, patriotism, admiration, &c.,
his first impulse is to caper and skip about like a {513} grasshopper.
Among the records of the customs and manners of the most polished and
civilized nations of antiquity, we seek in vain for the importance and
admiration which attaches to this miscalled accomplishment at the
present day. The Romans, perhaps the most accomplished and polite of
the ancients, held the art in very low esteem. Indeed we find Cicero
striving with all the force of his matchless eloquence, to vindicate
his friend Muræna from the charge of being a dancer, preferred against
him by Cato. So conscious is he of the weight of the imputation, that
he makes it the subject of one branch of his defence, and, in a
digression, recounts the brilliant services and devoted patriotism of
his client's ancestors, to discountenance a charge affecting so
seriously, the value and dignity of his character.

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

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

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

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

Now, Mr. Messenger, I take you to be a sensible and discreet man,
anxious for the purity of public taste, and ever vigilant to rid
society of all nuisances; I doubt not, therefore, that I shall find in
you, an able and willing coadjutor in the remedy I propose to apply,
for the extirpation of this unspeakable annoyance; and I hope the
undignified, graceless, dancing fraternity, aye, and _sisterhood_ too,
(for sorry am I to say, the ladies are the most _untiring_ patrons of
this capering vice,) will take {514} the hint forthwith. I propose,
through the "Messenger," to give to the public the result of my best
labors to eradicate this odious practice from society. I know not if
my efforts will ever receive their deserved reward. The public is an
ungrateful master, and ever incredulous and uncourteous when you
propose to reform him. It is not, however, the part of a
philanthropist and reformer, to abate his efforts on that account.
Immortality will be the price of success, and posterity will pay it.
Had Columbus abandoned his attempts to explore the western main,
because bigoted and ignorant monarchs would not accept the world he
offered them, we might now have been the wretched subjects of some
European despot instead of the countrymen of Washington, under a
government of equal laws, and in a land of liberty.

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

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

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

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

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

"Impudence!" said Miss Primrose.

"Insult!" echoed Miss Grundy.

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

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

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

ANTHONY ABSOLUTE.


_Mr. Absolute:_

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

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

CAROLINE CAMFIELD, _Secretary_.

{515}

_Mr. Absolute:_

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

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

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

SALLY SOBERLY.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LION-IZING. A TALE.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Wonderful genius!'--said the Quarterly.

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

'Fine writer!'--said the Edinburg.

'Great man!'--said Blackwood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Precisely'--said I.

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

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

'Admirable!'--said he.

'A thousand pounds'--said I.

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

We were all Lions and _Recherchés_.

There was a Grand Turk from Stamboul. He said that the angels were
horses, cocks, and bulls--that {516} somebody in the sixth heaven had
seventy thousand heads and seventy thousand tongues--and that the
earth was held up by a sky-blue cow with four hundred horns.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Positively'--I replied.

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

'Dear Duchess! with all my heart.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Dios guarda!'--said Don Stiletto.

'Diavolo!'--said Count Capricornuto.

'Tousand Teufel!'--said Baron Bludenuff.

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

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

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

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

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

'Bête!'--said the first.

'Fool!'--said the second.

'Ninny!'--said the third.

'Dolt!'--said the fourth.

'Noodle!'--said the fifth.

'Ass!'--said the sixth.

'Be off!'--said the seventh.

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

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

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




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LIONEL GRANBY.

CHAP. I.

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


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

Chalgrave, (an ominous name for a patrician family,) was the proud
mansion of my ancestors. It was a huge and gnarled pile of Dutch
brick, surrounded by a cumbrous wall of the same material. Situated on
the western side of Chesapeake Bay, it frowned with stubborn
misanthropy, on the mingled beauty which softened the silent
landscape. It stood alone in the silence of its grandeur,--cold,
fearful and noiseless. A broad and level plain swept round its base,
dotted into life with the cottages of my father's numerous slaves.
From them sprung the only voices which soothed the chilled solitude of
the scene. Here, at all times might be heard the merry laugh, the
jocund song, or the unalloyed mirth of alternate ease and idleness.
One of those noble and beautiful rivers, which dally, as if it scorned
to arise from an humble rivulet, with the bosom of the Chesapeake,
gushed up its full waters fresh as in the {517} morning of its
creation. Much rude and incongruous taste disfigured the interior of
Chalgrave. A dark and gloomy heaviness sate on the antique
wainscotting, the massy sofas, and the blackened windows. From the
dinner hall, the portraits of my ancestors looked down, as if in
contempt on the degeneracy of modern times. Here was a cavalier, with
flowing locks and iron-bound brow, who had lost his life in the
memorable field of Naseby. Opposite to him, was the stiff and rigid
portrait of a grave and thoughtful face. He was one of those
inflexible and independent lawyers, whose moral courage had labored in
the war of our revolution, and whose inflexible spirit had inspired
successful resistance. Mothers with children in their arms; infants
with toys, and belles with flowers and books, filled the wall alike
with vermillion and smiles.

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

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

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

My gallant, gifted, and noble brother Frederick! how bright was the
star which shone over thy boyhood! Alas! that its flickering light
should only beam o'er thy pallid couch!--He was several years my
senior, and had been sent to Europe for the purpose of acquiring a
military education, but had returned at the age of nineteen with a
broken and impaired constitution. He was studious, solitary and
reserved; while the hectic flush of consumption, which irradiated his
cheek, nerved alike the fortitude of his character, and awakened the
sympathy of every eye. His heart was gentle, though his studies were
severe--and he saved from the wreck which ambition ever makes of
feeling, no jewel so rich as the untainted tenderness of his
character. He had become a member of the bar; and I have often gazed
on his high and marbled brow, as a living monument, on which destiny
had inscribed its fiat of despair. Political life! that maddening
turmoil of empty nothingness! was the goal on which he had fixed his
dream of hope; and, though ill health prostrated him to the earth, his
sunny smile breathed a freshness, and a gloom, as brilliant, and as
melancholy as the tremulous twilight of an autumn sky. He cared naught
for wealth, love or pleasure. Ambition was the demon which moved
around him, in a track of its own desolation; and though {518} beauty
had lured him almost to the confines of matrimony, he could trample
down the sympathies of his nature beneath its despotic rule.

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

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

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

THETA.




DAGGER'S SPRINGS,

IN THE COUNTY OF BOTETOURT, VIRGINIA.


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

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

_Danville, April 28, 1835_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am engaged in preparing a work for the press, in which this Spring
will be more particularly noticed, and attention directed to objects
of interest in the surrounding country. It would have {519} been
completed before this, but for the peculiarities of my situation,
which allow me but little leisure for literary pursuits.

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




THE RED SULPHUR SPRINGS.


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

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

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

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

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

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




FEMALE EDUCATION.

Young Ladies Seminary, at Prince Edward Court House.


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

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




LITERARY NOTICES.


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

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

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

The younger D'Israeli has indeed, occasionally flashed upon us the
light of his capricious genius; but one of his caprices has been to
disappoint the hope that he had raised. He has shown us what he could
do, and that is all. Mr. Bulwer too, in a sort of freak of literary
radicalism, has set up for himself. He scorned to add to the number of
those who dress themselves in the cast-off habiliments of Scott; and
study, as at a glass, to make themselves like him, as if ambitious to
display their thefts. _He_ learned the craft of plagiarism in the
Spartan school, where _detection_ was the only disgrace. He would not
steal, not he, from any but "the poor man, who had nothing save one
little ewe lamb, that lay in his bosom, and was unto him as a
daughter." He would imitate none but himself, and draw from no other
models. His novels are all echoes of each other. There is hardly a
page which might not be known for his, nor a favorite character which
is not an exhibition of one of the phases of his _exquisite_ self. The
variety is between what he imagines himself to be, and what he
imagines that he might have been, had he been a cavalier of the
seventeenth century, or had circumstances made him a highwayman or a
murderer. We are aware that he denies all this, and may be unconscious
of it: but his identity can no more be mistaken than that of the
one-eyed companion of Hogarth's "idle apprentice." We are aware too,
that Mr. Bulwer is a member of a certain literary cabal, who aspire to
direct the public taste, and bring all the influence of wealth and
fashion and political connexion in aid of their pretensions. He is a
sort of literary Jack Cade. "His mouth is the law." We know that the
"amphitrion on l'on dire" is always the true amphitrion. But we never
expect to travel as caterers for a public journal. We in the south do
not do that sort of thing. We are not taught so to "raise the wind."
We are not up to perpetual motion, nor to the art of making our living
by taking our pleasure. We feel ourselves therefore under no
obligation to admire Mr. Rogers's poems, though he be a banker--nor
Mr. Bulwer's novels, nor himself, though he be a member of Parliament;
nor though his female _doublure_ Lady Blessington, "have the finest
bust," and "the prettiest foot," and be "the finest woman in London."
_We_ do not put the names {521} of our fine women in the newspapers.
The business of female education with us, is not to qualify a woman to
be the head of a literary _coterie_, nor to figure in the journal of a
travelling coxcomb. We prepare her, as a wife, to make the home of a
good and wise and great man, the happiest place to him on earth. We
prepare her, as a mother, to form her son to walk in his father's
steps, and in turn, to take his place among the good and wise and
great. When we have done this, we have accomplished, if not _all_, at
least _the best_ that education can do. Her praise is found in the
happiness of her husband, and in the virtues and honors of her sons.
Her name is too sacred to be profaned by public breath. She is only
seen by that dim doubtful light, which, like "the majesty of
darkness," so much enhances true dignity. She finds her place by the
side of the "Mother of the Gracchi," and of her whom an English poet,
who well knew how to appreciate and how to praise female excellence,
has simply designated as

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A lady came from the threshold of one of the houses, whose aspect
announced youth advanced, but not yet passed away. Her beauty was
obscured, but {522} not obliterated, by distress and mortal languor;
that sort of beauty, at once majestic and soft, which is so
conspicuous in the Lombard race. She walked with pain, but did not
stagger; her eyes shed no tears, but bore marks of having done so
abundantly. There was, in her grief, a something inexpressibly quiet
and deep, betokening a soul imbued and filled with it. But it was not
her own appearance alone, that in the midst of so much wretchedness,
marked her especially for commiseration, and awakened in her favor a
feeling now deadened and worn out in all hearts. She bore in her arms
a girl about nine years old,--dead, but dressed in a white frock of
spotless purity, with her hair divided in front, as if her own hands
had adorned her for a feast, long promised as the reward of her
goodness. She held her, seated on one of her arms, with her breast
upon the lady's breast; and she might have been thought to be alive,
but that her young white hand hung heavy and lifeless on one side,
like wax-work, and her head lay upon her mother's shoulder, with an
air of abandonment heavier than that of sleep. Her mother! If the
resemblance had not proclaimed the relation, the distress of the
survivor announced it too plainly.

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

_Horse-Shoe Robinson_ (be not alarmed at the title, gentle reader!) is
a tale, or more properly a succession of stirring incidents relating
to the time of the Tory Ascendency in South Carolina, during the
Revolution. It is well known that throughout the whole war this state
evinced more disaffection to the confederated government than any
other of the Union, with the exception perhaps of the neighboring
state of Georgia, where the residents on the Savannah river, being
nearly allied {523} to the Carolinians in their habits and general
occupations, were actuated, more or less, by the same political
opinions. But we will here let the author speak for himself.

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

We think Mr. K. has been particularly successful in the delineation of
his female characters; and this is saying a great deal at a time when,
from some unaccountable cause, almost every attempt of the kind has
turned out a failure. Mildred Lindsay, in her confiding love, in her
filial reverence, in her heroic espousal {524} of the revolutionary
cause, not because she approved it, but because it was her lover's, is
an admirable and--need we say more?--a truly _feminine_ portrait. Then
the ardent, the eager, the simple-minded, the generous and the devoted
Mary Musgrove! Most sincerely did we envy John Ramsay, the treasure of
so pure and so exalted an affection!

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

Perhaps no book has, for many years, been looked for, long previous to
its publication, with such intense curiosity, as this record of Miss
Fanny Kemble's observations and opinions of men and women, manners and
customs, in the United States. We say Miss Fanny Kemble's
opinions--for while bearing that name, most of those opinions were
formed. Under that name she was hailed in this country, as the
inheritress of the genius of Mrs. Siddons, whose fame is connected in
the minds of Americans with all that is noble, and majestic, and
powerful in the dramatic art. Under that name she received the
admiration of thousands, was made a sharer of the hospitality of many
of the most {525} distinguished citizens of the country--and received
a homage to which nothing but the highest genius, and the purest moral
worth could have entitled her. It is not therefore as Mrs. Frances
Anne Butler, the wife of an American citizen, that we look upon her in
her character of authoress--but as the favorite actress, applauded to
the echo, surfeited with flattery, and loaded with pecuniary
rewards.[1] It is impossible to consider this book in any other than a
personal point of view. Its very form forbids our separating the
author from the work--the opinions and sentiments, from the individual
who utters them. The idea of both exist in an indivisible
amalgamation. Nor we fear, will it be possible for nine-tenths of her
readers to weigh a single expression of Fanny Kemble the authoress,
unmingled with the idea of Fanny Kemble the actress, the star--the
"observed of all observers." Hence this Journal will have an effect
probably far beyond the anticipations of its writer. It will not only
be looked upon as the test of Mrs. Butler's ability as an author; but
it will, whether justly or not, convey to the thousands who have
already perused, and the tens of thousands who will hereafter peruse
it, a picture of her character and dispositions. The picture may, and
doubtless will be an exaggerated one--few _pictures_ are otherwise;
but still it will be received as true, because the outlines have been
traced by the original herself. We are sorry to say that the
"counterfeit resemblance" of the fair authoress, presented by her
book, displays many harsh and ill-favored lineaments, and the traces
of passions which we could wish did not disfigure its many noble and
magnanimous features. Mrs. Butler cannot claim for herself the
immunity which she awards with great justice to poetical writers, of a
distinction between their _real_ and their _written_ sentiments.[2] If
this book contains as we suppose, the faithful transcripts of her
daily observations and opinions, revised long after they were penned,
and thus exhibiting her true, unexaggerated impressions, by them must
she be judged--and in passing judgment upon her work, a candid critic
will find much, very much, to admire and approve, and much also to
censure and condemn.

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

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

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

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

The defects of the work are not confined to the exhibition of
prejudices and the expression of unjust opinions: the style and
language is often coarse, we might say vulgar; and her more
impassioned exclamations are often characterized by a vehemence which
is very like _profanity_, an offence that would not be tolerated in a
writer of the other sex. We cite a few, from among the many passages
which we have noted, as specimens of undignified, unfeminine and
unscholarlike phraseology: The word "_dawdled_" seems a great favorite
with Mrs. Butler--as, for instance: "Rose at eight, _dawdled_ about,"
&c. vol. i. p. 18. "Rose at {526} half past eight, _dawdled_ about as
usual," p. 21. "Came up and _dawdled_ upon deck," p. 47. "Came home,
_daudled_ about my room," p. 97.--And in numberless other instances
this word is used, apparently, to signify loitering or dallying,
spelled indiscriminately da_w_dled, or da_u_dled. Indeed so much does
our fair authoress seem to have been addicted to the habit which the
word implies--be it what it may--that in the second volume she speaks
of having "dressed for once without _dawdling_," as an uncommon
occurrence. She is also fond of the word "gulp," and uses it in
strange combinations, as--"My dear father, who was a little elated,
made me sing to him, which I greatly _gulped_ at," p. 61. "I _gulped_,
sat down, and was measured," (for a pair of shoes,) p. 103--"on the
edge of a precipice, several hundred feet down into the valley: it
made me _gulp_ to look at it," &c.

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

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

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

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

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

Frequently too, she complains of the audiences before {527} whom she
performed, with occasional reproof of their ungracious conduct in not
sufficiently applauding her father or herself: She says, of the first
appearance of the former at the Park Theatre:

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

At the Philadelphia audiences, she grumbles as follows:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"When we arrived in America, we brought letters of introduction to
several persons in New York; many were civil enough to call upon us,
we were invited out to sundry parties, and were introduced into what
is there called the first society. I do not wish to enter into any
description of it, but will only say, that I was most disagreeably
astonished; and had it been my fate to have passed through the country
as rapidly as most travellers do, I should have carried away a very
unfavorable impression of the _best_ society of New York. Fortunately,
however, for me, my visits were repeated and my stay prolonged: and in
the course of time I became acquainted with many individuals whose
manners and acquirements were of a high order, and from whose
intercourse I derived the greatest gratification. But they generally
did me the favor to visit me, and I still could not imagine how it
happened that I never met them at the parties to which I was invited,
and in the circles where I visited. I soon discovered that they formed
a society among themselves, where all those qualities which I had
looked for among the self-styled _best_, were to be found. When I name
Miss Sedgewick, Halleck, Irving, Bryant, Paulding and some of less
fame, but whose acquirements rendered their companionship delightful
indeed, amongst whom I felt proud and happy to find several of my own
name; it will no longer appear singular that they should feel too well
satisfied with the resources of their own society, either to mingle in
that of the vulgar _fashionables_, or seek with avidity the
acquaintance of every stranger that arrives in New York. It is not to
be wondered at, that foreigners have spoken as they have, of what is
termed fashionable society here, or have condemned, with unqualified
censure, the manners and tone prevailing in it; their condemnations
are true and just as regards what they see: nor perhaps, would they be
much inclined to moderate them, when they found that persons
possessing every quality that can render intercourse between rational
creatures desirable, were held in light esteem, and neglected, as
either bores, blues, or dowdies, by those so infinitely their
inferiors in every worthy accomplishment. The same separation, or if
anything a still stronger one, subsists in Philadelphia, between the
self-styled fashionables, and the real good society. The distinction
there, is really of a nature perfectly ludicrous; a friend of mine was
describing to me a family whose manners were unexceptionable, and
whose mental accomplishments were of a high order; upon my expressing
some surprise that I had never met with them, my informant replied,
'Oh, no, they are not received {528} by the Chestnut street _set_.' If
I were called upon to define that society in New York and
Philadelphia, which ranks (by right of self-arrogation,) as first and
best; I should say it is a purely dancing society, where a fiddle is
indispensable to keep its members awake; and where their brains and
tongues seem, by common consent, to feel that they had much better
give up the care of mutual entertainment to the feet of the parties
assembled, and they judge well. Now, I beg leave clearly to be
understood, there is another, and a far more desirable circle; but it
is not the one into which strangers find their way generally. To an
Englishman, this _fashionable_ society presents, indeed, a pitiful
sample of lofty pretensions without adequate foundation. Here is a
constant endeavor to imitate those states of European society, which
have for their basis the feudal spirit of the early ages; and which
are rendered venerable by their rank, powerful by their wealth, and
refined, and in some degree respectable, by great and general mental
cultivation. Of Boston I have not spoken. The society there, is of an
infinitely superior order. A very general degree of information, and a
much greater simplicity of manners render it infinitely more
agreeable,"--pp. 161-2.

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is eloquence and good feeling in the following:

"In beholding this fine young giant of a world, with all its
magnificent capabilities for greatness, I think every Englishman must
feel unmingled regret at the {529} unjust and unwise course of policy
which alienated such a child from the parent government. But, at the
same time, it is impossible to avoid seeing that some other course
must, ere long, have led to the same result, even if England had
pursued a more maternal course of conduct towards America. No one,
beholding this enormous country, stretching from ocean to ocean,
watered with ten thousand glorious rivers, combining every variety of
climate and soil; therefore, every variety of produce and population;
possessing within itself every resource that other nations are forced
either to buy abroad, or to create substitutes for at home; no one,
seeing the internal wealth of America, the abundant fertility of the
earth's surface, the riches heaped below it, the unparalleled
facilities for the intercourse of men, and the interchange of their
possessions throughout its vast extent, can for an instant indulge the
thought that such a country was ever destined to be an appendage to
any other in the world, or that any chain of circumstances whatever,
could have long maintained in dependance a people furnished with every
means of freedom and greatness. But far from regretting that America
has thrown off her allegiance, and regarding her as a rebellious
subject, and irreverent child; England will surely, ere long, learn to
look upon this country as the inheritor of her glory; the younger
England, destined to perpetuate the language, the memory, the virtues
of the noble land from which she is descended. Loving and honoring my
country, as I do, I cannot look upon America with any feeling of
hostility. I do not only hear the voice of England in the language of
this people, but I recognize in all their best qualities, their
industry, their honesty, their sturdy independence of spirit, the very
witnesses of their origin, they are English; no other people in the
world would have licked us as they did; nor any other people in the
world, built upon the ground they won, so sound, and strong, and fair
an edifice.

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

Mrs. Butler seems to have no great love of the dramatic _art_--that
is, the art of stage performance. {530} Several pages in the second
volume are devoted to this subject, (pp. 59, 60 and 61) in which she
argues with great force in support of the position, that acting is
"the very lowest of the arts." Like all her criticisms of subjects
connected with the stage, it is an admirable passage; but it is too
long for quotation. A shorter one conveys the same idea, in eloquent
language:

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

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

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

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

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

The chief fault of the work will be found in the dictatorial manner of
the writer. A female, and a young one too, cannot speak with the
self-confidence which marks this book, without jarring somewhat upon
American notions of the retiring delicacy of the female character. But
the early induction of Mrs. B. upon the stage, has evidently given her
a precocious self-dependence and a habit of forming her own opinions.
There is perhaps no situation in which human vanity is so powerfully
excited, as that of the favorite actor. The directness of the applause
which greets his successful efforts is most intoxicating, and mingles
so much admiration of the performer with delight at the performance,
that he or she, whose vanity should resist its fascinations, must be a
stoic indeed.[3] The effects of this personal homage, added to the
advantages {531} of her birth, and her really masculine intellect, are
apparent in Mrs. B's Journal. But she also displays some fine feminine
traits, which the flatteries of delighted audiences, the admiration of
ambitious fashionables, and the consciousness of being the chief Lion
of the day, could not destroy. Her sympathy for a sick lady, lodging
in the same house in Philadelphia, is frequently and delicately
expressed; and various other incidents shew that kindness and
generosity are among her prominent qualities. Many pages are devoted
to the subject of religion, and as appears from them, she was
attentive to the performance of her devotions: Yet we cannot but think
her religion as displayed in this book, more a sentiment than a
principle; rather the imbodying of a poetical fancy, than that
pervading feeling of the heart which enters into and characterizes the
actions of those who feel its influence.--In conclusion, we will
repeat what we have said before, that there is much to admire and much
to condemn in this work--enough of the former to render it one of the
most attractive (as it is one of the most original) that has recently
issued from the press; and in censuring its faults it will be but
justice to bear in mind a sentiment of Mrs. B.; "After all, if people
generally did but know the difficulty of doing well, they would be
less damnatory upon those who do ill." p. 114, vol. i.

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

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

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

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




EDITORIAL REMARKS.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




TO CORRESPONDENTS.


The humorous strictures on modern fashions, by our friend "_Oliver
Oldschool_," did not reach us in time for insertion in the present
number; he will appear in our next. We have received two tales from
"an inexperienced girl of sixteen," entitled "_Lucy Carlton_" and
"_The Sanfords_," which, although they exhibit considerable talent,
are very deficient in incident. The {532} sketching of character is
mostly good, but the author fails to make effectual use of the
materials which she brings together. We shall insert "The Sanfords" in
our next, as the best of the two. The story entitled "_Remorse_," is
inadmissible. The narrative presents some dramatic scenes and
situations, of which the writer has but partially availed himself; but
defects of language form the principal objection to his story. In
answer to _Octavian's_ inquiry, we must say that his lines are by no
means equal to those from his pen formerly inserted in the Messenger.
And as it would be impossible to publish all the contributions
received, unless the Messenger were twice its size, we are constrained
to leave out some which are even passable. "_English Poetry_, Chap.
II," and further extracts from the _MSS. of D. D. Mitchell_, will
appear in the next No. "_The Curse of the Betrayed One_" possesses
considerable merit, but is deformed by faults of metre, easily
amendable. With the author's consent we will make a few corrections in
his poem, and insert it in our next number. We will exercise the same
pruning prerogative upon the tale of "_The Reclaimed_." The poetical
contributions of Mrs. Emma Willard, of Troy, are welcome, and will
appear as early as possible; also some beautiful effusions of a
deceased lady of Matthews county, Virginia. "_Extracts from the
Autobiography of Pertinax Placid_, Chap. I," will have an early
insertion.

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

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

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

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

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




DEFERRED ARTICLES.


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


{533}


SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

Vol. I.]  RICHMOND, JUNE 1835.  [No. 10.

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




EDITORIAL INTRODUCTION.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


{534}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A STORM ON THE PRAIRIES.

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


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

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

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

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




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM A SISTER.

LETTER FIFTEENTH.

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


PARIS, ----.

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

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

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

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

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

LEONTINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTER SIXTEENTH.

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


PARIS, ----.

_Dear Jane_:--

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

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

At Montmorency we had fine sport riding about on donkeys to the
different points of view that merit notice for their beauty. The
little animal upon which Mr. Erisford rode, was at first extremely
refractory, and the trouble he had to force it along excited our
mirth; then my saddle girth broke, and this was another source of
merriment. After riding over the valley, we alighted at the hunting
seat of the unhappy father of the murdered Duke d'Enghien, the present
prince of Condé, who is said to be yet overwhelmed with affliction at
the untimely and cruel end of his noble son. The place is called the
"Rendezvous;" it is shady and pleasant--the house a plain stone
building: we did not enter it, but partook of some cool milk beneath
the trees, in front of the door. We purchased it of the game keeper
and his wife, who reside there. Retracing our path, (and the little
donkeys, I assure you, trotted _back_ much faster than they _went_,)
we stopped at the Hermitage. This is the most interesting object to be
seen at Montmorency, and indeed the chief attraction to that
spot--although circumstances induced us to defer our visit to it till
the last. It is a quarter of a mile from the village, and was the
residence of Jean Jacques Rousseau, and afterwards of Andrew Gretry,
the musical composer, {537} whose family still occupy it. They are so
obliging as to allow strangers to visit this rural retreat of those
celebrated men, and have arranged in a small apartment, various
articles that were owned and used by them, and that are consequently
interesting to the spectator; for instance, the bedstead and table of
Rousseau; the cup and saucer of Gretry; his comb and spectacles, and
the antique little spinet upon which he tried his compositions. A
flower garden adjoins the mansion, and there we saw a rose bush that
was planted by Jean Jacques, and the stone bench upon which he used to
sit while writing his "Héloise." From the bay tree that shades it, I
procured a leaf for your herbarium. A rivulet meanders through the
garden, and empties into a small lake, near which is the bust of
Gretry, supported by a column, with an inscription in gilt letters.
Rousseau's bust occupies a niche in the wall, and is covered with a
glass to protect it from the pencils of scribblers, which have
disfigured it considerably. Bidding adieu to the Hermitage, we
returned to the "White Horse," an excellent inn we had selected in the
town, and having recruited ourselves with a hearty dinner, resumed our
seats upon the donkeys, and repaired to the village of d'Enghien, (a
mile distant,) to see its neat and commodious sulphur baths, and the
pretty lake of St. Gratien, on the border of which it stands. In the
centre of the water is a restaurant, to which, if you choose, you are
conveyed in a boat; but it was so late, that our parents would not
consent to make this aquatic excursion, and we therefore returned to
Montmorency, and thence to Paris. A bright moon lighted us home, where
we arrived about eleven o'clock, pleased with our day's adventures,
and so sleepy we could scarcely reach our chambers without falling
into a slumber on the way. On Sunday Mr. Dorval brought us six tickets
of admission to the Chapel of the Tuileries, where high mass is
performed every Sabbath while the king is in the city. Not a moment
was to be lost, so we hastened to array ourselves for the occasion, as
full dress is required if you sit in the gallery with the royal
family, and our billets were such as to admit us there. Marcella,
Leonora and myself had just purchased new bonnets, and these we wore.
Their's are of straw colored crape, ornamented with blond and bunches
of lilacs, and are very becoming; mine is of pink, and decorated with
blond and white hyacynths. Our party, consisting of Mamma, Papa,
Edgar, and our three ladyships, was soon ready and at the palace. The
chapel was crowded, but we found no difficulty in obtaining seats--for
on presenting our tickets, the captain of the guards handed us to
them, and the throng yielded to him without hesitation. The music was
very fine, and we had a close view of the Bourbons and their suite.
They were sumptuously clad, and the King and Duke and Duchess of
Angoulême seemed very devout. The Duchess has a most melancholy
expression of countenance, owing perhaps to the sad vicissitudes of
her youth. Neither she, her spouse or uncle are popular. The Duchess
de Berri is exceedingly so, and is considered one of the most
charitable ladies in the kingdom. She is extremely fair, has light
hair and a pleasing face. She is not sufficiently dignified, I think,
and is a terrible fidget; during service she was continually adjusting
her tucker, necklace, or sleeve. It is reported, that when the
omnibuses, or circulating carriages of the boulevards were first
introduced, she made a bet with the king that she would ride in one of
them, and actually did so, in disguise! I am summoned to the parlor to
receive visiters--so kiss my hand to you.

LEONTINE.

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

L.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MY DAUGHTER'S LULLABY.

Tune--"The Sunset Tree."


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

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

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

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

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

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


{538}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

_Troy, June, 1835_.

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

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

Respectfully, yours,

EMMA WILLARD.


OCEAN HYMN.

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


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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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


LAFAYETTE.


    On Seine's fair banks, amidst Parisian towers,
  Gather a multitude! Slowly they come,
  And mournfully. The very children weep;
  And the stern soldier hath his sun-burnt face
  Wet with unwonted tears. And see! From forth
  The portals of a venerable church,
  The mourners following, and the pall upborne
  By white-haired ancients of the sorrowing land,
  A coffin issues. Needless task, to tell
  Whose pallid lineaments--whose clay-cold form
  They bear to his long rest. France hath but ONE
  So loved, so honored; nay, the world itself
  Hath not another.
                    Who shall fill his place?
  Who now, when suffering justice pleads, will hear?
  And when humanity with fettered hands
  Uplifted cries, who now will nerve the arm?
  Who break the silken bands of pleasure, spurn
  Ancestral pride, the pomp of courts, and sweet
  Domestic love, and bare his bosom in
  The generous strife?
                       Let us recall his acts
  And teach them to our sons. Perchance the spark
  Extinct, rekindling in some youthful heart,
  The hero's spirit, will return to bless.
  Who treads Columbia's soil, but knows his blood
  Hath mingled with it, freely shed for us.
  For injur'd France, impoverish'd and oppress'd,
  In freedom's sacred cause, he next stood forth,
  And despotism closed her long career.
  But wild misrule uprose; and murder's arm
  Was bared to strike. Lafayette interposed;--
  Chief of a distant armed host, he wrote
  And bade the legislative band beware!
  Then Jacobinic tigers growled, muttering
  A Cæsar! Slay him! At an army's head
  He dictates to the Senate! Hush! he comes--
  Alone, unarmed, save with the sword of truth,
  And beards the monsters in their very den.
  They quail, and freedom's sons arouse.
  Then thou, poor sufferer, Louis had not died,
  Nor hapless Antoinette, thy beauteous neck
  Had never fed the greedy guillotine,
  Nor yet had Olmutz' dreary dungeon held
  That noble man, had ye but trusted him.
    O'er the broad page of history, there comes
  A meteor glare. Napoleon rises!
  Other lights grow dim, or fade away;
  But plagues are scattered from the burning trail--
  Lafayette's star, tho' hid, moves on unquenched;
  O'er fair La Grange it shines with beauteous ray,
  And fosters in its beams domestic joy.
  The comet sinks beneath Helena's rocks;
  The star remains, undimmed, a guide to France.
  But hath Columbia no gratitude?
  She woos her brave deliverer to her arms!
  Again he rides the wave; not now, as once,
  The banner'd eagle droops the pensive wing,
  But proudly fluttering, o'er his favorite's head
  Bears high the starry crest.
                                He comes! resounds
  Along Manhattan's strand and o'er her waves;
  The city is unpeopled, thronged the shore,
  Gay pennons wave, and cannon roar; men shout, {539}
  Children leap up, and aged veterans weep.
    Even here he came; within these walls we saw
  His face benign, and heard his kindly voice;
  And here we blessed him in our artless song,
  And raised our tearful eyes, and called him "father;"
  And with a father's love he looked on us
  And wept. And now HE sleeps in death, 'tis meet
  That we should mourn. Would we could seek his grave,
  With those the sorrowing ones, he loved the best,
  There too would we, the mourning flowers of France,
  And drooping willows plant, and kneel and weep.
    Take comfort ye his offspring! God's own word
  Is pledged to you; seed of a righteous man!
  Lift up your downcast hearts, and joy for this,
  That he hath died unchanged, as long he lived.
  And tho' the perils of his age, outwent
  The dangers of his youth, yet he hath stood,
  And calm and fearless, tower'd above the storms
  That scared the timid and o'erwhelmed the vile.
  His fame shall be a light to future times;
  But it shall fall in glance portentous,
  On tyrants and their leagues; on the oppressed,
  In gentle rays of pity and of hope,--
  On dark hypocrisy, that hymns the name
  Of liberty, to cheat for power, it falls,
  Revealing guilt and shame. Meanwhile it shows
  The good even as they are, not to be bought
  No sold, nor daunted. Such a man was he,
  Your father and your friend; nor yours alone;
  Whoever bears man's image, he hath lost
  A countryman, a father, and a friend!
  Thus human nature mourns, and sympathy,
  Wide as his generous heart, shall sooth your grief.


DIRGE,

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


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

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

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

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

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




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE OLD PARISH CHURCH.

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

NUGATOR.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ESTELLE.


    I'm standing at thy couch Estelle--
      Thy hand in mine--awake my love!--
    O'er silent lake and leafy dell
      Calm eve is sinking from above;
    Wilt thou not look upon the scene
      Which from yon casement woos thine eyes?
    The light shines beauteously between
  The far off mountains where its last blush dies. {540}

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES.

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


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

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

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

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




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

FAREWELL TO ROSA.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


{541}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LIONEL GRANBY.

CHAP. II.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

I was silent under this fearful curse. The narrative of my
grandfather's precocious youth and imbecile adolescence, his lofty
chivalry and stubborn pride, which I had often drank from the
garrulity of my nurse, was borne before me in a full and freshening
tide. I controlled my struggling passions, and quitted my adversary
humbled more by the agony of my own feelings, than excited by the
bitterness of his retort. This scene constituted an era in the history
of my hate. Revenge hourly lashed itself into frenzy; and amid the
bustle of the day and the solitude of the night, I never ceased from
the pursuit of an opportunity to gratify the deeply seated passion of
my heart. I never forgave him! I banqueted on that merciless revenge,
which dripping in a steady and uniform course through the recesses of
my heart, formed a cold and impenetrable stalactite of withering
malignity. It was a treasured, honored, and hoarded hate which planted
itself firmly in my bosom, and which eagerly longed for its time of
fruition. Even now, when time has worn down the fierceness of my life
and softened into resignation the frown of destiny, {542} this passion
blooms on, with more freshness and constancy than the mistletoe which
scatters its wild luxuriance around the blasted and ruined oak.

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

CHAP. III.

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


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

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

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

And this was slavery! That heart must be torpid--that sensibility
obtuse, which could experience such a display of unbought affection,
without emotion. This devotion disarms slavery of half its gorgons
dire, and leaves us the gratifying consolation, that its abstract vice
is softened into gentleness by the humanity of its practice. Laws are
not always the truest indications of the moral tone of society. They
are the heartless creations of policy, necessity and faction, and take
their pride of place from the darkest passions of human nature. Power
and obedience are the necessary components of their being; penalty and
punishment the active spirit of their existence. Fully armed, they
spring into the conflict of virtue and depravity, and bear an iron
front, independent of season, time and {543} circumstance. Policy may
rivet their fetters, yet they fall inoperative and harmless beneath
the silent force of that gigantic lever of society--public opinion.
Slavery, considered with reference to the laws of Virginia, is a state
of penalty, degradation and suffering. Viewed in relation to its
practical existence, it is a condition of ease, tranquillity and
protection. There is no misery where there is no complaint; no
wretchedness where all is peace; and if happiness arise from
comparative situation, the Virginian slave eminently enjoys it. He is
far removed from the starvation and nakedness of European pauperism.
He is a being who invites kindness by acknowledging gratitude; who
excites humanity by the noiseless virtue of his life; and who awakens
protection by the constancy of his fidelity. The master feels the
pride of protection expanding into a chivalry of defence; the slave,
in confiding in it, makes no other offering than that of fidelity.
These blended feelings invigorate and form the strength and harmony of
social life, and eloquently argue to us the truth of that simple
maxim, that there can be no fear where all is confidence--no treachery
where there is no oppression. The Virginian slave becomes a member of
the family in which he was born, and what mutation soever of fortune
attend him, his heart is never recreant to the scenes of his
childhood. Proud in the prosperity of his "_family_," yet never
faithless in its adversity, he is the living chronicler of its rise
and elevation, and cannot--will not, believe that it can fall. He is
the greatest aristocrat on earth; and the surest avenue to his
friendship, is made by that vanity which induces him to believe that
the family in which he was _raised_, is noble, prosperous and proud.
Quick to perceive vulgarity, and constant in his hatred of it, he
wears his pride gracefully, and his dignity with calm tranquillity.
Public opinion will suffer no master to use him inhumanly. Undisturbed
by the cares and vexations attendant on the support of a family, he is
clothed with comfort, and has enough of finery to be a Sunday
exquisite; and though he be degraded in the order of society, he feels
and believes himself to be an important link in the chain of life.
Claudian's beautiful lines convey no paradox when applied to the
slavery of Virginia:

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

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

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

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

"You are affluent," said Frederick, "but whether we gain or lose one
chancery suit, it is highly probable that you may yet be forced to
engage in some profession which {544} can ensure an honorable support.
Can you object to the practice of law? It is a profession full of
profit and honor--the highway to intellectual distinction and
political advancement. Enter then diligently on its study, and how
rude soever may be its details, you will quickly find that its pursuit
will imperceptibly fashion your mind into a passionate love for its
wisdom and philosophy. Look on it as a jealous coquette; give it all
your attention or none; and success will be as honorable to your
genius as it is gratifying to your pride."

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

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

THETA.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A VISIT TO THE VIRGINIA SPRINGS,

_During the Summer of 1834_.

NO. II.

SALT AND RED SULPHUR.


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

A stranger who takes the White Sulphur, as a specimen, as to external
appearance, of the other springs, would be disappointed, when, after
the first glance, he gets a full view of the Salt Sulphur. Nature has
not been so lavish of her gifts as at the White Sulphur, and art has
as yet added but little to its outward charms. The Salt Sulphur is
situated in a ravine, between two small mountains. One of these,
slopes very gradually, and upon its side at the distance of some two
hundred paces from the base, a row of cottages has been erected.
Parallel with these, at the base of the hill, is a similar range, both
fronting the level in the valley. Then on the same ascent, and in the
direction of the gate, through which you enter upon the spring's
premises, is a small hollow square, the farther side of which is
connected with the range at the base of the hill, and runs up the
acclivity at right angles to that range. Most of these buildings are
constructed, according to the early fashion of the country, of hewn
logs: many of them have piazza's, and all are close and comfortable.
We understand that the proprietors will soon erect ranges of two-story
stone buildings in their stead. The hotel is a noble building; the
main body of the edifice is near two hundred feet in length, the
entire lower floor of which is used as a dining room. A double piazza
extends along the whole front, and the upper story is occupied as a
dancing {545} saloon, lodging rooms, &c. At right angles to this
building, at the western extremity, and facing the long ranges on the
opposite side of the level, are a few framed cottages, and a two-story
stone building, affording very comfortable and pleasant
accommodations. The spring, which is some hundred paces higher up the
ravine, is protected by a temple somewhat similar to that at the White
Sulphur, from the floor of which flights of cut stone steps lead down
to the reservoir. The reservoir is a square of about two feet, and is
also constructed of hewn sand-stone.

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

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

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

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

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

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


RED SULPHUR.

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

A great part of the road between the Salt and Red Sulphur, leads over
long hills and continuous {546} ridges, out of the sides of which it
has been in many places cut, in order to obtain the proper
inclination. From some reason, most probably a scarcity of funds, the
road is so narrow as to render it often dangerous, and entirely
unsuitable for so public a thoroughfare. The reflections of the
traveller, as he dashes down these narrow descents, are by no means
pleasant. He involuntarily transfers himself to the upper side of the
stage, as he gets a glimpse from the window, of the deep ravine, along
the verge of which he is rolling at so furious a rate. The
anticipation too, as well as the actual fact, of meeting other
vehicles in these passes, is not at all agreeable. The driver of the
coach, however, obviates, as far as possible, the difficulty from this
source, by sounding his horn as he approaches and travels through
these narrow parts of the road. Perhaps, however, we are conveying
rather too unfavorable an impression of the way between the Salt and
Red Sulphur. If, however, the traveller wishes to avoid all unpleasant
reflections on account of his personal safety, it may be as well for
him to adopt one of the expedients of the hero of "Sleepy Hollow," as
he trod its gloomy paths, amidst the tortures of a fertile
imagination, and shut his eyes, at least, if the presence of fellow
passengers will not admit of one's raising his voice in a consolitary
_solo_. We can, however, present to our readers, the prospect of a
resource, which will be a more satisfactory expedient than this.
Arrangements were making during the last summer, for the immediate
construction of a turnpike over this ground; then the trip would
present many attractions. The country is wild and generally
uncultivated, and often delightfully romantic. About half way between
the two springs, we saw the wreck of the family carriage of a
gentleman from South Carolina. This accident, however, was not, at
least, the _immediate_ consequence of the roughness of the road; for
it occurred on a perfect level, and on, perhaps, the smoothest part of
the whole way. Carriages constructed for the Carolina sands, are badly
adapted to the mountains of Virginia.

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

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

The Red Sulphur has recently been purchased by Mr. Burke, an
intelligent and enterprising gentleman, who has already given to the
place an almost entirely new aspect. Many of the old houses have been
removed--a large and beautiful building, in addition to the hotel, has
been constructed, and most of the log cabins have been exchanged for
neat white cottages. The irregularity occasioned by the projection of
the mountain spurs, has prevented the arrangement of the buildings in
the order calculated to produce the most pleasant effect. The Red
Sulphur is completely enclosed by mountains, except a narrow space by
which you enter the circumscribed valley. On each side they rise
almost perpendicularly to a considerable height. One of these, we
understand, the proprietor intends laying out with terraced walks, so
that you can with ease ascend to the summit, and enjoy the extensive
prospect. The buildings are erected close under the base of the
mountains. The intermediate area will be set in green sward, with
gravelled walks and shrubbery. The temple at the spring is very
similar to those at the White and Salt Sulphur. There are, however,
two springs, and two separate and beautiful reservoirs. One of these
is about four, and the other about two {547} feet square. They are
constructed of white marble, which agrees beautifully with the lilac
and peach blossom sediment, and the clear limpid water of the springs.

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

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

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




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

CONVERSATION PARTIES, SOIREES AND SQUEEZES.


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

The bare expectation of any such flouting, you will probably say,
should keep me silent, if I was a man of only a moderate degree of
prudence. But like many other obstinate people, my inclination to
persist seems to augment inversely to my chances of success. Maugre
then the danger and forlornness of my undertaking, I must go on. But
before I come to the main purpose of the present letter, pray have
patience with me, while I offer a few more remarks in anticipation of
another {548} still more serious charge, which I expect will be made
against me. I must make them too, with the perfect recollection of the
maxim, that "he who begins to plead before he is accused, knows
himself to be guilty."--True, however, as this may be in general, _my
case_, I hope, will be excepted, after you hear me. The charge to
which I allude is,--the odious one of being _a Cynic_. With _you_,
sir, I am very sure my bare denial would suffice; but you have many
readers who know nothing of me. In deference to _them_ therefore, I
feel bound to offer some stronger proof of my innocence; if that which
is of a negative character (and it is all I can adduce,) will be
accepted. Be it known then, to all whom it may concern, that I, Oliver
Oldschool, have always denied, and do hereby deny, the truth of the
most important, prominent and offensive of all the cynical dogmas,
which is,--that "_men are nothing but monkeys without tails!_" and
furthermore, that I hold myself bound and always ready to make battle
in this behalf, "_pugnis et calcibus, unguibus et rostro_:" and all
this too, notwithstanding the following most startling and humiliating
resemblances which have been traced by the true Cynics between the two
species. For instance--"Man" (say they) "is a biped"--so is a monkey;
at least so nearly one, that his anterior legs serve him admirably
well for arms, and accordingly it is still a mooted point, a much
vexed question among naturalists which to call them, _arms_ or _legs_.
Man generally walks erect, although sometimes, when _top-heavy_, he
moves quadruped fashion. The monkey, at least the kind called the
ourang outang only reverses the practice, by going more frequently on
his two certain and his two quasi legs, than on the two first alone.
Man has a facial angle by which those curious, prying fellows, called
craniologists, measure the degree of his intelligence and infer the
nature of his dispositions. Monkeys also have this angle, often so
nearly the same, (mathematically speaking,) with that which we discern
in many of our race, that few things are more common than to hear the
exclamation "such a one has a monkey face." Lastly, man is most
decidedly and conspicuously _an imitative animal_, so is a monkey, and
in a degree so very striking, that there is scarcely an outward
movement, action, or gesture of ours which his mimetic talents do not
enable him to take off to the life. This is especially true of all
those peculiar airs indicative of self-complacency and vanity which
mark these two races of animals in contradistinction to all others,[1]
and may be termed an idiosyncracy of intellect. The coxcomb's
ineffable smile of fascination; the witling's pert and sudden smirk of
self-conceit; the vain pedant's awkward cachination at his own
ill-timed, out-of-place strokes of classic humor; the despicable
miser's self-gratulating chuckle at inordinate gain; the _great man's_
gracious grin to his supposed inferiors, and the _little man's_
side-shaking, obstreperous laugh at the abortive joke of some superior
from whom he is courting favors; all these and more, your true monkey
can enact with such perfect verisimilitude, that if properly dressed
for the occasion, he might pass off for the real man in each case,
instead of his counterfeit, without the least danger of detection.
_His mimickry_, in addition to its fidelity, has this other remarkable
circumstance about it, that in applying it, he seems to have no
particular choice of objects, but imitates all external actions alike,
whether they be praiseworthy or the reverse. Man, on the contrary, in
the exercise of _his_ imitative propensities, shows too often a
stronger inclination for the bad than the good--for the faulty than
the commendable--for the fantastical and the ridiculous rather than
the becoming. In nothing is this more remarkable, than in the greedy,
ever restless perseverance with which he seeks foreign fashions and
customs, and the reckless pertinacity, under all possible
discouragements, with which he strives to imitate and adopt them. Of
this assertion I have already endeavored to furnish you with some
proofs, which to _me at least_ appeared irrefutable. But I will now
attempt to supply a few more. These also shall consist of remarks on
certain foreign fashions, which may be said to be still under the
process of naturalization, having proved so entirely uncongenial to
our principles, habits and opinions, as not yet to be firmly
established. They may, therefore, be considered as still within the
reach of that exterminating power--public opinion.

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

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

The conversation party would naturally be deemed by one not in the
secret, a party particularly formed for the pleasures of conversation;
for imparting and receiving agreeable thoughts; for blending amusement
with oral instruction; in a word, for such a voluntary and talented
reciprocation of ideas as would improve the taste, gratify the
feelings, and heighten the mental enjoyment of all the parties
concerned. _Is it this or any thing that bears the slightest
resemblance to it?_ I ask an answer from any individual who has ever
been to one of them, no matter with how much care it might have been
selected. To these parties, such as they really are, I have no
intention here to object. All I wish or aim at now, is, to have them
called by their right names, as every thing ought to be, if we really
desire to confine language to its proper use, which is, to make
ourselves, at all times, clearly understood. But in styling these
things _Conversation Parties_, before persons who had never been at
them, we should practice the grossest deception. For instead of such
an assemblage as the current meaning of the term would lead them to
expect, and might induce them to seek, they would soon find themselves
surrounded by a Babel-like {549} confusion of tongues, where all sorts
of odds and ends of unconnected exclamations and eliptical sentences
are uttered simultaneously, and in the highest vocal key, by every
member of the company--_the mules only_ excepted. Why _they_ should
ever frequent such uncongenial spots, is more, I believe, than any one
can tell. But certain it is that some of them will always be found
there, although as much out of place as the Alumni of the Deaf and
Dumb Asylums would be in Congress Hall, attempting to take a debating
part in that _other_ Tower of Babel, as John Randolph, with his
customary felicity of conception, used to call it.

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

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

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

Know then, sir, that in the year and month ----, and on a certain
night, I was seduced by curiosity--that fell destroyer of our race--to
go, for the first time, to a party called a Squeeze, in the city of
Washington, denominated by some "the Grand City of O," after the
capital in Cunningham's amusing fiction of "_The World without
Souls_." Being accompanied by one of the initiated, my debut was
readily made as others made theirs. Without material obstruction we
were ushered through the passage by the escorting valet; but when we
reached the door of the principal pressing and crushing room, _hic
labor, hoc opus est!_ here commenced that series of efforts and
struggles which was not soon to end, as I afterwards found, to the no
small detriment of various parts of my body and limbs. Through this
door also, my entrance was at last effected; for what obstacle may not
perseverance overcome? A strong effort of my own in the van, and the
unsolicited aid in the rear of those who, like myself, wished to see
all that was to be seen, very soon protruded me "_in medias res_,"
which I beg leave to render in idiomatic English--"up to the hub" in
the business. Not many minutes however elapsed, before the pressing
and crushing became so intense as to excite an earnest desire for a
change both of place and posture. Accordingly I bent my course towards
another room, having understood there were several prepared for _the
accommodation!_ (strange misnomer, thought I,) of the company. This
joint removal of body and limbs, which I had a particular fancy should
not be disunited, having kept company with each other from my birth, I
found toilsome and oppressive in no ordinary degree. For the instant I
began to move I was met by a strong counter-current composed of a
compact mass of my co-squeezers and {550} squeezees--many of whom were
of such "breadth and heft" as would verily have done great honor to a
Massachusett's cattle show of the highest grade, had the subjects only
been quadrupeds instead of bipeds, and in equal condition for market.

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

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

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

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

There I was immediately attracted by a conspicuous gathering of
_heads_; of bodies I could see none, except those in juxtaposition. It
was drawn together, as I conjectured, by something rather beyond the
common spectacles of the night. Being determined to have my share of
the sight, I forced my way near enough to behold, in the midst of a
circle not much larger than a hogshead hoop, a tall young lady,
elegantly dressed, (that is as far as perfect conformity to the
fashion could {551} make her so) and quite a good figure, but too much
"drawn" (as the racers say) in the waist. And what, think you, was her
employment? Why--attitudinizing and thumping away most theatrically
upon a tambourine! This was the finishing stroke--the finale of my
squeeze-going days, or rather _nights_; and I hastened to squeeze
myself _out_, with much more alacrity than I had squeezed myself
_in_--marvelling all the way as I rode home with my equally surfeited
companion, at the frequency with which we call actual and severe
toils, _pleasures_; and at the innumerable contrivances to which the
devotees of the latter resort intentionally, as we must presume, to
gain, but in reality to mar, their object. Of these contrivances I had
just swallowed my first and last dose, as I then designed it to be, of
the one called _a Squeeze_; a contrivance which seemed to me
altogether matchless in its unsuitability of means to ends; that is,
if it was really designed for _a party of pleasure!_ for after one or
two hours most diligent search, I had utterly failed in finding a
single spot, where even one individual could either _sit_, _stand_ or
_walk_, with the slightest degree of convenience or comfort!!

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

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

Until more company arrived, our quaker friend found himself in a sad
predicament; for having no plausible excuse for escape, and deeming
himself bound, at least to try to entertain the lady with some kind of
conversation, he sat many minutes pondering over the few topics on
which he thought himself able to converse, but finding none that
exactly pleased him, he at length resolved to hazard something about
cabbages, and peas, and poultry; shrewdly imagining that such matters
would be more amusing, as well as instructive to her, than any
contained in his "knowledge box." Great was his pleasure and
wonderment to find her perfectly at home as to all these mysteries; so
much so, indeed, that he could hardly suppress the exclamation, "Oh!
that my old woman knew half as much." All things, however, must have
an end, although friend Ephraim began to fear that the tête à tête
between the lady and himself never would; and when their chat was fast
dying away, like the flickering blaze in the nearly empty socket of a
candlestick, suddenly the doors were thrown open, and in rushed
pellmell, such a mixed multitude, as struck him with speechless
astonishment. Very soon (as he himself described the scene,) he had to
abandon his seat; and according to his notions of politeness, was
every moment making room, first for one stranger and then for another,
without having time so much as casually to shake the hand of an
acquaintance, before they were thrust apart. Thus elbowed, and shoved,
and bumped about on every side, and not knowing how to keep out of
every body's way, which seemed a physical impossibility, he found
himself, at last, most unexpectedly squeezed into the midst of a party
altogether of ladies, whose united voices raised such an {552}
unintelligible din, as brought to his recollection what he had read in
his Bible, about the confusion of tongues at the tower of Babel.
Resolutely bent, however, upon "seeing the show out," he determined to
persevere. But, at the same time, having the accommodation of others
much at heart, he resolved to try a yet unessayed position, by way of
making himself as small as possible. This was to thrust his hands
behind him, the first moment space enough was given for the purpose;
at the same time straightening his arms as much as practicable, and
grasping one wrist with the other hand, to secure their union. He had
but a few seconds for self-congratulation upon so ingenious a device,
before some sudden, undesigned impetus in front, forced him back, so
that his hand was pressed against something hard. Of this he
involuntarily took hold, but without turning his head; that indeed
being impracticable. He mistook this hard article (as he afterwards
found to his cost,) for the end of a narrow shingle, although for the
life of him he could not imagine why, or how it got there, as he had
seen nothing like building going on about the premises. Scarcely,
however, had he taken hold of it, before it was forcibly jerked from
his grasp, and his hands were once more disengaged. His conjectures as
to what it could possibly be, were still puzzling his brain, when a
fierce Pendragon sort of a fellow, whiskered and mustached to the very
tip of his nose, forced his way to him through the dense mass by which
he was surrounded, and in a very authoritative, menacing tone, told
him that Mrs. ---- desired to see him. He obeyed the mandate as
speedily as possible, but in mortal dread and astonishment as to the
cause of it. The moment he reached his hostess, she demanded, with a
look of indescribable indignation, "how he dared to insult a lady in
her house?" Thunderstruck, as it were, at the accusation, for a few
moments he was deprived of speech. But at length recovering the use of
his tongue, he averred and protested, and affirmed, that he was
utterly unconscious of having committed any such outrage; an outrage
which he was altogether incapable of perpetrating. This so far
appeased the lady's wrath, as to produce an awkward and embarrassing
explanation on both sides, by which it was discovered, that the
supposed shingle end had been, in reality, the projecting end of a
lady's corset bone, unluckily squeezed out of place, in the general
pressing and crushing of the crowd. The conference ended in the lady's
being satisfied, and in our worthy quaker resolving from the very
bottom of his heart, never again to trust himself in any place under
the sun, be the temptation what it might, wherein he could not find a
safe place, even for his hands!

OLIVER OLDSCHOOL.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE SANFORDS.

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


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

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

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

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

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

"Not so fast mother," said he smiling.

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

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

Hugh would probably never again have thought of his attentions to
Ellen, had not his mother kept {553} him _in custody_ the next
morning, while she spoke _her_ mind on the subject. She represented to
him "the folly of falling in love with her, when Mary Linden was in
the house;" and she even went so far as to say that "there would be a
_great impropriety_ in his falling in love with Ellen."

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

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

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

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

"Hear me father----."

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

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

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

She seemed, however, to possess an instinctive {554} knowledge of what
was right and proper to be said or done, even on occasions that were
perfectly novel to her; and when a subject was started of which she
was ignorant, she acted _wisely_, and said _nothing_; or if in the
course of conversation a few errors were committed by her, her
transcendent beauty was sufficient to atone for all. True, her beauty
was not of the spiritual kind, "the rapt soul _beaming_ in the eyes;"
but it was just such as is always admired by enthusiastic young men.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hugh had first been won by her beauty and her destitute condition; her
refusal of his offered hand {555} had only added fuel to the flame.
Absence, "making the heart grow fonder," and the letters he received,
all conspired to blind him. Sincerely was he to be pitied, for he
possessed many fine qualities, and was nobly disinterested. The veil
was now removed from his eyes, and the dream of love was fast
deserting him, like shadows of the morning, when the bright sunlight
rises o'er the hills. They went to his parents. We shall pass over the
various mortifications which Hugh had to endure. Amy idolized her
husband, and he was too kind-hearted to be proof against her fondness.
He exerted himself day after day to instruct her, but I do not believe
she went much beyond learning to read and write legibly. His parents
lived only a few years after these events, and his beautiful wife was
attacked about four years after they were married with a slight cough,
which was soon followed by that bright flush, which is too frequently
the harbinger of death. A southern climate, and every possible means
were resorted to, for her restoration to health, but in vain! Her last
prayers were offered up for her husband, and a daughter then two years
old. Hugh never married again. He continued to live at the family
mansion, occupied almost entirely with the education of Eva. When she
was ten years of age, she was sent to New York to school. Her life has
been attended with circumstances which are not without romance. Should
any curiosity be felt on the subject, I may at a future time give a
sketch of the life of Eva Sanford.

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

A.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A SCENE FROM "ARNOLD AND ANDRE,"

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OLD OFFICER.
  My General, I know this people well. {556}
  And all the virtues which Old England claims,
  As the foundations of her happiness
  And greatness,--such as reverence of law
  And custom, prudence, female chastity,
  And with them, independence, fortitude,
  Courage and sturdiness of purpose,--have
  Been here transplanted from their native soil,
  And flourish undegenerate. From these,--
  Sources exhaustible but with the life
  That feeds them,--their severe intents take birth,
  And draw the lusty sustenance to mould
  The limbs and body of their own fulfilment,
  So that performance lag not after purpose.
  They are our countrymen. They are, as well
  In manly resolution as in blood,
  The children of our fathers. Washington
  Doth know no other language than the one
  We speak: and never did an English tongue
  Give voice unto a larger, wiser mind.
  You'll task your judgment vainly to point out
  Through all this desp'rate conflict, in his plans
  A flaw, or fault in execution. He
  In spirit is unconquerable, as
  In genius perfect. Side by side I fought
  With him in that disastrous enterprise,
  Where brave young Braddock fell; and there I mark'd
  The vet'ran's skill contend for mastery
  With youthful courage in his wondrous deeds.
  Well might the bloody Indian warrior pause,
  Amid his massacre confounded, and
  His baffled rifle's aim, till then unerring,
  Turn from "that tall young man," and deem in awe
  That the Great Spirit hover'd over him;
  For he, of all our mounted officers,
  Alone came out unscath'd from that dread carnage,
  To guard our shatter'd army's swift retreat.
  For years did his majestic form hold place
  Upon my mind, stampt in that perilous hour,
  In th' image of a strong-arm'd friend, until
  I met him next, as a resistless foe.
  'Twas at the fight near Princeton. In quick march,
  Victorious o'er his van, onward we press'd;
  When, moving with firm pace, led by the Chief
  Himself, the central force encounter'd us.
  One moment paus'd th' opposing hosts--and then
  The rattling volley hid the death it bore:
  Another--and the sudden cloud, uproll'd,
  Display'd, midway between the adverse lines,
  His drawn sword gleaming high, the Chief--as though
  That crash of deadly music, and the burst
  Of sulphurous vapor, had from out the earth
  Summon'd the God of war. Doubly exposed
  He stood unharm'd. Like eagles tempest-borne
  Rush'd to his side his men; and had our souls
  And arms with two-fold strength been braced, we yet
  Had not withstood that onset. Thus does he
  Keep ever with occasion even step,--
  Now, warily before our eager speed
  Retreating, tempting us with battle's promise
  Only to toil us with a vain pursuit--
  Now, wheeling rapidly about our flanks,
  Startling our ears with sudden peal of war,
  And fronting in the thickest of the fight
  The common soldier's death, stirring the blood
  Of faintest hearts to deeds of bravery
  By his great presence,--and his every act,
  Of heady onslaught as of backward march,
  From thoughtful judgment first infer'd.

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

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

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

[_Exit Old Officer_.]

ROBINSON.
  A better soldier than a prophet.

SIR H. CLINTON.
        Yet,
  Scarce does his liberal extolment stretch
  Beyond its object's merits; for, were he
  Not rooted in his compeers' confidence,
  And in his generalship unmatched, this league
  Had long since crumbled from within, and o'er {557}
  Its sever'd bands our arms had quickly triumph'd.
  In all his mighty spirit's ordinant,
  The while his warriors, rang'd in council round him,
  Listen to plans of learned generalship.
  Within the Congress is his voiceless will
  Potential as the wisest senator's.
  Ever between their reeling cause and us,
  Comes his stern brow to awe fell Ruin's spirit.
  'Tis a grand game he plays, and, by my soul,
  Worthy the game and player is the stake.
  A fair broad continent is't for a kingdom:
  If he can win't, he's welcome to't.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ENGLISH POETRY.

CHAP. II.


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

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

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

I. Geoffry Chaucer, the poet

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

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

[Footnote 1: Lydgate.]

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

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

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

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

  "Call up him that left half told
   The story of Cambuscan bold,
   Of Camball and of Algarsife,
   And who had Canacè to wife, {558}
   That owned the virtuous ring and glass,
   And of the wondrous horse of brass
   On which the Tartan king did ride."[6]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                 "words--
  Spoke in the mermaid"--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then pauses in the midst of the deeply affecting {561} portraiture of
self-feeling, to whisper the exquisite self-excuse: "How could

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

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

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

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

  'Quantum lenta solent inter viberna cupressi.'"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "O RARE BEN JONSON!"

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

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

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

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

Passing on, we find "the melancholy Cowley." Cowley has ever been a
favorite with lovers; for love maddens men, and madness will always
find pleasant aliment in the metaphysical and metaphorical love verses
of this unnatural poet. The following is a loose paraphrase of one of
Anacreon's wine songs; so loose that {562} we may as well style it
original, and adduce it as a specimen not only of Cowley's strange
conceits, but also of all the poetry in England, or rather at the
court of the King, during the reign of Charles II.[15] The sample is a
happy one.

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

"DRINKING.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dr. Blair's parallel between Homer and Milton, throws more light upon
the true character of Milton's mind, so far as sublimity is concerned,
than anything I have seen. "Homer's (sublimity) is generally
accompanied with fire and impetuosity; Milton's possesses {563} more
of a calm and amazing grandeur. Homer warms and hurries us along;
Milton fixes us in a state of astonishment and elevation. Homer's
sublimity appears most in the description of actions; Milton's in that
of wonderful and stupendous objects." I would further apply a remark
which I have seen in the "table talk" of Coleridge, the poet, upon the
sublimity of Schiller, and that of Shakspeare. "Both are sublime, but
Homer's is the _material_ sublime."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In one night, Dryden began and completed the {564} greatest ode in the
English language. The ode to St. Cecilia stands an unrivalled example
of lyric excellence. The ode by Pope with the same title, that by
Addison sung on the same day, fall far short of it, as do Cowley's
famous paraphrases from Pindar. Indeed, Campbell's Last Man is the
only lyric poem in the language at all akin in merit to that of
Dryden.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Diamond buckles sparkling in their shoes."

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

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

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

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

It was said by Warburton in the early part of that strange career
which ended in a steady friendship for Pope, that "Dryden borrowed
from the ancients through want of leisure; Pope from _want of
genius_," and on this latter, the enemies of the abused poet have
harped severely. One prominent argument which they adduce is the
seeming difficulty with which he wrote! "His polish," say they, "is
but the labored polish of a common hand. There are none of the sudden
and strong outbreaks of great genius. He piles his thoughts with the
labor of an ant building its hill." They shew his manuscript, lined
and interlined, corrected and re-corrected, until no eye can detect
the real reading, and forget that Isocrates was engaged nine years on
one short panegyric. It would strike me that Pope's numerous
corrections evinced fertility of mind. That the constant aim toward
excellence, was but the yearning of great genius after perfection.
This yearning did not display itself in Dryden, to whom belonged even
greater genius, for the simple reason that he had no leisure for it.
_He_ was Old Jacob Tonson's hack, and depended on his writings for
subsistence, while Pope was the receiver of annuities which rendered
him wholly independent. As a didactic writer, Pope stands conspicuous
among the philosophic poets, not only of England, but of the world.
Neither Virgil nor Lucretius can in this, boast superiority. And
Akenside, Armstrong, and even Boileau, fall far beneath. I have
remarked, that logic suited no order of poetry, except the satirical:
I do not contradict myself here. Lucretius pleases us with his bold
and original conceptions, no matter how faulty they are, Virgil, by
the poetic elegance which he throws upon his disjointed philosophy.
And Pope is the more pleasing for his want of method. Virgil's mode of
reasoning is the most orderly and best arranged of the three, and
consequently his didactic poems resemble more the Anglo-Latin
treatises of the twelfth and following centuries, than those of the
others do. In brief, sprightly carelesness of restraint, and _want of
method_, render Pope's "Essay on Criticism," and the "De rerum natura"
of Lucretius more agreeable to the {565} reader than the best of
Virgil's Georgics. In satire, Pope was superior to Dryden, chiefly I
presume, in consequence of the latter's want of leisure to perfect the
reasoning which enters so importantly into that species of
composition. As a translator, he was unhappy in his choice of authors.
Virgil would have suited his style of genius far better than Homer.
His anglicized Greek lines wear too much frippery of dress. A happy
mean yet remains to be filled, between the extreme polish of Pope's
Homer, and the naked abruptness of both Chapman and Cowper. There was
a degree of hypocrisy in Pope's mode of publishing his letters which
should be censured. (Vide Quarrels of Authors.)

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

L. L.

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

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




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

HANS PHAALL--A TALE.

BY EDGAR A. POE.


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

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

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

In the meantime, however, lower and still lower towards the goodly
city, came the object of so much curiosity, and the cause of so much
smoke. In a very few minutes it arrived near enough to be accurately
discerned. It appeared to be--yes! it _was_ undoubtedly a species of
balloon: but surely no _such_ balloon had ever been seen in Rotterdam
before. For who, let me ask, ever heard of a balloon entirely
manufactured of dirty newspapers? No man in Holland certainly--yet
here under the very noses of the people, or rather, so to speak, at
some distance _above_ their noses, was the identical thing in
question, and composed, I have it on the best authority, of the
precise material which no one had ever known to be used for a similar
purpose. It was too bad--it was not to be borne: it was an insult--an
egregious insult to the good sense of the burghers of Rotterdam. As to
the shape of the phenomenon it was even still more reprehensible,
being little or nothing better than a huge foolscap turned upside
down. And this similitude was by no means lessened, when, upon nearer
inspection, there was perceived a large tassel depending from its
apex, and around the upper rim or base of the cone a circle of little
instruments, resembling sheep-bells, which kept up a continual
tinkling to the tune of Betty Martin. But still worse. Suspended by
blue ribbands to the end of this fantastic machine, there hung by way
of car an enormous drab beaver hat, with a brim superlatively broad,
and a hemispherical crown with a black band and a silver buckle. It
is, however, somewhat remarkable, that many citizens of Rotterdam
swore to having seen the same hat repeatedly before; and indeed the
whole assembly seemed to regard it with {566} eyes of familiarity,
while the vrow Grettel Phaall, upon sight of it, uttered an
exclamation of joyful surprise, and declared it to be the identical
hat of her good man himself. Now this was a circumstance the more to
be observed, as Phaall, with three companions, had actually
disappeared from Rotterdam about five years before, in a very sudden
and unaccountable manner, and up to the date of this narrative all
attempts had failed of obtaining any intelligence concerning them
whatsoever. To be sure, some bones which were thought to be human, and
mixed up with a quantity of odd-looking rubbish, had been lately
discovered in a retired situation to the east of Rotterdam; and some
people went so for as to imagine that in this spot a foul murder had
been committed, and that the sufferers were in all probability Hans
Phaall and his associates. But to return.

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

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

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

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

Your Excellencies may perhaps be able to remember an humble artizan by
name Hans Phaall, and by occupation a mender of bellows, who, with
three others, disappeared from Rotterdam, about five years ago, in a
manner which must have been considered by all parties at once sudden,
and extremely unaccountable. If, however, it so please your
Excellencies, I, the writer of this communication, am the identical
Hans Phaall himself. It is well known to most of my fellow citizens,
that for the period of forty years, I continued to occupy the little
square brick building at the head of the alley called Sauerkraut, and
in which I resided at the time of my disappearance. My ancestors have
also resided therein time out of mind, they, as well as myself,
steadily following the respectable and indeed lucrative profession of
mending of bellows. For, to speak the truth, until of late years that
the heads of all the people have been set agog with the troubles and
politics, no better business than my own could an honest citizen of
Rotterdam either desire or deserve. Credit was good, employment was
never wanting, and on all hands there was no lack of either money or
good will. But, as I was saying, we soon began to feel the terrible
effects {567} of liberty, and long speeches, and radicalism, and all
that sort of thing. People who were formerly the very best customers
in the world had now not a moment of time to think of us at all. They
had, so they said, as much as they could do to read about the
revolutions, and keep up with the march of intellect, and the spirit
of the age. If a fire wanted fanning it could readily be fanned with a
newspaper; and, as the government grew weaker, I have no doubt that
leather and iron acquired durability in proportion, for in a very
short time there was not a pair of bellows in all Rotterdam that ever
stood in need of a stitch or required the assistance of a hammer. This
was a state of things not to be endured. I soon grew as poor as a rat,
and, having a wife and children to provide for, my burdens at length
became intolerable, and I spent hour after hour in reflecting upon the
speediest and most convenient method of putting an end to my life.
Duns, in the meantime left me little leisure for contemplation. My
house was literally besieged from morning till night, so that I began
to rave, and foam, and fret like a caged tiger against the bars of his
enclosure. There were three fellows in particular, who worried me
beyond endurance, keeping watch continually about my door, and
threatening me with the utmost severity of the law. Upon these three I
internally vowed the bitterest revenge, if ever I should be so happy
as to get them within my clutches, and I believe nothing in the world
but the pleasure of this anticipation prevented me from putting my
plan of suicide into immediate execution, by blowing my brains out
with a blunderbuss. I thought it best, however, to dissemble my wrath,
and to treat them with promises and fair words, until, by some good
turn of fate, an opportunity of vengeance should be afforded me.

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

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

Matters being thus arranged, I contrived, by the aid of my wife, and
with the greatest secrecy and caution, to dispose of what property I
had remaining, and to borrow, in small sums, under various pretences,
and without paying any attention to my future means of repayment, no
inconsiderable quantity of ready money. With the means thus accruing I
proceeded to purchase at intervals, cambric muslin, very fine, in
pieces of twelve yards each--twine--a lot of the varnish of {568}
caoutchouc--a large and deep basket of wicker-work, made to order--and
several other articles necessary in the construction and equipment of
a balloon of extraordinary dimensions. This I directed my wife to make
up as soon as possible, and gave her all requisite information as to
the particular method of proceeding. In the meantime I worked up the
twine into a net-work of sufficient dimensions, rigged it with a hoop
and the necessary cords, bought a quadrant, a compass, a spyglass, a
common barometer with some important modifications, and two
astronomical instruments not so generally known. I then took
opportunities of conveying by night, to a retired situation east of
Rotterdam, five iron-bound casks, to contain about fifty gallons each,
and one of a larger size--six tinned ware tubes, three inches in
diameter, properly shaped, and ten feet in length--a quantity of _a
particular metallic substance or semi-metal_ which I shall not
name--and a dozen demijohns of _a very common acid_. The gas to be
formed from these latter materials is a gas never yet generated by any
other person than myself--or at least never applied to any similar
purpose. The secret I would make no difficulty in disclosing, but that
it of right belongs to a citizen of Nantz in France, by whom it was
conditionally communicated to myself. The same individual submitted to
me, without being at all aware of my intentions, a method of
constructing balloons from the membrane of a certain animal, through
which substance any escape of gas was nearly an impossibility. I found
it however altogether too expensive, and was not sure, upon the whole,
whether cambric muslin with a coating of gum caoutchouc was not
equally as good. I mention this circumstance, because I think it
probable that hereafter the individual in question may attempt a
balloon ascension with the novel gas and material, I have spoken of,
and I do not wish to deprive him of the honor of a very singular
invention.

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

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

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

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

In about four hours and a half I found the balloon sufficiently
inflated. I attached the car therefore, and put all my implements in
it--not forgetting the condensing apparatus, a copious supply of
water, and a large quantity of provisions, such as pemmican, in which
much nutriment is contained in comparatively little bulk. I also
secured in the car a pair of pigeons and a cat. It was now nearly
day-break, and I thought {569} it high time to take my departure.
Dropping a lighted cigar on the ground, as if by accident, I took the
opportunity, in stooping to pick it up, of igniting privately the
piece of slow match, whose end, as I said before, protruded a very
little beyond the lower rim of one of the smaller casks. This
manoeuvre was totally unperceived on the part of the three duns, and,
jumping into the car, I immediately cut the single cord which held me
to the earth, and was pleased to find that I shot upwards, rapidly
carrying with all ease one hundred and seventy-five pounds of leaden
ballast, and able to have carried up as many more.

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

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

My body was now inclined towards the side of the car, at an angle of
about forty-five degrees--but it must not be understood that I was
therefore only forty-five degrees below the perpendicular. So far from
it, I still lay nearly level with the plane of the horizon--for the
change of situation which I had acquired, had forced the bottom of the
car considerably outwards from my position, which was accordingly one
of the most imminent and dangerous peril. It should be remembered,
however, that when I fell, in the first instance, from the car, if I
had fallen with my face turned towards the balloon, instead of turned
outwardly from it as it actually was--or if, in the second place, the
cord by which I was suspended had chanced to hang over the upper edge,
instead of through a crevice near the bottom of the car,--I say it may
readily be conceived that, in either of these supposed cases, I should
have been unable to accomplish even as much as I had now accomplished,
and the wonderful adventures of Hans Phaall would have been utterly
lost to posterity. I had therefore every reason to be
grateful--although, in point of fact, I was still too stupid to be
anything at all, and hung for, I suppose, a quarter of an hour, in
that extraordinary manner, without making the slightest farther
exertion whatsoever, and in a singularly tranquil state of idiotic
enjoyment. But {570} this feeling did not fail to die rapidly away,
and thereunto succeeded horror, and dismay, and a chilling sense of
utter helplessness and ruin. In fact, the blood so long accumulating
in the vessels of my head and throat, and which had hitherto buoyed up
my spirits with madness and delirium, had now begun to retire within
their proper channels, and the distinctness which was thus added to my
perception of the danger, merely served to deprive me of the
self-possession and courage to encounter it. But this weakness was,
luckily for me, of no very long duration. In good time came to my
rescue the spirit of despair, and amid horrible curses and convulsive
struggles, I jerked my way bodily upwards, till at length, clutching
with a vice-like grip the long-desired rim, I writhed my person over
it, and fell headlong and shuddering within the car. It was not until
sometime afterwards that I recovered myself sufficiently to attend to
the ordinary cares of the balloon. I then, however, examined it with
attention, and found it, to my great relief, uninjured. My implements
were all safe, and I had fortunately lost neither ballast nor
provisions. Indeed, I had so well secured them in their places, that
such an accident was entirely out of the question. Looking at my
watch, I found it six o'clock. I was still rapidly ascending, and my
barometer showed a present altitude of three and three quarter miles.
Immediately beneath me in the ocean, lay a small black object,
slightly oblong in shape, seemingly about the size, and in every way
bearing a great resemblance to one of those childish toys called a
domino. Bringing my spy-glass to bear upon it, I plainly discerned it
to be a British ninety-four gun ship, close-hauled, and pitching
heavily in the sea with her head to the W. S. W. Besides this ship, I
saw nothing but the ocean and the sky, and the sun, which had long
arisen.

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

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

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

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

On the other hand, I was aware that arguments have {571} not been
wanting to prove the existence of a real and definite limit to the
atmosphere, beyond which there is absolutely no air whatsoever. But a
circumstance which has been left out of view by those who contend for
such a limit, seemed to me, although no positive refutation of their
creed, still a point worthy very serious investigation. On comparing
the intervals between the successive arrivals of Encke's comet at its
perihelion, after giving credit, in the most exact manner, for all the
disturbances or perturbations due to the attractions of the planets,
it appears that the periods are gradually diminishing--that is to
say--the major axis of the comet's ellipse is growing shorter, in a
slow but perfectly regular decrease. Now this is precisely what ought
to be the case, if we suppose a resistance experienced by the comet
from an extremely _rare etherial medium_ pervading the regions of its
orbit. For it is evident that such a medium must, in retarding its
velocity, increase its centripetal, by weakening its centrifugal
force. In other words, the sun's attraction would be constantly
attaining greater power, and the comet would be drawn nearer at every
revolution. Indeed, there is no other way of accounting for the
variation in question. But again. The real diameter of the same
comet's nebulosity, is observed to contract rapidly as it approaches
the sun, and dilate with equal rapidity in its departure towards its
aphelion. Was I not justifiable in supposing, with M. Valz, that this
apparent condensation of volume has its origin in the compression of
the same etherial medium I have spoken of before, and which is only
denser in proportion to its solar vicinity? The lenticular-shaped
phenomenon, also, called the zodiacal light, was a matter worthy of
attention. This radiance, so apparent in the tropics, and which cannot
be mistaken for any meteoric lustre, extends from the horizon
obliquely upwards, and follows generally the direction of the sun's
equator. It appeared to me evidently, in the nature of a rare
atmosphere extending from the sun outwards, beyond the orbit of Venus
at least, and I believed indefinitely farther. Indeed, this medium I
could not suppose confined to the path of the comet's ellipse, or the
immediate neighborhood of the sun. It was easy, on the contrary, to
imagine it pervading the entire regions of our planetary system,
condensed into what we call atmosphere at the planets themselves, and
in some of them modified by considerations, so to speak, purely
geological.

Having adopted this view of the subject, I had little farther
hesitation. Granting that on my passage I should meet with atmosphere
_essentially_ the same as at the surface of the earth, I conceived
that, by means of the very ingenious apparatus of M. Grimm, I should
readily be enabled to condense it in sufficient quantities for the
purpose of respiration. This would remove the chief obstacle in a
journey to the moon. I had indeed spent some money and great labor in
adapting the apparatus to the purposes intended, and I confidently
looked forward to its successful application, if I could manage to
complete the voyage within any reasonable period. This brings me back
to the _rate_ at which it might be possible to travel.

It is true that balloons, in the first stage of their ascensions from
the earth, are known to rise with a velocity comparatively moderate.
Now the power of elevation lies altogether in the superior lightness
of the gas in the balloon, compared with the atmospheric air; and, at
first sight, it does not appear probable that, as the balloon acquires
altitude, and consequently arrives successively in atmospheric strata
of densities rapidly diminishing--I say it does not appear at all
reasonable that, in this its progress upwards, the original velocity
should be accelerated. On the other hand, I was not aware that, in any
recorded ascension, a diminution was apparent in the absolute rate of
ascent--although such should have been the case, if on account of
nothing else, on account of the escape of gas through balloons
ill-constructed, and varnished with no better material than the
ordinary varnish. It seemed, therefore, that the effect of such an
escape was only sufficient to counterbalance the effect of some
accelerating power. I now considered, that provided in my passage I
found the medium I had imagined, and provided it should prove to be
actually and _essentially_ what we denominate atmospheric air, it
could make comparatively little difference at what extreme state of
rarefaction I should discover it--that is to say, in regard to my
power of ascending--for the gas in the balloon would not only be
itself subject to a rarefaction partially similar, but, _being what it
was_, would still, at all events, continue specifically lighter than
any compound whatever of mere nitrogen and oxygen. In the meantime the
force of gravitation would be constantly diminishing, in proportion to
the squares of the distances, and thus, with a velocity prodigiously
accelerating, I should at length arrive in those distant regions where
the power of the earth's attractions would be superseded by the
moon's. In accordance with these ideas, I did not think it worth while
to encumber myself with more provisions than would be sufficient for a
period of forty days.

There was still, however, another difficulty which occasioned me some
little disquietude. It has been observed, that in all balloon
ascensions to any considerable height, besides the pain attending
respiration, great uneasiness is invariably experienced about the head
and body, often accompanied with bleeding at the nose, and other
symptoms of an alarming kind, and growing more and more inconvenient
in proportion to the altitude attained. This was a reflection of a
nature somewhat startling. Was it not probable that these symptoms
would increase indefinitely, or at least until terminated by death
itself? I finally thought not. Their origin was to be looked for in
the progressive removal of the _customary_ atmospheric pressure upon
the surface of the body, and consequent distension of the superficial
blood-vessels--not in any positive disorganization of the animal
system, as in the case of difficulty in breathing, where the
atmospheric density is _chemically insufficient_ for the purpose of a
due renovation of blood in a ventricle of the heart. Unless for
default of this renovation, I could see no reason, therefore, why life
could not be sustained even in a _vacuum_--for the expansion and
compression of chest, commonly called breathing, is action purely
muscular, and the _cause_, not the _effect_, of respiration. In a
word, I conceived that, as the body should become habituated to the
want of atmospheric pressure, these sensations of pain would gradually
diminish, and to endure them while they continued, I relied strongly
upon the iron hardihood of my constitution.

Thus, it may please your Excellencies, I have {572} detailed some,
though by no means all the considerations which led me to form the
project of a lunar voyage. I shall now proceed to lay before you, the
result of an attempt so apparently audacious in conception, and, at
all events, so utterly unparalleled in the annals of human kind.

Having attained the altitude before mentioned, that is to say, three
miles and three quarters, I threw out from the car a quantity of
feathers, and found that I still ascended with sufficient
rapidity--there was, therefore, no necessity for discharging any
ballast. I was glad of this, for I wished to retain with me as much
weight as I could carry, for reasons which will be explained in the
sequel. I as yet suffered no bodily inconvenience, breathing with
great freedom, and feeling no pain whatever in the head. The cat was
lying very demurely upon my coat, which I had taken off, and eyeing
the pigeons with an air of _non chalance_. These latter being tied by
the leg, to prevent their escape, were busily employed in picking up
some grains of rice scattered for them in the bottom of the car.

At twenty minutes past six o'clock, the barometer showed an elevation
of 26,400 feet, or five miles to a fraction. The prospect seemed
unbounded. Indeed, it is very easily calculated by means of spherical
geometry, what a great extent of the earth's area I beheld. The convex
surface of any segment of a sphere is, to the entire surface of the
sphere itself, as the versed sine of the segment is to the diameter of
the sphere. Now in my case, the versed sine--that is to say, the
_thickness_ of the segment beneath me, was about equal to my
elevation, or the elevation of the point of sight above the surface.
"As five miles, then, to eight thousand," would express the proportion
of the earth's area seen by me. In other words, I beheld as much as a
sixteen-hundredth part of the whole surface of the globe. The sea
appeared unruffled as a mirror, although, by means of the spy-glass, I
could perceive it to be in a state of violent agitation. The ship was
no longer visible, having drifted away, apparently, to the eastward. I
now began to experience, at intervals, severe pain in the head,
especially about the ears--still, however, breathing with tolerable
freedom. The cat and pigeons seemed to suffer no inconvenience
whatsoever.

At twenty minutes before seven, the balloon entered within a long
series of dense cloud, which put me to great trouble, by damaging my
condensing apparatus, and wetting me to the skin. This was, to be
sure, a singular _rencontre_, for I had not believed it possible that
a cloud of this nature could be sustained at so great an elevation. I
thought it best, however, to throw out two five pound pieces of
ballast, reserving still a weight of one hundred and sixty-five
pounds. Upon so doing, I soon rose above the difficulty, and perceived
immediately, that I had obtained a great increase in my rate of
ascent. In a few seconds after my leaving the cloud, a flash of vivid
lightning shot from one end of it to the other, and caused it to
kindle up, throughout its vast extent, like a mass of ignited and
glowing charcoal. This, it must be remembered, was in the broad light
of day. No fancy may picture the sublimity which might have been
exhibited by a similar phenomenon taking place amid the darkness of
the night. Hell itself might then have found a fitting image. Even as
it was, my hair stood on end, while I gazed afar down within the
yawning abysses, letting imagination descend, as it were, and stalk
about in the strange vaulted halls, and ruddy gulfs, and red ghastly
chasms of the hideous, and unfathomable fire. I had indeed made a
narrow escape. Had the balloon remained a very short while longer
within the cloud--that is to say--had not the inconvenience of getting
wet determined me to discharge the ballast, inevitable ruin would have
been the consequence. Such perils, although little considered, are
perhaps the greatest which must be encountered in balloons. I had by
this time, however, attained too great an elevation to be any longer
uneasy on this head.

I was now rising rapidly, and by seven o'clock the barometer indicated
an altitude of no less than nine miles and a half. I began to find
great difficulty in drawing my breath. My head too was excessively
painful; and, having felt for some time a moisture about my cheeks, I
at length discovered it to be blood, which was oozing quite fast from
the drums of my ears. My eyes, also, gave me great uneasiness. Upon
passing the hand over them they seemed to have protruded from their
sockets in no inconsiderable degree, and all objects in the car, and
even the balloon itself appeared distorted to my vision. These
symptoms were more than I had expected, and occasioned me some alarm.
At this juncture, very imprudently and without consideration, I threw
out from the car three five pound pieces of ballast. The accelerated
rate of ascent thus obtained carried me too rapidly, and without
sufficient gradation, into a highly rarefied stratum of the
atmosphere, and the result had nearly proved fatal to my expedition
and to myself. I was suddenly seized with a spasm which lasted for
better than five minutes, and even when this, in a measure, ceased, I
could catch my breath only at long intervals, and in a gasping
manner--bleeding all the while copiously at the nose and ears, and
even slightly at the eyes. The pigeons appeared distressed in the
extreme, and struggled to escape; while the cat mewed piteously, and,
with her tongue hanging out of her mouth, staggered to and fro in the
car as if under the influence of poison. I now too late discovered the
great rashness I had been guilty of in discharging the ballast, and my
agitation was excessive. I anticipated nothing less than death, and
death in a few minutes. The physical suffering I underwent contributed
also to render me nearly incapable of making any exertion for the
preservation of my life. I had, indeed, little power of reflection
left, and the violence of the pain in my head seemed to be greatly on
the increase. Thus I found that my senses would shortly give way
altogether, and I had already clutched one of the valve ropes with the
view of attempting a descent, when the recollection of the trick I had
played the three creditors, and the inevitable consequences to myself,
should I return to Rotterdam, operated to deter me for the moment. I
lay down in the bottom of the car, and endeavored to collect my
faculties. In this I so far succeeded as to determine upon the
experiment of losing blood. Having no lancet, however, I was
constrained to perform the operation in the best manner I was able,
and finally succeeded in opening a vein in my right arm, with the
blade of my penknife. The blood had hardly commenced flowing when I
experienced a sensible relief, and by the time I had lost about half a
moderate basin full, most of the worst symptoms {573} had abandoned me
entirely. I nevertheless did not think it expedient to attempt getting
on my feet immediately; but, having tied up my arm as well as I could,
I lay still for about a quarter of an hour. At the end of this time I
arose, and found myself freer from absolute _pain_ of any kind than I
had been during the last hour and a quarter of my ascension. The
difficulty of breathing, however, was diminished in a very slight
degree, and I found that it would soon be positively necessary to make
use of my condenser. In the meantime looking towards the cat, who was
again snugly stowed away upon my coat, I discovered, to my infinite
surprise, that she had taken the opportunity of my indisposition to
bring into light a litter of three little kittens. This was an
addition to the number of passengers on my part altogether unexpected;
but I was pleased at the occurrence. It would afford me a chance of
bringing to a kind of test the truth of a surmise, which, more than
anything else, had influenced me in attempting this ascension. I had
imagined that the _habitual_ endurance of the atmospheric pressure at
the surface of the earth was the cause, or nearly so, of the pain
attending animal existence at a distance above the surface. Should the
kittens be found to suffer uneasiness _in an equal degree with their
mother_, I must consider my theory in fault, but a failure to do so I
should look upon as a strong confirmation of my idea.

By eight o'clock I had actually attained an elevation of seventeen
miles above the surface of the earth. Thus it seemed to me evident
that my rate of ascent was not only on the increase, but that the
progression would have been apparent in a slight degree even had I not
discharged the ballast which I did. The pains in my head and ears
returned, at intervals, with violence, and I still continued to bleed
occasionally at the nose: but, upon the whole, I suffered much less
than might have been expected. I breathed, however, at every moment,
with more and more difficulty, and each inhalation was attended with a
troublesome spasmodic action of the chest. I now unpacked the
condensing apparatus, and got it ready for immediate use. The view of
the earth, at this period of my ascension, was beautiful indeed. To
the westward, the northward, and the southward, as far as I could see,
lay a boundless sheet of apparently unruffled ocean, which every
moment gained a deeper and a deeper tint of blue, and began already to
assume a slight appearance of convexity. At a vast distance to the
eastward, although perfectly discernible, extended the islands of
Great Britain, the entire Atlantic coasts of France and Spain, with a
small portion of the northern part of the continent of Africa. Of
individual edifices not a trace could be discovered, and the proudest
cities of mankind had utterly faded away from the face of the earth.
From the rock of Gibraltar, now dwindled into a dim speck, the dark
Mediterranean sea, dotted with shining islands as the heaven is dotted
with stars, spread itself out to the eastward as far as my vision
extended, until its entire mass of waters seemed at length to tumble
headlong over the abyss of the horizon, and I found myself listening
on tiptoe for the echoes of the mighty cataract.

The pigeons about this time seeming to undergo much suffering, I
determined upon giving them their liberty. I first untied one of
them--a beautiful gray-mottled pigeon--and placed him upon the rim of
the wicker-work. He appeared extremely uneasy, looking anxiously
around him, fluttering his wings, and making a loud cooing noise--but
could not be persuaded to trust himself from off the car. I took him
up at last, and threw him to about half a dozen yards from the
balloon. He made, however, no attempt to descend as I had expected,
but struggled with great vehemence to get back, uttering at the same
time very shrill and piercing cries. He at length succeeded in
regaining his former station on the rim--but had hardly done so when
his head dropped upon his breast, and he fell dead within the car. The
other one did not prove so unfortunate. To prevent his following the
example of his companion, and accomplishing a return, I threw him
downwards with all my force, and was pleased to find him continue his
descent, with great velocity, making use of his wings with ease, and
in a perfectly natural manner. In a very short time he was out of
sight, and I have no doubt he reached home in safety. Puss, who seemed
in a great measure recovered from her illness, now made a hearty meal
of the dead bird, and then went to sleep with much apparent
satisfaction. Her kittens were quite lively, and so far evinced not
the slightest sign of any uneasiness whatever.

At a quarter past eight, being able no longer to draw breath at all
without the most intolerable pain, I proceeded, forthwith, to adjust
around the car the apparatus belonging to the condenser. This
apparatus will require some little explanation, and your Excellencies
will please to bear in mind that my object, in the first place, was to
surround myself and car entirely with a barricade against the highly
rarefied atmosphere in which I was existing--with the intention of
introducing within this barricade, by means of my condenser, a
quantity of this same atmosphere sufficiently condensed for the
purposes of respiration. With this object in view I had prepared a
very strong, perfectly air-tight, but flexible gum-elastic bag. In
this bag, which was of sufficient dimensions, the entire car was in a
manner placed. That is to say, it (the bag) was drawn over the whole
bottom of the car--up its sides--and so on, along the outside of the
ropes, to the upper rim or hoop where the net-work is attached. Having
pulled the bag up in this way, and formed a complete enclosure on all
sides, and at bottom, it was now necessary to fasten up its top or
mouth, by passing its material over the hoop of the net-work--in other
words between the net-work and the hoop. But if the net-work was
separated from the hoop to admit this passage, what was to sustain the
car in the meantime? Now the net-work was not permanently fastened to
the hoop, but attached by a series of running loops or nooses. I
therefore undid only a few of these loops at one time, leaving the car
suspended by the remainder. Having thus inserted a portion of the
cloth forming the upper part of the bag, I re-fastened the loops--not
to the hoop, for that would have been impossible, since the cloth now
intervened,--but to a series of large buttons, affixed to the cloth
itself, about three feet below the mouth of the bag--the intervals
between the buttons having been made to correspond to the intervals
between the loops. This done, a few more of the loops were unfastened
from the rim, a farther portion of the cloth introduced, and the
disengaged loops then connected with their proper buttons. In this way
it was possible to insert the whole upper part of {574} the bag
between the net-work and the hoop. It is evident that the hoop would
now drop down within the car, while the whole weight of the car
itself, with all its contents, would be held up merely by the strength
of the buttons. This, at first sight, would seem an inadequate
dependence, but it was by no means so, for the buttons were not only
very strong in themselves, but so close together that a very slight
portion of the whole weight was supported by any one of them. Indeed
had the car and contents been three times heavier than they were, I
should not have been at all uneasy. I now raised up the hoop again
within the covering of gum-elastic, and propped it at nearly its
former height by means of three light poles prepared for the occasion.
This was done, of course, to keep the bag distended at the top, and to
preserve the lower part of the net-work in its proper situation. All
that now remained was to fasten up the mouth of the enclosure; and
this was readily accomplished by gathering the folds of the material
together, and twisting them up very tightly on the inside by means of
a kind of stationary tourniquet.

In the sides of the covering thus adjusted round the car, had been
inserted three circular panes of thick but clear glass, through which
I could see without difficulty around me in every horizontal
direction. In that portion of the cloth forming the bottom, was
likewise a fourth window, of the same kind, and corresponding with a
small aperture in the floor of the car itself. This enabled me to see
perpendicularly down, but having found it impossible to place any
similar contrivance overhead, on account of the peculiar manner of
closing up the opening there, and the consequent wrinkles in the
cloth, I could expect to see no objects situated directly in my
zenith. This, of course, was a matter of little consequence--for, had
I even been able to place a window at top, the balloon itself would
have prevented my making any use of it.

About a foot below one of the side windows was a circular opening
eight inches in diameter, and fitted with a brass rim adapted in its
inner edge to the windings of a screw. In this rim was screwed the
large tube of the condenser, the body of the machine being, of course,
within the chamber of gum-elastic. Through this tube a quantity of the
rare atmosphere circumjacent being drawn by means of a vacuum created
in the body of the machine, was thence discharged in a state of
condensation to mingle with the thin air already in the chamber. This
operation, being repeated several times, at length filled the chamber
with atmosphere proper for all the purposes of respiration. But in so
confined a space it would in a short time necessarily become foul, and
unfit for use from frequent contact with the lungs. It was then
ejected by a small valve at the bottom of the car--the dense air
readily sinking into the thinner atmosphere below. To avoid the
inconvenience of making a total _vacuum_ at any moment within the
chamber this purification was never accomplished all at once, but in a
gradual manner,--the valve being opened only for a few seconds, then
closed again, until one or two strokes from the pump of the condenser
had supplied the place of the atmosphere ejected. For the sake of
experiment I had put the cat and kittens in a small basket, and
suspended it outside the car to a button at the bottom, close by the
valve, through which I could feed them at any moment when necessary. I
did this at some little risk, and before closing the mouth of the
chamber, by reaching under the car with one of the poles
before-mentioned to which a hook had been attached.

By the time I had fully completed these arrangements and filled the
chamber as explained, it wanted only ten minutes of nine o'clock.
During the whole period of my being thus employed I endured the most
terrible distress from difficulty of respiration, and bitterly did I
repent the negligence, or rather fool-hardiness, of which I had been
guilty in putting off to the very last moment a matter of so much
importance. But having at length accomplished it, I soon began to reap
the benefit of my invention. Once again I breathed with perfect
freedom and ease--and indeed why should I not? I was also agreeably
surprised to find myself, in a great measure, relieved from the
violent pains which had hitherto tormented me. A slight headach,
accompanied with a sensation of fulness or distension about the
wrists, the ancles, and the throat, was nearly all of which I had now
to complain. Thus it seemed evident that a greater part of the
uneasiness attending the removal of atmospheric pressure had actually
_worn off_, as I had expected, and that much of the pain endured for
the last two hours should have been attributed altogether to the
effects of a deficient respiration.

At twenty minutes before nine o'clock--that is to say--a short time
prior to my closing up the mouth of the chamber, the mercury attained
its limit, or ran down, in the barometer, which, as I mentioned
before, was one of an extended construction. It then indicated an
altitude on my part of 132000 feet, or five and twenty miles, and I
consequently surveyed at that time an extent of the earth's area
amounting to no less than the three-hundred-and-twentieth part of its
entire superficies. At nine o'clock I had again entirely lost sight of
land to the eastward, but not before I became fully aware that the
balloon was drifting rapidly to the N. N. W. The convexity of the
ocean beneath me was very evident indeed--although my view was often
interrupted by the masses of cloud which floated to and fro. I
observed now that even the lightest vapors never rose to more than ten
miles above the level of the sea.

At half past nine I tried the experiment of throwing out a handful of
feathers through the valve. They did not float as I had expected--but
dropped down perpendicularly, like a bullet, _en masse_, and with the
greatest velocity--being out of sight in a very few seconds. I did not
at first know what to make of this extraordinary phenomenon: not being
able to believe that my rate of ascent had, of a sudden, met with so
prodigious an acceleration. But it soon occurred to me that the
atmosphere was now far too rare to sustain even the feathers--that
they actually fell, as they appeared to do, with great rapidity--and
that I had been surprised by the united velocities of their descent
and my own elevation.

By ten o'clock I found that I had very little to occupy my immediate
attention. Affairs went on swimmingly, and I believed the balloon to
be going upwards with a speed increasing momentarily, although I had
no longer any means of ascertaining the progression of the increase. I
suffered no pain or uneasiness of any kind, and enjoyed better spirits
than I had at any period {575} since my departure from Rotterdam,
busying myself now in examining the state of my various apparatus, and
now in regenerating the atmosphere within the chamber. This latter
point I determined to attend to at regular intervals of forty minutes,
more on account of the preservation of my health, than from so
frequent a renovation being absolutely necessary. In the meanwhile I
could not help making anticipations. Fancy revelled in the wild and
dreamy regions of the moon. Imagination, feeling herself for once
unshackled, roamed at will among the ever-changing wonders of a
shadowy and unstable land. Now there were hoary and time-honored
forests, and craggy precipices, and waterfalls tumbling with a loud
noise into abysses without a bottom. Then I came suddenly into still
noon-day solitudes where no wind of heaven ever intruded, and where
vast meadows of poppies, and slender, lily-looking flowers spread
themselves out a weary distance, all silent and motionless forever.
Then again I journeyed far down away into another country where it was
all one dim and vague lake, with a boundary-line of clouds. And out of
this melancholy water arose a forest of tall eastern trees, like a
wilderness of dreams. And I bore in mind that the shadows of the trees
which fell upon the lake remained not on the surface where they
fell--but sunk slowly and steadily down, and commingled with the
waves, while from the trunks of the trees other shadows were
continually coming out, and taking the place of their brothers thus
entombed. "This then," I said thoughtfully, "is the very reason why
the waters of this lake grow blacker with age, and more melancholy as
the hours run on." But fancies such as these were not the sole
possessors of my brain. Horrors of a nature most stern and most
appaling would too frequently obtrude themselves upon my mind, and
shake the innermost depths of my soul with the bare supposition of
their possibility. Yet I would not suffer my thoughts for any length
of time to dwell upon these latter speculations, rightly judging the
real and palpable dangers of the voyage sufficient for my undivided
attention.

At five o'clock P.M. being engaged in regenerating the atmosphere
within the chamber, I took that opportunity of observing the cat and
kittens through the valve. The cat herself appeared to suffer again
very much, and I had no hesitation in attributing her uneasiness
chiefly to a difficulty in breathing--but my experiment with the
kittens had resulted very strangely. I had expected of course to see
them betray a sense of pain, although in a less degree than their
mother; and this would have been sufficient to confirm my opinion
concerning the habitual endurance of atmospheric pressure. But I was
not prepared to find them, upon close examination, evidently enjoying
a high degree of health, breathing with the greatest ease and perfect
regularity, and evincing not the slightest sign of any uneasiness
whatever. I could only account for all this by extending my theory,
and supposing that the highly rarefied atmosphere around might perhaps
not be, as I had taken for granted, chemically insufficient for the
purposes of life, and that a person born in such a medium might
possibly be unaware of any inconvenience attending its inhalation,
while, upon removal to the denser strata near the earth, he might
endure tortures of a similar nature to those I had so lately
experienced. It has since been to me a matter of deep regret that an
awkward accident at this time occasioned me the loss of my little
family of cats, and deprived me of the insight into this matter which
a continued experiment might have afforded. In passing my hand through
the valve with a cup of water for the old puss, the sleeve of my shirt
became entangled in the loop which sustained the basket, and thus, in
a moment, loosened it from the button. Had the whole actually vanished
into air it could not have shot from my sight in a more abrupt and
instantaneous manner. Positively there could not have intervened the
tenth part of a second between the disengagement of the basket and its
absolute and total disappearance with all that it contained. My good
wishes followed it to the earth, but, of course, I had no hope that
either cat or kittens would ever live to tell the tale of their
misfortune.

At six o'clock I perceived a great portion of the earth's visible area
to the eastward involved in thick shadow, which continued to advance
with great rapidity until, at five minutes before seven, the whole
surface in view was enveloped in the darkness of night. It was not,
however, until long after this time that the rays of the setting sun
ceased to illumine the balloon; and this circumstance, although of
course fully anticipated, did not fail to give me an infinite deal of
pleasure. It was evident that, in the morning, I should behold the
rising luminary many hours at least before the citizens of Rotterdam,
in spite of their situation so much farther to the eastward, and thus,
day after day, in proportion to the height ascended, would I enjoy the
light of the sun for a longer and a longer period. I now determined to
keep a journal of my passage, reckoning the days from one to
twenty-four hours continuously, without taking into consideration the
intervals of darkness.

At ten o'clock, feeling sleepy, I determined to lie down for the rest
of the night--but here a difficulty presented itself, which, obvious
as it may appear, had totally escaped my attention up to the very
moment of which I am now speaking. If I went to sleep as I proposed,
how could the atmosphere in the chamber be regenerated in the interim?
To breathe it for more than an hour, at the farthest, would be a
matter of impossibility; or if even this term could be extended to an
hour and a quarter, the most ruinous consequences might ensue. The
consideration of this dilemma gave me no little disquietude, and it
will hardly be believed that, after the dangers I had undergone, I
should look upon this business in so serious a light, as to give up
all hope of accomplishing my ultimate design, and finally make up my
mind to the necessity of a descent. But this hesitation was only
momentary. I reflected that man is the veriest slave of custom--and
that many points in the routine of his existence are deemed
_essentially_ important, which are only so _at all_ by his having
rendered them habitual. It was very certain that I could not do
without sleep--but I might easily bring myself to feel no
inconvenience from being awakened at regular intervals of an hour
during the whole period of my repose. It would require but five
minutes at most, to regenerate the atmosphere in the fullest manner,
and the only real difficulty was to contrive a method of arousing
myself at the proper moment for so doing. But this was a question
which I am willing to confess, occasioned me no little trouble in its
solution. {576} To be sure, I had heard of the student who, to prevent
his falling asleep over his books, held in one hand a ball of copper,
the din of whose descent into a basin of the same metal on the floor
beside his chair, served effectually to startle him up, if, at any
moment, he should be overcome with drowsiness. My own case, however,
was very different indeed, and left me no room for any similar
idea--for I did not wish to keep awake, but to be aroused from slumber
at regular intervals of time. I at length hit upon the following
expedient, which, simple as it may seem, was hailed by me, at the
moment of discovery, as an invention fully equal to that of the
telescope, the steam-engine, or the art of printing itself.

It is necessary to premise that the balloon, at the elevation now
attained, continued its course upwards with an even and undeviating
ascent, and the car consequently followed with a steadiness so perfect
that it would have been impossible to detect in it the slightest
vacillation whatever. This circumstance favored me greatly in the
project I now determined to adopt. My supply of water had been put on
board in kegs containing five gallons each, and ranged very securely
around the interior of the car. I unfastened one of these--took two
ropes, and tied them tightly across the rim of the wicker-work from
one side to the other, placing them about a foot apart and parallel,
so as to form a kind of shelf, upon which I placed the keg and
steadied it in a horizontal position. About eight inches immediately
below these ropes, and four feet from the bottom of the car, I
fastened another shelf--but made of thin plank, being the only similar
piece of wood I had. Upon this latter shelf, and exactly beneath one
of the rims of the keg a small earthen pitcher was deposited. I now
bored a hole in the end of the keg over the pitcher, and fitted in a
plug of soft wood, cut in a tapering or conical shape. This plug I
pushed in or pulled out, as might happen, until, after a few
experiments it arrived at that exact degree of tightness, at which the
water oozing from the hole, and falling into the pitcher below, should
fill the latter to the brim in the period of sixty minutes. This, of
course, was a matter briefly and easily ascertained by noticing the
proportion of the pitcher filling in any given time. Having arranged
all this, the rest of the plan is obvious. My bed was so contrived
upon the floor of the car, as to bring my head, in lying down,
immediately below the mouth of the pitcher. It was evident, that, at
the expiration of an hour, the pitcher, getting full, would be forced
to run over, and to run over at the mouth, which was somewhat lower
than the rim. It was also evident that the water, thus falling from a
height of better than four feet, could not do otherwise than fall upon
my face, and that the sure consequence would be, to waken me up
instantaneously, even from the soundest slumber in the world.

It was fully eleven by the time I had completed these arrangements,
and I immediately betook myself to bed with full confidence in the
efficiency of my invention. Nor in this matter was I disappointed.
Punctually every sixty minutes was I aroused by my trusty chronometer,
when, having emptied the pitcher into the bung-hole of the keg, and
performed the duties of the condenser, I retired again to bed. These
regular interruptions to my slumber caused me even less discomfort
than I had anticipated, and when I finally arose for the day it was
seven o'clock, and the sun had attained many degrees above the line of
my horizon.

_April 3d_. I found the balloon at an immense height indeed, and the
earth's apparent convexity increased in a material degree. Below me in
the ocean lay a cluster of black specks, which undoubtedly were
islands. Far away to the northward I perceived a thin, white, and
exceedingly brilliant line or streak on the edge of the horizon, and I
had no hesitation in supposing it to be the southern disk of the ices
of the Polar sea. My curiosity was greatly excited, for I had hopes of
passing on much farther to the north, and might possibly, at some
period, find myself placed directly above the Pole itself. I now
lamented that my great elevation would, in this case, prevent my
taking as accurate a survey as I could wish. Much however might be
ascertained. Nothing else of an extraordinary nature occurred during
the day. My apparatus all continued in good order, and the balloon
still ascended without any perceptible vacillation. The cold was
intense, and obliged me to wrap up closely in an overcoat. When
darkness came over the earth, I betook myself to bed, although it was
for many hours afterwards broad daylight all around my immediate
situation. The water-clock was punctual in its duty, and I slept until
next morning soundly--with the exception of the periodical
interruption.

_April 4th_. Arose in good health and spirits, and was astonished at
the singular change which had taken place in the appearance of the
sea. It had lost, in a great measure, the deep tint of blue it had
hitherto worn, being now of a grayish white, and of a lustre dazzling
to the eye. The islands were no longer visible--whether they had
passed down the horizon to the southeast, or whether my increasing
elevation had left them out of sight, it is impossible to say. I was
inclined however, to the latter opinion. The rim of ice to the
northward, was growing more and more apparent. Cold by no means so
intense. Nothing of importance occurred, and I passed the day in
reading--having taken care to supply myself with books.

_April 5th_. Beheld the singular phenomenon of the sun rising while
nearly the whole visible surface of the earth continued to be involved
in darkness. In time, however, the light spread itself over all, and I
again saw the line of ice to the northward. It was now very distinct
and appeared of a much darker hue than the waters of the ocean. I was
evidently approaching it, and with great rapidity. Fancied I could
again distinguish a strip of land to the eastward--and one also to the
westward--but could not be certain. Weather moderate. Nothing of any
consequence happened during the day. Went early to bed.

_April 6th_. Was surprised at finding the rim of ice at a very
moderate distance, and an immense field of the same material
stretching away off to the horizon in the north. It was evident that
if the balloon held its present course, it would soon arrive above the
Frozen Ocean, and I had now little doubt of ultimately seeing the
Pole. During the whole of the day I continued to near the ice. Towards
night the limits of my horizon very suddenly and materially increased,
owing undoubtedly to the earth's form being that of an oblate
spheroid, and my arriving above the flattened regions {577} in the
vicinity of the Arctic circle. When darkness at length overtook me I
went to bed in great anxiety, fearing to pass over the object of so
much curiosity when I should have no opportunity of observing it.

_April 7th_. Arose early, and, to my great joy, at length beheld what
there could be no hesitation in supposing the northern Pole itself. It
was there, beyond a doubt, and immediately beneath my feet--but, alas!
I had now ascended to so vast a distance that nothing could with
accuracy be discerned. Indeed, to judge from the progression of the
numbers indicating my various altitudes respectively at different
periods, between six A.M. on the second of April, and twenty minutes
before nine A.M. of the same day, (at which time the barometer ran
down,) it might be fairly inferred that the balloon had now, at four
o'clock in the morning of April the seventh, reached a height of _not
less_ certainly than 7254 miles above the surface of the sea. This
elevation may appear immense, but the estimate upon which it is
calculated gave a result in all probability far inferior to the truth.
At all events I undoubtedly beheld the whole of the earth's major
diameter--the entire northern hemisphere lay beneath me like a chart
orthographically projected--and the great circle of the equator itself
formed the boundary line of my horizon. Your Excellencies may however,
readily imagine that the confined regions hitherto unexplored within
the limits of the Arctic circle, although situated directly beneath
me, and therefore seen without any appearance of being foreshortened,
were still, in themselves, comparatively too diminutive, and at too
great a distance from the point of sight to admit of any very accurate
examination. Nevertheless what could be seen was of a nature singular
and exciting. Northwardly from that huge rim before mentioned, and
which, with slight qualification may be called the limit of human
discovery in these regions, one unbroken, or nearly unbroken sheet of
ice continues to extend. In the first few degrees of this its
progress, its surface is very sensibly flattened--farther on depressed
into a plane--and finally, becoming _not a little concave_, it
terminates at the Pole itself in a circular centre, sharply defined,
whose apparent diameter subtended at the balloon an angle of about
sixty-five seconds; and whose dusky hue, varying in intensity, was, at
all times darker than any other spot upon the visible hemisphere, and
occasionally deepened into the most absolute and impenetrable
blackness. Farther than this little could be ascertained. By twelve
o'clock the circular centre had materially decreased in circumference,
and by seven P.M. I lost sight of it entirely--the balloon passing
over the western limb of the ice, and floating away rapidly in the
direction of the equator.

_April 8th_. Found a sensible diminution in the earth's apparent
diameter, besides a material alteration in its general color and
appearance. The whole visible area partook in different degrees of a
tint of pale yellow, and in some portions had acquired a brilliancy
even painful to the eye. My view downwards was also considerably
impeded by the dense atmosphere in the vicinity of the surface being
loaded with clouds between whose masses I could only now and then
obtain a glimpse of the earth itself. This difficulty of direct vision
had troubled me more or less for the last forty-eight hours--but my
present enormous elevation brought closer together, as it were, the
floating bodies of vapor, and the inconvenience became, of course,
more and more palpable in proportion to my ascent. Nevertheless I
could easily perceive that the balloon now hovered above the range of
great lakes in the continent of North America, and was holding a
course due south which would soon bring me to the tropics. This
circumstance did not fail to give me the most heartfelt satisfaction,
and I hailed it as a happy omen of ultimate success. Indeed the
direction I had hitherto taken had filled me with uneasiness, for it
was evident that, had I continued it much longer, there would have
been no possibility of my arriving at the moon at all, whose orbit is
inclined to the ecliptic at only the small angle of 5°, 8', 48".

_April 9th_. To-day, the earth's diameter was greatly diminished, and
the color of the surface assumed hourly a deeper tint of yellow. The
balloon kept steadily on her course to the southward, and arrived at
nine P.M. over the northern edge of the Mexican gulf.

_April 10th_. I was suddenly aroused from slumber, about five o'clock
this morning, by a loud, crackling, and terrific sound, for which I
could in no manner account. It was of very brief duration, but, while
it lasted, resembled nothing in the world of which I had any previous
experience. It is needless to say, that I became excessively alarmed,
having, in the first instance, attributed the noise to the bursting of
the balloon. I examined all my apparatus, however, with great
attention, and could discover nothing out of order. Spent a great part
of the day in meditating upon an occurrence so extraordinary, but
could find no means whatever of accounting for it. Went to bed
dissatisfied, and in a pitiable state of anxiety and agitation.

_April 11th_. Found a startling diminution in the apparent diameter of
the earth, and a considerable increase, now observable for the first
time, in that of the moon itself, which wanted only a few days of
being full. It now required long and excessive labor to condense
within the chamber sufficient atmospheric air for the sustenance of
life.

_April 12th_. A singular alteration took place in regard to the
direction of the balloon, and although fully anticipated, afforded me
the most unequivocal delight. Having reached, in its former course,
about the twentieth parallel of southern latitude, it turned off
suddenly at an acute angle to the eastward, and thus proceeded
throughout the day, keeping nearly, if not altogether, _in the exact
plane of the lunar ellipse_. What was worthy of remark, a very
perceptible vacillation in the car was a consequence of this change of
route--a vacillation which prevailed, in a more or less degree, for a
period of many hours.

_April 13th_. Was again very much alarmed by a repetition of the loud,
crackling noise which terrified me on the tenth. Thought long upon the
subject, but was unable to form any satisfactory conclusion. Great
decrease in the earth's apparent diameter which now subtended from the
balloon an angle of very little more than twenty-five degrees. The
moon could not be seen at all, being nearly in my zenith. I still
continued in the plane of the ellipse, but made little progress to the
eastward.

_April 14th_. Extremely rapid decrease in the diameter of the earth.
To-day I became strongly impressed {578} with the idea, that the
balloon was now actually running up the line of apsides to the point
of perigee--in other words, holding the direct course which would
bring it immediately to the moon in that part of its orbit, the
nearest to the earth. The moon itself was directly over-head, and
consequently hidden from my view. Great and long-continued labor
necessary for the condensation of the atmosphere.

_April 15th_. Not even the outlines of continents and seas could now
be traced upon the earth with anything approaching to distinctness.
About twelve o'clock I became aware, for the third time, of that
unearthly and appalling sound which had so astonished me before. It
now, however, continued for some moments, and gathered horrible
intensity as it continued. At length, while stupified and
terror-stricken I stood in expectation of, I know not what hideous
destruction, the car vibrated with excessive violence, and a gigantic
and flaming mass of some material which I could not distinguish, came
with the voice of a thousand thunders, roaring and booming by the
balloon. When my fears and astonishment had in some degree subsided, I
had little difficulty in supposing it to be some mighty volcanic
fragment ejected from that world to which I was so rapidly
approaching, and, in all probability, one of that singular class of
substances occasionally picked up on the earth, and termed meteoric
stones for want of a better appellation.

_April 16th_. To-day, looking upwards as well as I could, through each
of the side windows alternately, I beheld, to my great delight, a very
small portion of the moon's disk protruding, as it were, on all sides
beyond the huge circumference of the balloon. My agitation was
extreme--for I had now little doubt of soon reaching the end of my
perilous voyage. Indeed the labor now required by the condenser had
increased to a most oppressive degree, and allowed me scarcely any
respite from exertion. Sleep was a matter nearly out of the question.
I became quite ill, and my frame trembled with exhaustion. It was
impossible that human nature could endure this state of intense
suffering much longer. During the now brief interval of darkness a
meteoric stone again passed in my vicinity, and the frequency of these
phenomena began to occasion me much anxiety and apprehension. The
consequence of a concussion with any one of them, would have been
inevitable destruction to me and my balloon.

_April 17th_. This morning proved an epoch in my voyage. It will be
remembered that, on the thirteenth, the earth subtended an angular
breadth of twenty-five degrees. On the fourteenth, this had greatly
diminished--on the fifteenth, a still more rapid decrease was
observable--and on retiring for the night of the sixteenth I had
noticed an angle of no more than about seven degrees and fifteen
minutes. What, therefore, must have been my amazement on awakening
from a brief and disturbed slumber on the morning of this day, the
seventeenth, at finding the surface beneath me so suddenly and
wonderfully _augmented_ in volume as to subtend no less than
thirty-nine degrees in apparent angular diameter! I was thunderstruck.
No words--no earthly expression can give any adequate idea of the
extreme--the absolute horror and astonishment with which I was seized,
possessed, and altogether overwhelmed. My knees tottered beneath
me--my teeth chattered--my hair started up on end. "The balloon then
had actually burst"--these were the first tumultuous ideas which
hurried through my mind--"the balloon had positively burst. I was
falling--falling--falling--with the most intense, the most impetuous,
the most unparalleled velocity. To judge from the immense distance
already so quickly passed over, it could not be more than ten minutes,
at the farthest, before I should meet the surface of the earth, and be
hurled into annihilation." But at length reflection came to my relief.
I paused--I considered--and I began to doubt. The matter was
impossible. I could not in any reason have so rapidly come down. There
was some mistake. Not the red thunderbolt itself could have so
impetuously descended. Besides, although I was evidently approaching
the surface below me, it was with a speed by no means commensurate
with the velocity I had at first so horribly conceived. This
consideration served to calm the perturbation of my mind, and I
finally succeeded in regarding the phenomenon in its proper point of
view. In fact amazement must have fairly deprived me of my senses when
I could not see the vast difference, in appearance, between the
surface below me, and the surface of my mother earth. The latter was
indeed over my head, and completely hidden by the balloon, while the
moon--the moon itself in all its glory--lay beneath me, and at my
feet.

The stupor and surprise produced in my mind by this extraordinary
change in the posture of affairs was perhaps, after all, that part of
the adventure least susceptible of explanation. For the
_bouleversement_ in itself was not only natural and inevitable, but
had been long actually anticipated as a circumstance to be expected
whenever I should arrive at that exact point of my voyage where the
attraction of the planet should be superseded by the attraction of the
satellite--or, more precisely, where the gravitation of the balloon
towards the earth should be less powerful than its gravitation towards
the moon. To be sure I arose from a sound slumber with all my senses
in confusion to the contemplation of a very startling phenomenon, and
one which, although expected, was not expected at the moment. The
revolution itself must, of course, have taken place in an easy and
gradual manner, and it is by no means clear that, had I even been
awake at the time of the occurrence, I should have been made aware of
it by any _internal_ evidence of an inversion--that is to say by any
inconvenience or disarrangement either about my person or about my
apparatus.

It is almost needless to say that upon coming to a due sense of my
situation, and emerging from the terror which had absorbed every
faculty of my soul, my attention was, in the first place, wholly
directed to the contemplation of the general physical appearance of
the moon. It lay beneath me like a chart, and although I judged it to
be still at no inconsiderable distance, the indentures of its surface
were defined to my vision with a most striking and altogether
unaccountable distinctness. The entire absence of ocean or sea, and
indeed of any lake or river, or body of water whatsoever, struck me,
at the first glance, as the most extraordinary feature in its
geological condition. Yet, strange to say! I beheld vast level regions
of a character decidedly alluvial--although by far the greater portion
of the hemisphere in sight was covered with innumerable volcanic {579}
mountains, conical in shape, and having more the appearance of
artificial than of natural protuberances. The highest among them does
not exceed three and three quarter miles in perpendicular
elevation--but a map of the volcanic districts of the Campi Phlegræi
would afford to your Excellencies a better idea of their general
surface than any unworthy description I might think proper to attempt.
The greater part of them were in a state of evident eruption, and gave
me fearfully to understand their fury and their power by the repeated
thunders of the miscalled meteoric stones which now rushed upwards by
the balloon with a frequency more and more appalling.

_April 18th_. To-day I found an enormous increase in the moon's
apparent bulk, and the evidently accelerated velocity of my descent
began to fill me with alarm. It will be remembered that, in the
earliest stage of my speculations upon the possibility of a passage to
the moon, the existence in its vicinity of an atmosphere dense in
proportion to the bulk of the planet had entered largely into my
calculations--this too in spite of many theories to the contrary, and,
it may be added, in spite of the positive evidence of our senses. Upon
the resistance, or more properly, upon the support of this atmosphere,
existing in the state of density imagined, I had, of course, entirely
depended for the safety of my ultimate descent. Should I then, after
all, prove to have been mistaken, I had in consequence nothing better
to expect as a _finale_ to my adventure than being dashed into atoms
against the rugged surface of the satellite. And indeed I had now
every reason to be terrified. My distance from the moon was
comparatively trifling, while the labor required by the condenser was
diminished not at all, and I could discover no indication whatever of
a decreasing rarity in the air.

_April 19th_. This morning, to my great joy, about nine o'clock, the
surface of the moon being frightfully near, and my apprehensions
excited to the utmost, the pump of my condenser at length gave evident
tokens of an alteration in the atmosphere. By ten I had reason to
believe its density considerably increased. By eleven very little
labor was necessary at the apparatus--and at twelve o'clock, with some
hesitation, I ventured to unscrew the tourniquet, when, finding no
inconvenience from having done so, I finally threw open the
gum-elastic chamber, and unrigged it from around the car. As might
have been expected, spasms and violent headach were the immediate
consequence of an experiment so precipitate and full of danger. But
these and other difficulties attending respiration, as they were by no
means so great as to put me in peril of my life, I determined to
endure as I best could, in consideration of my leaving them behind me
momentarily in my approach to the denser strata near the moon. This
approach, however, was still impetuous in the extreme, and it soon
became alarmingly certain that, although I had probably not been
deceived in the expectation of an atmosphere dense in proportion to
the mass of the satellite, still I had been wrong in supposing this
density, even at the surface, at all adequate to the support of the
great weight contained in the car of my balloon. Yet this _should_
have been the case, and in an equal degree as at the surface of the
earth, the actual gravity of bodies at either planet being in the
exact ratio of their atmospheric condensation. That it _was not_ the
case however my precipitous downfall gave testimony enough--why it was
not so, can only be explained by a reference to those possible
geological disturbances to which I have formerly alluded. At all
events I was now close upon the planet, and coming down with most
terrible impetuosity. I lost not a moment accordingly in throwing
overboard first my ballast, then my water-kegs, then my condensing
apparatus and gum-elastic chamber, and finally every individual
article within the car. But it was all to no purpose. I still fell
with horrible rapidity, and was now not more than half a mile at
farthest from the surface. As a last resource, therefore, having got
rid of my coat, hat, and boots, I cut loose from the balloon _the car
itself_, which was of no inconsiderable weight, and thus, clinging
with both hands to the hoop of the net-work, I had barely time to
observe that the whole country as far as the eye could reach was
thickly interspersed with diminutive habitations, ere I tumbled
headlong into the very heart of a fantastical-looking city, and into
the middle of a vast crowd of ugly little people, who none of them
uttered a single syllable, or gave themselves the least trouble to
render me assistance, but stood, like a parcel of idiots, grinning in
a ludicrous manner, and eyeing me and my balloon askant with their
arms set a-kimbo. I turned from them in contempt, and gazing upwards
at the earth so lately left, and left perhaps forever, beheld it like
a huge, dull, copper shield, about two degrees in diameter, fixed
immoveably in the heavens overhead, and tipped on one of its edges
with a crescent border of the most brilliant gold. No traces of land
or water could be discovered, and the whole was clouded with variable
spots, and belted with tropical and equatorial zones.

Thus, may it please your Excellencies, after a series of great
anxieties, unheard of dangers, and unparalleled escapes, I had, at
length, on the nineteenth day of my departure from Rotterdam, arrived
in safety at the conclusion of a voyage undoubtedly the most
extraordinary, and the most momentous ever accomplished, undertaken,
or conceived by any denizen of earth. But my adventures yet remain to
be related. And indeed your Excellencies may well imagine that after a
residence of five years upon a planet not only deeply interesting in
its own peculiar character, but rendered doubly so by its intimate
connection, in capacity of satellite, with the world inhabited by man,
I may have intelligence for the private ear of the States' College of
Astronomers of far more importance than the details, however
wonderful, of the mere _voyage_ which so happily concluded. This is,
in fact, the case. I have much--very much which it would give me the
greatest pleasure to communicate. I have much to say of the climate of
the planet--of its wonderful alternations of heat and cold--of
unmitigated and burning sunshine for one fortnight, and more than
polar severity of winter for the next--of a constant transfer of
moisture, by distillation _in vacuo_, from the point beneath the sun
to the point the farthest from it--of a variable zone of running
water--of the people themselves--of their manners, customs, and
political institutions--of their peculiar physical construction--of
their ugliness--of their want of ears, those useless appendages in an
atmosphere so peculiarly modified as to be insufficient for the
conveyance of any but the loudest sounds--of their consequent
ignorance of the use and properties of speech--of their substitute for
speech {580} in a singular method of inter-communication--of the
incomprehensible connection between each particular individual in the
moon, with some particular individual on the earth--a connection
analogous with, and depending upon that of the orbs of the planet and
the satellite, and by means of which the lives and destinies of the
inhabitants of the one are interwoven with the lives and destinies of
the inhabitants of the other--and above all, if it so please your
Excellencies, above all of these dark and hideous mysteries which lie
in the outer regions of the moon--regions which, owing to the almost
miraculous accordance of the satellite's rotation on its own axis with
its sideral revolution about the earth, have never yet been turned,
and, by God's mercy, never shall be turned to the scrutiny of the
telescopes of man. All this, and more--much more--would I most
willingly detail. But to be brief, I must have my reward. I am pining
for a return to my family and to my home: and as the price of any
farther communications on my part--in consideration of the light which
I have it in my power to throw upon many very important branches of
physical and metaphysical science--I must solicit, through the
influence of your honorable body, a pardon for the crime of which I
have been guilty in the death of the creditors upon my departure from
Rotterdam. This, then, is the object of the present paper. Its bearer,
an inhabitant of the moon, whom I have prevailed upon, and properly
instructed, to be my messenger to the earth, will await your
Excellencies' pleasure, and return to me with the pardon in question,
if it can, in any manner, be obtained.

I have the honor to be, &c. your Excellencies very humble servant,

HANS PHAALL.

Upon finishing the perusal of this very extraordinary document,
Professor Rub-a-dub, it is said, dropped his pipe upon the ground in
the extremity of his surprise, and Mynheer Superbus Von Underduk,
having taken off his spectacles, wiped them, and deposited them in his
pocket, so far forgot both himself and his dignity, as to turn round
three times upon his heel in the quintescence of astonishment and
admiration. There was no doubt about the matter--the pardon should be
obtained. So at least swore with a round oath, Professor Rub-a-dub,
and so finally thought the illustrious Von Underduk, as he took the
arm of his brother in science, and without saying a word, began to
make the best of his way home to deliberate upon the measures to be
adopted. Having reached the door, however, of the burgomaster's
dwelling, the Professor ventured to suggest, that as the messenger had
thought proper to disappear--no doubt frightened to death by the
savage appearance of the burghers of Rotterdam--the pardon would be of
little use, as no one but a man of the moon would undertake a voyage
to so horrible a distance. To the truth of this observation the
burgomaster assented, and the matter was therefore at an end. Not so,
however, rumors and speculations. The letter, having been published,
gave rise to a variety of gossip and opinion. Some of the overwise
even made themselves ridiculous, by decrying the whole business as
nothing better than a hoax. But hoax, with these sort of people, is, I
believe, a general term for all matters above their comprehension. For
my part I cannot conceive upon what data they have founded such an
accusation. Let us see what they say:

Imprimis. That certain wags in Rotterdam have certain especial
antipathies to certain burgomasters and astronomers.

Don't understand at all.

Secondly. That an odd little dwarf and bottle conjurer, both of whose
ears, for some misdemeanor, have been cut off close to his head, has
been missing for several days from the neighboring city of Bruges.

Well--what of that?

Thirdly. That the newspapers which were stuck all over the little
balloon were newspapers of Holland, and therefore could not have been
made in the moon. They were dirty papers--very dirty--and Gluck, the
printer, would take his bible oath to their having been printed in
Rotterdam.

He was mistaken--undoubtedly--mistaken.

Fourthly. That Hans Phaall himself, the drunken villain, and the three
very idle gentlemen styled his creditors, were all seen, no longer
than two or three days ago, in the tippling house in the suburbs,
having just returned, with money in their pockets, from a trip beyond
the sea.

Don't believe it--don't believe a word of it.

Lastly. That it is an opinion very generally received, or which ought
to be generally received, that the College of Astronomers in the city
of Rotterdam--as well as all other Colleges in all other parts of the
world--not to mention Colleges and Astronomers in general--are, to say
the least of the matter, not a whit better, nor greater, nor wiser
than they ought to be.

The d----l, you say! Now that's too bad. Why, hang the people, they
should be prosecuted for a libel. I tell you, gentlemen, you know
nothing about the business. You are ignorant of Astronomy--and of
things in general. The voyage was made--it was indeed--and made, too,
by Hans Phaall. I wonder, for my part, you do not perceive at once
that the letter--the document--is intrinsically--is astronomically
true--and that it carries upon its very face the evidence of its own
authenticity.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE SALE.

  It is the law throughout the Old Dominion,
  When some poor devil dies in peace or battle,
  The executor must be of the opinion
  His goods are perishing, and sell each chattel;
  Whatever treads on hoof, or flies on pinion--
  Hogs, horses, cows, and every sort of cattle--
  Cups, saucers, swingle trees and looking glasses--
  Ploughs, pots and pans, teakettles and jackasses.


A man who never quotes, it has been said, will in return never be
quoted. By way therefore of quoting, and at the same time of being
quoted, I have quoted a poem of my own, which "will never be
published," written in attempted imitation of Beppo, and describing a
sale in Virginia. Who has not seen something like the following
staring him in the face, on the side of a store or tavern, or upon the
post of a sign-board where several roads meet? "_I shel purceed to sel
to the highest bidder, on Saterday the 3d of Janewary next, at Blank,
all the housol and kitchen ferniter of the late David Double, Esq.
together with all the horses, muels, sheep and hoges. Cash on all sums
of five dollars and under, and a credit of twelve months on the
ballance. Bond with aproved sekurity will {581} be requierd_," _&c._
Such a notification as the above, which is copied verbatim et
spellatim, operates like an electric shock on a whole neighborhood in
that portion of the country in which I reside, especially upon that
part of the population which can least afford to buy bargains. The
temptation of long credit is too great to be resisted, although no
calculations of the ultimate ability to pay are ever made. The grand
desideratum is, to obtain the necessary security, and to purchase to a
greater amount than five dollars. I am myself infected by this
prevailing malady, and frequently buy what is of no manner of use to
me, simply because no cash is required, and bonds are hard to collect,
and suits may be put off by continuances, and matters of this sort
after all, may be settled by executors and administrators. Among the
rest therefore, on the day appointed by the aforesaid notification, I
mounted my horse, and sallied out upon the road leading to Blank, and
fell in with a large party going to the sale, principally managers, as
they call themselves now-a-days, on the neighboring estates. Formerly
they were yclept overseers, but the term is falling into disuse, as
conveying the idea of something derogatory. They were mounted in every
variety of style; there were long tails, and bob tails, and nicked
tails; and I saw at least one sheep skin saddle and grape vine bridle.
By the by, talking of grape vines, what a country ours is for this
invaluable article. Here is no need of hemp manufactories. Nature, in
her exuberant goodness, has supplied an abundance of primitive rope,
which is just as convenient and efficacious as the best cordage,
whether a man wants to hang himself or a dog--whether he wants a cap
for his fence, a backband for his plough-horse, a pair of leading
lines, or a girth for his saddle. Why should we be the advocates of a
tariff, when nature supplies us in peace or war with this and many
other articles of the first necessity, among which I once heard a
Chotanker enumerate _mint_. "Why," said he, "should we fear a
dissolution of the union, a separation of the north from the south,
when there is not a sprig of mint in all New England?" When this was
said, peradventure it might be true; but to my certain knowledge, at
this day the word julap is well understood much farther north than
Mason's and Dixon's line. Pardon me, reader, this digression--for I am
mounted to-day on a rough-going, headstrong animal, that will have his
own way, and wants to turn aside into every by-path which he sees, and
is as "_willyard a pony_" as that ridden by Dumbiedikes, when he
followed Jeanie Deans to lend her the purse of gold. But to return. I
cannot let this opportunity slip of singling out one of this group of
horsemen for description, that you may have a graphic sketch of the
sort of folks and horses that live hereabouts. Wert thou ever upon
Hoecake Ridge? and hast thou ever met in winter, a thorough bred
native of that region, mounted upon his little shaggy pony, "_skelping
on through dub and mire_," like Tam O'Shanter? Here he was to-day, in
his element, dressed in Nankin pantaloons and a thin cotton jacket,
and riding in the teeth of a strong northwester, singing "_Life let us
cherish_." His saddle had no skirts, having been robbed of those
useless appendages by some rogue who wanted a pair of brogues; his
bridle had as many knots as the sea serpent. But my business is not so
much with him as with his pony, whose head and neck may be aptly
represented by a maul and its handle. His tail is six inches long, and
standing at an angle of forty-five degrees with his back; his hair is
long and shaggy; he is cat-hammed, and his chest so narrow that his
fore legs almost touch one another; his eyes snap fire when you plague
him. You may talk of improving the breed of horses. Tell me not of
your Eclipses, your Henrys--of Arabians or Turks. They may be all very
well in their places, but this pony is the animal for my country. He
can bite the grass which is absolutely invisible to human eyes, and
subsist upon it. If you would give him six ears of corn twice a day,
he would be almost too fat to travel. He never stumbles. Give him the
rein, and he will pick his path as carefully as a lady. His powers of
endurance exceed the camel's. His master is a sot, and his horse will
stand all night at a tippling shop, gnawing a fence rail; he almost
prefers it to a corn-stalk which has been lying out all winter, his
common food. When his master comes forth and mounts, he studies
attitudes. If the rider reel to the right, the pony leans to the
starboard side; if to the left, he tacks to suit him. If the master
fall, he falls clear, having no girth to his saddle, and the pony does
not waste time in useless meditation upon accidents that will happen
to the best of us, but moves homeward with accelerated velocity,
leaping every obstacle in his way to his brush stable.

It was my good fortune to drop in alongside of the man who was mounted
upon this incomparable animal, and complimenting him upon his
philosophy in the selection of his song, and on the dexterity of his
horse, I soon found he was a great politician, and we chatted most
agreeably until our arrival at the place of sale. He was a violent
----, but not a word of politics; literature and politics are
different matters altogether. You may be a great politician, you know,
without a particle of literature. Politicians are the last people in
the world to bear a joke; and if I were even to glance at the
discourse of my neighbors, there are many who would not submit to this
interference with their exclusive business; they would see in it "more
devils than vast hell could hold." The world must therefore be content
to lose the humor of my singular acquaintance, as I cannot possibly do
justice to his conceptions without the mention of names. I shall die
though, unless I find some occasion of disclosing them; for old
Hardcastle's man Diggory was never more diverted at his story of the
grouse in the gun-room, than was I at the political conceits of my
Hoecake-ridger. Having arrived at Blank, we _hung_ our horses, as
Virginians always do after riding them, and entered the grounds before
a venerable looking building which had been completely embowelled, and
its contents were piled in promiscuous heaps in various parts of the
yard. Within the great house, as it is usually styled, was already
assembled around a blazing fire, a crowd of exceedingly noisy folks,
all talking at once, and nobody apparently listening. The names of our
leading men sounded on every side, and the Tower of Babel never
witnessed a greater confusion of tongues. For my own part, it always
makes me melancholy to contemplate this inroad of Goths and Vandals
upon apartments which were once perhaps so sacred, and kept in order
with such sedulous attention. It seems a profanation--a want of
respect for the recently dead, and a cruel outrage upon {582} the
feelings of the surviving family. Nothing escapes the prying eye of
curiosity--the rude footstep invades the very penetralia. The
household gods, the Dii Penates are all upturned; and mirth and
jesting reign amidst the precincts of woe. I felt like a jackal
tearing open the grave for my prey. The crier, the high priest of
these infernal orgies, now came forward with his badge of office, the
jug of whiskey, and announced that the sale would commence as soon as
he could wet his whistle, which he proceeded to do, and then began to
ply his customers. It is wonderful to think how much ingenuity has
been displayed in finding out metaphors to describe the detestable act
of tippling. The renowned biographer of Washington and Marion has
imbodied a number of these in one of his minor performances; but
several which I heard this day were new to me, and escaped his
researches; thus, I heard one upbraid another for being too fond of
"_tossing his head back_," while a third invited his companion to
"_rattle the stopper_"--and upon my taking a very moderate drink, and
so weak that a temperance man would scarcely have frowned upon me, I
was clapped on the back and jeered for my fondness of the creature,
since I was willing to swallow an ocean of water to get at a drop. In
a very short time the liquid fire of the Greeks ran through the veins
of the crowd, and they were quickly ripe for bidding--

  "Inspiring bold John Barleycorn,
   What dangers thou canst make us scorn;
   Wi' tippenny we fear nae evil--
   Wi' Usquebaugh we'll face the devil."

The "swats sae ream'd" in their noddles, that every thing sold at a
price far beyond its value, and our crier became so exceedingly
facetious, and cracked so many excellent ironical jokes, that it is a
pity they should be lost. Being unskilled however in stenography, I
could not take down his words, and only remember that every untrimmed
_old field_ colt was a regular descendant of Eclipse; the long nosed
hogs were unquestionably Parkinson; the sheep, Merinoes; the cattle
which were notoriously _all horn_, were short horns, &c. &c. They
seemed to me but a scurvy set of animals; but those who saw through a
_glass_ darkly, seemed to entertain a very different opinion. The
"mirth and fun grew fast and furious," "till first a caper sin
anither" "they lost their reason a' thegither," and the sale closed in
one wild uproarious scuffle for every thing at any price whatever.

It now became necessary to return home, an important consideration
which had been wholly overlooked; and the difficulty of mounting our
horses having been overcome after many trials, we began to "witch the
world with" feats of "noble horsemanship." Such "racing and chasing"
had not been seen since the days of Cannobie lea, and quizzing became
the order of the evening. Perceiving the mettlesome nature of my
steed, my friend the politician and philosopher, seemed resolved upon
unhorsing me, notwithstanding my entreaties that he would forbear; and
by dint of riding violently up to me, and shouting out at the top of
his voice, he so alarmed my nag, that he seized the bit between his
teeth, and away I flew, John Gilpin like, to the infinite amusement of
my persecutor, until I was safely deposited in a mud hole, near my own
gate, from whence I had to finish my journey on foot, and appear
before my helpmate in a condition that reflected greatly upon my
character. As a finale to this mortifying business, my purchases were
brought home the next day, and were most unceremoniously thrown out of
doors by my wife, as utterly useless, being literally sans eyes, sans
teeth, sans every thing; cracked pitchers, broken pots, spiders
without legs, jugs without handles, et id genus omne.

NUGATOR.




LITERARY NOTICES.


THE INFIDEL, or the Fall of Mexico, _a romance, by the author of
Calavar_. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard.

The second effort of the author of Calavar, gives us no reason for
revoking the favorable opinion which we expressed of his powers as a
writer of fictitious narrative, in noticing the first. On the
contrary, that opinion is confirmed and strengthened by a perusal of
the Infidel. It is a work of great power, and although, as was the
case with Calavar, it is chiefly occupied with the delineation of
scenes of slaughter and violence--with the stratagems of war--the
plots of conspirators--the stirring incidents of siege and sortie--and
the thrilling details of individual prowess or general onslaught--yet
it abounds in passages which give a pleasing relief to the almost too
frequently recurring incidents of peril and adventure. It is true that
this work does not possess, to by far the same extent, those
enchanting descriptions of natural scenery, which abounded in Calavar:
but the cause of this is probably to be found in the fact, that the
scene of action is the same in both works, and in a natural aversion
of the author to repeat his own pictures. Still, as a whole, we think
the Infidel fully equal to its predecessor, and in some respects
superior. The principal female character is drawn with far greater
vigor, than marked the heroine of Calavar, although the prominent
features in the sketch of the impassioned _Monjonaza_, are of a
masculine kind. She is indeed a most powerful and eccentric creation,
and adds much to the interest of the narrative. Still we think it
problematical whether the author is capable of success in a purely
feminine picture of female character. Zelahualla, the daughter of
Montezuma, a gentler being than La Monjonaza, does not give him a
claim to such a distinction, as she is brought forward but seldom, and
sustains no important part in the action of the drama.

The period at which the narrative of the Infidel commences, is a few
months after the disastrous retreat of the Spaniards from Mexico,
during the "Noche Triste," so powerfully described in Calavar. Cortes
had re-organized his forces, re-united his allies, and was preparing
for the siege of Mexico, now rendered strong in its defences by the
valor, enterprise and activity of the new emperor, Guatimozin. Tezcuco
is the scene of the earlier events, where Cortes was engaged in
completing his preparations, part of which consisted in the
construction of a fleet of brigantines, to command the sea of Anahuac,
and co-operate in the meditated attack upon the great city.

The hero of the story, Juan Lerma, a former protege of Cortes, but who
has fallen under his displeasure, is the pivot on which the main
interest of the work is made to turn. He is imprisoned, and ultimately
rescued by Guatimozin, who carries him to Mexico. The details of a
treasonable plot against the Captain General, headed by Villafana, one
of the most {583} complicated of villains, is skilfully interwoven
with this portion of the narrative. The mysterious _Monjonaza_ is also
a prominent character in the scenes at Tezcuco.

The action changes in the second volume to Mexico, where the
unfortunate Lerma is retained by the Emperor, who is described as
possessing all the noble virtues of christianity, although his pagan
faith gives the title to the book.

The details of the siege are given in the same powerful style as
characterised the combats in Calavar. Indeed it is in descriptions of
battles, that we think the author excels, and is transcendently
superior to any modern writer. When his armies meet, he causes us to
feel the shock, and to realize each turn of fortune by a minuteness of
description, which is never confused. When his heroes engage hand to
hand, we see each blow, each parry, each advantage, each vicissitude,
with a thrilling distinctness. The war cry is in our ears--the
flashing of steel--the muscular energy--the glowing eyes--the dilating
forms of the warriors, are before us. The effect of such delineations
it is difficult to describe; they arouse in us whatever of martial
fire we possess, until we feel like the war horse viewing a distant
combat, "who smelleth the battle afar off, the voice of the captains,
and the shouting." Another point of excellence in our author, is the
manner in which he paints to us the vastness of a barbarian multitude.
His descriptions of myriads, appeal to the sense with graphic effect.
Although we do not generally indulge in long extracts from works like
this, yet, as it is difficult otherwise to convey an idea of the
spirit with which such scenes are presented by the author, we take
from the second volume the description of the battle of the
ambuscades, the last successful struggle made by Guatimozin to repel
the besiegers, who had already hemmed in the city on the several
causeways, and mostly destroyed the water suburbs. The Mexicans, as a
part of their system of defence, had perforated the causeways at short
intervals, with deep ditches, which were conquered by the Spaniards,
one by one, after the most obstinate resistance. Cortes, with his
followers, on the occasion described, had forced one of the dikes, and
with his characteristic impetuosity, pursued the flying Mexicans into
the city, attended by about twenty horsemen only, the foot being far
in the rear. The enemy gave way with apparent signs of fear, which was
not habitual, and Cortes had already been advised that an ambuscade
was evidently contemplated; but the frenzy of battle made him deaf to
prudent counsel:


CHAP. XV, VOL. 2.

The horsemen pursued along the dike, spearing, or tumbling into the
water, the few who had the heart to resist; and so great was, or
seemed, the terror of the barbarians, that the victors penetrated even
within the limits of the island, until the turrets of houses, from
which they were separated only by the lateral canals, darkened them
with their shadows. Upon these were clustered many pagans, who shot at
them both arrows and darts, but with so little energy, that it seemed
as if despondence or fatuity had robbed them of their usual vigor.
Hence, the excited cavaliers gave them but little attention, not
doubting that they would be soon dislodged by the infantry. They were
even regardless of circumstances still more menacing; and if a
lethargy beset the infidel that day, it is equally certain that a
species of distraction overwhelmed the brains of the Spaniards. It
seemed as if the great object of their ambition depended more upon
their following the fugitives to the temple-square than upon any other
feat; and to this they encouraged one another with vivas and
invocations to the saints. They could already behold the huge bulk of
the pyramid, rising up at the distance of a mile, as if it shut up the
street; and its terraced sides, thronged with multitudes of men,
seemed to prove to them, that the frighted Mexicans were running to
their gods for protection. It is true, they perceived vast bodies of
infidels blocking up the avenue afar, as if to dispute their passage
beyond the canalled portion of the island; but they regarded them with
scorn.

They rushed onwards, occasionally arrested by some flying group, but
only for a moment.

There was a place, not far within the limits of the island, where they
found the causeway, for the space of at least sixty paces, so delved
and pared away on either side, that it scarce afforded a passage for
two horsemen abreast. The device was of recent execution, for they
beheld the mattocks of laborers still sticking in the earth, as if
that moment abandoned. This circumstance, so strange, so novel, and so
ominious, it might be supposed, would have aroused them to suspicion.
The passage, as it was, so contracted, broken, and rugged, looked
prodigiously like the Al-Sirat, or bridge to paradise of the
Mussulmans,--that arch, narrow as the thread of a famished spider,
over which it is so much easier to be precipitated than to pass with
safety. Yet grim and threatening as it was, there was but one among
the cavaliers who raised a voice of warning. As the Captain-General,
without a moment's hesitation, pushed his horse forward, to lead the
way, and without a single expression of surprise, the ancient hidalgo,
who had twice before sounded a note of alarm, now exclaimed,--

"For the love of heaven, pause, señor! This is a trap that will
destroy us."

"Art thou afraid, Alderete?" cried Cortes, looking back to him,
grimly. "This is no place for a King's Treasurer," (such was Alderete,
the royal Contador.)--"Get thee back, then, to the first ditch, and
fill it up to thy liking. _This_ will be charge enough for a
volunteer."

"I will fight where thou wilt, when thou wilt, and as boldly as thou
wilt," said the indignant cavalier; "but here play the madman no
longer."

"I will take thy counsel,--rest where I am,--and, in an hour's time,
see myself shut out from the city by a ditch, sixty yards wide! God's
benison upon thy long beard! and mayst thou be wiser. Forward,
friends! Do you not see? the knaves are running amain to check us, and
recover their unfinished gap! On! courage, and on! Santiago and at
them!"

It was indeed as Cortes said. The infidels, who blocked up the streets
afar, were now seen running towards them, with the most terrific
yells, as if to seize, before it was too late, a pass so easily
maintained. The cavaliers, animated by the words of their leader, were
quite as resolute to disappoint them, and therefore rode across as
rapidly as they could. The pass was not only narrow, but tortuous and
irregular; which increased the difficulties of surmounting it; so that
the Mexicans, running with the most frantic speed, were within a
bowshot, before Cortes had spurred his steed upon the broader portion
of the dike. But, as if there were something dreadful to the infidels,
in the spectacle of the great Teuctli of the East, thus again in their
stronghold, they came to a sudden halt, and testified their valor only
by yelling, and waving their spears and banners.

"Courage, friends, and quick!" cried Cortes. "The dogs are beset with
fear, and will not face us. Ye shall hear other yells in a moment.
Haste, valiant cavaliers! haste, men of Spain! and make room for the
footmen, who are behind you."

The screams of the barbarians were loud and incessant; but in the
midst of the din, as he turned to cheer his cavaliers over the broken
passage, Don Hernan's ears were struck by the sound of a Christian
voice, {584} calling from the midst of the pagans, with thrilling
vehemence.

"Beware! beware! Back to the causey! Beware!"

"Hark!" cried Alderete, who had already passed; "Our Saint calls to
us! Let us return!"

"It is a trick of the fiend!" exclaimed Cortes, in evident
perturbation of mind. "Come on, good friends, and let us seize
vantage-ground; or the dogs will drive us, singly, into the ditches."

"Back! back!" shouted the cavaliers behind--"We are ambushed! We are
surrounded!"

Their further exclamations were lost in a tempest of discordant
shrieks, coming from the front and the rear, from the heavens above,
and, as they almost fancied, from the earth beneath. They looked
northward, towards the pyramid,--the whole broad street was filled
with barbarians, rushing towards them with screams of anticipated
triumph; they looked back to the lake,--the causeway was swarming with
armed men, who seemed to have sprung from the waters; to either side,
and beheld the canals of the intersecting streets lashed into foam by
myriads of paddles; while, at the same moment, the few pagans, who had
annoyed them from the housetops, appeared transformed, by the same
spell of enchantment, into hosts innumerable, with spirits all of fury
and flame.

"What says the king of Castile? What says the king of Castile _now_?"
roared the exulting infidels.

"Santiago! and God be with us!" exclaimed Cortes, waving his hand,
with a signal for retreat, that came too late: "Cross but this
devil-trap again, and--"

Before he could conclude the vain and useless order, the drum of the
emperor sounded upon the pyramid. It was an instrument of gigantic
size and horrible note, and was held in no little fear, especially
after the events of this day, by the Spaniards, who fabled that it was
covered with the skins of serpents. It was a fit companion for the
horn of Mexitli; which latter, however, being a sacred instrument, was
sounded only on the most urgent and solemn occasions.

The first tap,--or rather peal, for the sound came from the temple
more like the roll of thunder than of a drum,--was succeeded by yells
still more stunning; and while the cavaliers, retreating, struggled,
one by one, to recross the narrow pass, they were set upon with such
fury as left them but little hope of escape.

If the rashness of Cortes had brought his friends into this fatal
difficulty, he now seemed resolved to atone his fault, by securing
their retreat, even although at the expense of his life. It was in
vain that those few cavaliers who had succeeded in reaching him,
before the onslaught began, besought him to take his chance among
them, and recross, leaving them to cover his rear.

"Get ye over yourselves," he cried, with grim smiles, smiting away the
headmost of the assailants from the street: "If I have brought ye
among coals of fire, heaven forbid I should not broil a little in mine
own person. Quick, fools! over and hasten! over and quick! and by and
by I will follow you."

For a moment, it seemed as if the terror of his single arm would have
kept the barbarians at bay. But, waxing bolder, as they saw his
attendants dropping one by one away, they began to close upon him, and
his situation became exceedingly critical. He looked over his
shoulder, and perceived that his followers threaded their way along
the broken dike with less difficulty than he at first feared. The very
narrowness of the passage left but little foothold for the enemy; and
their attacks, being made principally from canoes, were not such as
wholly to dishearten a cavalier, whose steed was as strongly defended
by mail as his own body. Encouraged by this assurance, the
Captain-General still maintained his post, rushing ever and anon upon
the closing herds, and mowing right and left with his trusty blade,
while his gallant charger pawed down opposition with his hoofs. Thus
he fought, with the mad valor that made his enemies so often deem him
almost a demigod, until satisfied that his own attempt to cross the
pass could no longer embarrass the efforts of his followers. Then,
charging once more upon the pagans, and even with greater fury than
before, he wheeled round with unexpected rapidity, and uttering his
famous cry, "Santiago and at them!" dashed boldly at the passage.

Seven pagans sprang upon the path. They were armed like princes, and
the red fillets of the House of Darts waved among their sable locks.

"The Teuctli shall have the tribute of Mexico!" shouted one,
flourishing a battle-axe that seemed of weight sufficient, in his
brawny arm, to dash out the charger's brains at a blow. The words were
not understood by Cortes; but he recognized at once the visage of the
Lord of Death.

"I have thee, pagan!" he cried, striking at the bold barbarian. The
blow failed; for one of the others, springing at the charger's head
with unexampled audacity, seized him by the bridle, so that he reared
backwards, and thus foiled the aim of his rider. The next moment, the
Spanish steel fell upon the neck of the daring infidel, killing him on
the spot; yet not so instantaneously as to avert a disaster, which it
seemed the object of his fury to produce. His convulsive struggles, as
he clung, dying, to the rein, drove the steed off the narrow ledge;
and thus losing his foothold, the noble animal rolled over into the
deep canal, burying the Captain-General in the flood.

"The general! save the general!" shrieked the only Christian, who, in
this horrible melèe, (for the battle was now universal,) beheld the
condition of Cortes, and who, although on foot, and bristling with
arrows that had stuck fast in his cotton-armor, and resisted by other
weapons at every step, had yet the courage to run to the rescue. It
was Gaspar Olea. His visage was yet wan, and expressive of the unusual
horror preying upon his mind; yet he rushed forward, as if he had
never known a fear. He exalted his voice, while crying for assistance,
until it was heard far back upon the causeway; yet he reached the
place of Don Hernan's mischance alone. The scene was dreadful: the
nobles had flung themselves into the flood, and were dragging the
stunned and strangling hero from the steed, which lay upon its side on
the rugged and shelving edge of the dike, unable to arise, and
perishing with the most fearful struggles; while, all the time, the
elated infidels expressed their triumph with shouts of frantic joy.

"Courage, captain! be of good heart, señor!" exclaimed the Barba-Roxa,
striking down one of the captors at a single blow: "Courage! for we
have good help nigh," he continued, attacking a second with the same
success: "Courage, señor, courage!"

No Mexican helm of dried skins, and no breastplate of copper, could
resist the machete of a man like Gaspar. Yet his first success was
caused rather by the Mexicans being so intently occupied with their
captive, that they thought of nothing else, than by any miraculous
exertion of skill and prowess. He slew two, before they dreamed of
attack, and he mortally wounded a third, ere the others could turn to
drive him back. A fourth rushed upon him, before he could again lift
up his weapon, and grasping him in his arms, with the embrace of a
mountain bear, leaped with him into the canal.

There were now but two left in possession of Cortes; yet his
resistance even against these was ineffectual. His sword had dropped
from his hand; a violent blow had burst his helmet, and confounded his
brain; and he had been lifted from the water, already half suffocated.
Yet he struggled as he could, and catching one of his foes by the
throat, he succeeded in overturning him into the water, and there
grappled with him among the shallows. The remaining barbarian, yelling
for assistance, flung himself upon the pair; and though twenty
Spaniards, headed by Bernal Diaz and the hunchback, were now within
half as many paces, Cortes would have perished where he lay, had not
assistance arose from an unexpected quarter.

{585} Among the vast numbers who came crowding from the city over the
broken passage, were several who knew, by the cry of the seventh
noble, that Malintzin was in his hands; and they rushed forward, to
ensure his capture. The foremost and fleetest of these was
distinguished from the rest by a frame of towering height; and, had
there been a Spaniard by to notice him, would have been still more
remarkable from the fact, that he uttered all his cries in good,
expressive Castilian. He bore a Spanish weapon, too, and his first
act, as he flung himself into the ditch where Cortes was drowning, was
to strike it through the neck of the uppermost noble. His next was to
spurn the other from the breast of the general, whom he raised to his
feet, murmuring in his ear,

"Be of good heart, señor! for you are saved."

What more he would have said and done can only be imagined; for, at
that moment, the Barba-Roxa rushed out of the ditch, followed close at
hand by the hunchback, Bernal Diaz, and others, and seeing his
commander, as he thought, in the hands of a foeman, he lifted his good
sword once again, and smote him over the head, crying,

"Down, infidel dog! and _vive_ for Spain and our general!"

At this moment, there rushed up a crew of fresh combatants, Spaniards
from the rear and infidels from the front. But before they closed upon
him entirely, the Barba-Roxa caught sight of the man he had struck
down, and beheld, in his pale and quivering aspect, the features of
Juan Lerma.

The unhappy wretch, thus beholding the beloved youth, with his own
eyes, a leaguer and helpmate of the infidel, and punished to death, as
it seemed, by his hand, set up a scream wildly vehement, and broke
from the group of Spaniards, who now surrounded Cortes, endeavoring to
drag him in safety over the pass. The exile had been seen by others as
well as Gaspar, and many a ferocious cry of exultation burst from
their lips, as they saw him fall.

Meanwhile, Gaspar, distracted in mind, and dripping with blood, for he
had not escaped from the ditch and the fierce embrace of his fourth
antagonist, without many severe wounds, endeavored to retrace his
steps to the spot where Juan had followed. It was occupied by
infidels, who drove him into the ditch, where his legs were grasped by
a drowning Mexican, who raised himself a little from the water, and
displayed, between his neck and shoulder, a yawning chasm, rather than
a wound, from which the blood, at every panting expiration of breath,
rolled out hideously in froth and foam. It was the Lord of Death, thus
struck by Juan Lerma, as he lay upon the breast of Cortes, and now
perishing, but still like a warrior of the race of America. He
clambered up the body of Gaspar, for it could hardly be said, that he
rose upon his feet; and seeing that he grasped a Christian soldier, he
strove to utter once more a cry of battle. The blood foamed from his
lips, as from his wound; and his voice was lost in a suffocating
murmur. Yet, with his last expiring strength, he locked his arms round
the neck of the Spaniard, now almost as much spent as himself, and
falling backwards, and writhing together as they fell, they rolled off
into the deep water, where the salt and troubled flood wrapped them in
a winding-sheet, already spread over the bosoms of thousands.


There is another scene which we had marked for extracting, but which
our limits forbid inserting--a single combat on the stone of
Temalacatl--in which a Spanish prisoner, doomed to the gladiatorial
sacrifice, contends successfully against several antagonists. The
details of this barbarous ceremony, are full of interest. The prisoner
is bound by one foot to the stone of sacrifice, and if in this
condition he kill six Mexicans, he is liberated, and sent home with
honor; if he fail, he is doomed a sacrifice to the pagan deities. The
narrative of this combat, is given with remarkable spirit and
precision, and holds the reader in breathless excitement to the end.

The story closes as happily as could be expected from the nature of
its incidents. The fall of Mexico, and the humiliation of its heroic
emperor, excite a profound sympathy; and the death of Monjonaza, who
dies broken hearted upon discovering that Juan, of whom she is
passionately enamored, is her brother, throws a melancholy shade over
the brightening fortunes of the hero.

Some of the minor characters are drawn with a vigorous hand. The dog
Befo, is a powerful delineation of heroic fidelity, seldom equalled by
his superiors of the human race. Gaspar Olea, the Barba-Roxa, or red
haired, is a fine specimen of the bold, blunt, honest soldier; and
Bernal Diaz, (the historian of the Conquest,) though little
distinguished in the story, adds to its interest. The Lord of Death,
is a fine picture of the lofty race of barbarians, who spurned the
slavery of their foreign foe, and died in resisting it. Najara, the
hunchback and the cynic, is also a well drawn character.

The Infidel will, we doubt not, enjoy a popularity equal to that of
Calavar. It confirms public opinion as to the abilities of the author,
who has suddenly taken a proud station in the van of American writers
of romance. He possesses a fertility of imagination rarely possessed
by his compeers. In many of their works, there is a paucity of events;
and incidents of small intrinsic importance, are wrought up by the
skill of the writer so as to give a factitious interest to a very
threadbare collection of facts. Great ability may be displayed in this
manner; but our author seems to find no such exertion necessary. The
fertility of his imagination displays itself in the constant
recurrence of dramatic situations, striking incidents and stirring
adventures; so much so, that the interest of the reader, in following
his characters through the mazes of perils and enterprizes,
vicissitudes and escapes, which they encounter, is often painfully
excited. If this be a fault, it is one which is creditable to the
powers of the author, and indicates an exuberance of invention, which
will bear him through a long course of literary exertions, and insure
to him great favor with the votaries of romance.

Thera are some minor faults which might be noticed. As an instance,
the author habitually uses the word "_working_" in describing the
convulsions of the countenance, under the influence of strong
passions: as, "his _working_ and agonized visage"--"his face _worked_
convulsively," &c. Although Sir Walter Scott is authority for the use
of the word in this manner, we have always considered it a decided
inelegance. But such blemishes cannot seriously detract from the
enduring excellence of the work.

       *       *       *       *       *

AN ADDRESS, delivered at his inauguration as President of Washington
College, Lexington, Virginia, Feb. 21, 1835, by Henry Vethake.

We have read this address with unmingled pleasure. It is replete with
strong _common sense_, and that quality is rarely much exercised in
discussions of the subject of education. The opinions of President
Vethake seem to us sound and practical: he has a full sense of the
errors in the systems of instruction, which have prevailed too long in
many of our institutions; and suggests {586} alterations in the modes
of teaching, which seem to us both practicable, and promising great
benefits. We are constrained by the pressure of other matters, to
confine ourselves to a brief notice of this address, and to curtail
our extracts from its pages. The following strictures upon the old
system of imparting information to students, will, we believe, be
recognized as just and sensible, by every one who has reflected on the
subject. Although these remarks are intended by the orator to refer to
college exercises only, they apply with equal force to the faulty
system of teaching pursued by nine-tenths of the conductors of our
primary and elementary schools, at which the pupils are, in most
cases, severely drilled in the study of mere _words_, while no
corresponding knowledge of the _things_ of which they are the symbols,
is imparted by the teacher, who makes no effort to awaken the mental
energies of the pupil; but is fully satisfied if he cultivate the
_memory_, though the _mind_ remain waste and uninformed. But to our
extract:


"The error is an egregious one, which leads a student to suppose that
his proper business is to store his mind as industriously as he can
with the facts previously observed, and the opinions previously held,
by others who lived before him. Its natural effect will be to deaden
all originality of thought, and to degrade the individual, thus led
astray, to a low rank in the scale of intelligence, when compared with
that to which he would have entitled himself, with more correct ideas
of the nature of education. The memory may have been cultivated to a
considerable extent; imagination, and the reasoning power, will have
remained nearly dormant. But this is not all. The individual in
question will not even have acquired the ability to communicate what
he has learned to others. To do so with clearness and order, is by no
means always an easy matter; and it is one to which he has directed no
portion of his attention, his mind having been exclusively occupied in
passively receiving knowledge. And it may be added, that, although it
should be conceded, that by pursuing the method of education against
which my remarks are at present pointed, a greater amount of mere
extraneous information can be acquired, yet this will generally be
found to be true only for a comparatively short period. Those facts
and opinions of which we read, that do not become the subjects of
subsequent comparison and reflection, have, as it were, only a loose
connection with our understandings, and, sooner or later, and
sometimes very speedily, pass into oblivion. Hence it will be found
that, if we have regard rather to the usefulness of manhood than to
the display to be made by the youth of a college at an examination, as
this is ordinarily conducted, the most effectual method even of
storing the mind with what other men have observed and thought, is to
regard the communication of knowledge to the student as altogether
accessary to the great object of disciplining his mind, and of
properly developing his various intellectual faculties. And not only
will that individual, whose faculties have been most advantageously
excited, be ultimately possessed of the greatest amount and range of
information, but he will far surpass his competitors in the race of
life, in the art of communicating, and, at proper times and places,
displaying that information. He will also come to possess a capacity
for attaining a still further measure of knowledge, whenever he may
desire to do so, upon any subject that excites a particular interest
in him, to which the man of mere memory is a total stranger.

"It is sufficiently to be lamented, that the student should
occasionally fall of his own accord into the error I have been
considering: but it is lamentable in a far greater degree, when his
propensity to do so is encouraged by the faulty system of instruction
pursued by his teacher. The young men in our colleges, have been, and
still are, too frequently taught in a manner to operate thus
injuriously. I refer, more particularly, to the practice of hearing
them recite, on almost every subject, the contents, and the precise
contents, of certain text books, with little or no accompanying
comment, excepting what may be absolutely necessary for enabling them
to comprehend the meaning of the work recited. In this manner of
instruction, it is not geometry, or the spirit of geometry, that is
acquired by the student, but what it is that Euclid, or Legendre, has
delivered concerning geometry. It is not the philosophy of the human
mind with which he is made acquainted; it is only the system of some
distinguished author--be it that of Locke, or Reid, or Brown. It is
true that we may easily conceive the reciting of a text book to be
accompanied by an enlightened commentary on the part of the
instructor, calculated to liberate the mind of the student from all
undue subjection to the opinions, and to the peculiar classifications
and modes of expression, of the author. We may, indeed, conceive the
instructor to superadd every possible contrivance which is fitted to
awaken in the mind of his pupils a spirit of independent inquiry.
Still the _tendency_ of the system is to degenerate into the mere
recitation of the contents of the text book."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Another reason why young men in our colleges are tempted to neglect
the general cultivation of their minds, and to devote their whole
study to the storing of their memories with the contents of the text
books put into their hands, is that their comparative scholarship is
very apt to be estimated by their instructors, not so much by the
nature of the questions which they are able to answer correctly, and
by the amount of thinking and originality displayed, as by the
promptitude and fluency with which they can repeat what they have
servilely learned. I have been told by more individuals than one, and
by graduates of more institutions than one, that on discovering, while
at college, the fact to be as I have just stated, and being anxious
that the best account of them should go to their friends, from their
professors, they at once resolved to subject themselves to the
drudgery of committing the author they were appointed to study
verbatim to memory, and that, by so doing, they did not fail to secure
the object they had in view. The persons of whom I speak, were young
men of talent, as well as ambitious of immediate distinction. Had
their minds at the time been sufficiently matured to have adequately
appreciated the uselessness and the folly of this method of study,
without at the same time being matured enough to adopt, of their own
suggestion, a more efficient and rational method, and had they been
less influenced by present rewards, without as yet aspiring to the
more substantial rewards of a future reputation among men, or without
the loftier stimulant of duty, they might have become, like others
among their fellow students, altogether negligent of their
improvement, and perhaps have contracted the most ruinous habits. It
is to the system of education, upon which I am animadverting, together
with the mistakes made by the members of a college faculty, in
deciding on the comparative scholarship of the students--which
mistakes the latter are competent to judge of, with a good deal of
accuracy--that the anomaly, so often remarked, of a young man's
relative _standing_ while in college, being so often but little
indicative of his future standing in the world, is to be ascribed; and
the explanation is likewise manifest why some individuals of peculiar
energy of character, after wasting their time in almost complete
idleness while at college, astonish their friends nevertheless, by the
intellectual exertions of which they shew themselves to be capable,
when an adequate motive is presented for exerting their energies. This
solves the mystery too, why so many _self-taught_ men, have, in
despite of the disadvantages under which they labored, surpassed the
graduates of colleges in usefulness and reputation; every acquisition
made by a self-taught man, in consequence of the very difficulty of
making it, being accompanied by a contemporary {587} sharpening of his
intellect, which the passive recipient of another's knowledge never
experiences."


Of his suggestions for the remedy of this evil, we have room only for
the following passage:


"The practical question now presents itself--what is the proper remedy
for the evils that have been described? Are we to rest satisfied with
the efficiency of our colleges and universities being rendered wholly
dependent on the accident, as it may be called, of the instructors
proving themselves, upon trial, to be possessed of intellectual powers
of the highest, or at least of a very high order, that is, of powers
which will exert themselves, and produce their proper fruit, under
almost any circumstances whatever, of disadvantage? Or shall we
abandon our institutions of learning, where these disadvantageous
circumstances have hitherto been permitted to exist, and have afforded
an opportunity to unskilful and indolent teachers to nip the evolving
faculties of youth in the bud? We are, fortunately, not limited to a
selection of either of these modes of proceeding. As a remedy for the
evils described, the professors, in every department of instruction
admitting of it, should, in my opinion, be obliged to prepare courses
of _lectures_ to the students. This would necessarily compel them to
digest a system of knowledge for themselves, possessing more or less
of originality in respect to thought or arrangement, of matter or of
manner, according to the ability of the writer or speaker. Even if the
lectures were only compilations from the writings of others, or should
possess far inferior merit to various works on the same subject, that
might be put into the hands of the student, the fitness of the
professor to teach, will be greatly augmented, both because his
information on the branch of instruction confided to him, will, in the
preparation of his lectures, have become much more extensive, and
because what he knows will be much more methodically arranged, than
before. Those works, besides, which are supposed to be of greater
value than the professor's lectures, are still as accessible as ever
to the students; and the improvement of their instructor can surely in
no wise interfere with the benefit to be derived by them from the
perusal of the works of others."

       *       *       *       *       *

A HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES, from the Discovery of the American
Continent to the present time; by George Bancroft. Vol. 1. pp. 508.
Boston: Charles Bowen. London: R. J. Kennett.

The interest we have felt in this work, is the true cause of our
seeming neglect of it. This may appear paradoxical, but is easily
explained.

In taking up the book, we naturally turned to that part of which we
knew most, and in which we took the greatest interest. There was
always something in the early history of Virginia on which we
delighted to dwell, and we promised ourselves great pleasure from the
contemplation of the character of our forefathers, as we expected to
find it portrayed by a diligent historian, who had already acquired
the character of a fine writer.

We did indeed find what was intended to be a favorable account of our
ancestors. Yet we were disappointed. We found much of direct praise.
Yet we were disappointed. We ought perhaps to feel obliged, by Mr. B's
disposition to speak kindly of our forefathers, even while his
applauses grate upon our feelings. But we are unfortunately
constituted. What Mr. Bancroft gives as praise, we cannot accept as
praise; and, what is worse, we cannot help suspecting, in all such
cases, that a sneer, or something more mischievous, is intended.

Sterne, in his Sentimental Journey, tells us, that when on his way
from Calais to Paris, he accidentally disclosed to his Landlord and
Valet de Chambre, the astounding fact, that he had blundered into the
heart of France without a passport, the former fell back from him
three paces. At the same moment, his affectionate and grateful
servant, by a like instinctive impulse, advanced three paces towards
him.

The fall of Charles I, presented to his adherents a case somewhat
analogous. History tells us that they were variously affected by it.
Some fell back in dismay, while others found themselves drawn more
closely toward his exiled son. The former soon found that the
successful party had rewards in store for timely submission and
zealous service. The latter, driven from their last rallying point, by
the fatal battle of Worcester, did but _submit_, and that with
undisguised reluctance, to what was inevitable.

Mr. Bancroft seems to think he does honor to our ancestors, by
assigning them a place among the former. Now we had always supposed
that their true place was among the latter, and we had moreover a sort
of pride in so supposing. There are those who will say that there is
great arrogance in thus claiming for them a place among the generous
and brave and faithful. Others will call it folly to insist, _at this
day_, on their fidelity to a _king_, and especially to one who had
lost all means of rewarding, or even of using their zeal. We beg leave
to set off these imputations against each other. We beg to be allowed
to speak of our fathers as they were; and trust that one half of those
who shall cavil at the character we impute to them, will acquit us of
any very high presumption, when they see that we only claim for them
such qualities, as the other half say we ought to be ashamed of. If
the same individual is sometimes found assailing us, alternately on
both grounds, his consistency in so doing is his affair, not ours.

If we know anything (and we think we do) of the character of the early
settlers of Virginia, they were a chivalrous and generous race, ever
ready to resist the strong, to help the weak, to comfort the
afflicted, and to lift up the fallen. In this spirit they had
withstood the usurpation of Cromwell while resistance was practicable,
and, when driven from their native country, they had bent their steps
toward Virginia, as that part of the foreign dominions of England,
where the spirit of loyalty was strongest. We learn from Holmes, vol.
i. p. 315, that the population of Virginia increased about fifty per
cent. during the troubles. The newcomers were loyalists, who were
added to a population already loyal. Could _they_, without dishonor,
have been hearty in favor of the new order of things? _They_ whose
principles had driven them into exile? _They_ who, had they remained,
would have fought and fallen with Montrose?

The historical compends with which our youth was familiar, had taught
us to form this estimate of the early settlers of Virginia; and we had
the more faith in it, because it accords with the hereditary
prejudices and prepossessions of the present day. It accounts too, for
those peculiarities which, at this moment, form the distinctive
features of the Virginian character. It is unique. Whether for better
or worse, it differs essentially from that of every other people under
the sun. How long it shall be before the "_march of mind_," as it is
called, in its Juggernaut car, shall pass over us, and {588} crush and
obliterate every trace of what our ancestors were, and what we
ourselves have been, is hard to say. It may postpone that evil day, to
resist any attempt to impress us with false notions of our early
history, and the character of our ancestors.

We had never looked narrowly into the contemporary authority for the
traditions and histories that have come down to us. Mr. Bancroft's
account of the matter has led us to do so. Hence our delay to notice
his work. Our research has been rewarded by the pleasure of finding
full confirmation of all our preconceived notions.

The point in contest between Mr. Bancroft and the received histories
is this:

The histories represent Virginia as having been loyal to the last; as
having stood in support of the title of Charles II, after every other
part of the British dominions had submitted to Cromwell, and as having
been the first to renounce the authority of the protector, _and return
to their allegiance_. All this Mr. Bancroft denies; and all this,
except the last proposition, (that in italics) we affirm. In proof, we
appeal to the very authorities on which Mr. Bancroft relies.

Indeed, we are at a loss to know how he himself escaped the conclusion
against which he protests so strongly. It may not be true that Charles
II was proclaimed in Virginia, as Robertson says, before he had been
recognized in England. Mr. Hening (1 Sts. at Large, p. 529, quoted by
Bancroft) may be right, when he says, that, if such were the fact, the
public records should show it. But his book is full of proof that the
records are incomplete. Is there not such proof in this instance? Let
us examine.

The first act of the session of March 1660, assumes the supreme power.
The second appoints Sir William Berkeley governor, and prescribes that
he shall govern according to the "_auncient lawes_ of England, and the
established lawes" of Virginia. The third repeals all laws
inconsistent with "the power now established;" and the fourth makes it
penal to "say or act anything in derogation" of the government thus
established.

Here is evidence enough of a _new order_ of things, and yet it is not
so very clear what that new order was. Hening says (_ubi supra_) that
Berkeley was elected _just as Mathews had been_. Wherein then was the
innovation? The recital in the preamble of the act last quoted, (1
Hen. Sts. p. 531) may give a clue to this.

It is there set forth that "it hath been thought necessary and
convenient by the present Burgesses of this Assembly, the
representatives of the people, _during the time of these
distractions_, to take the government into their own power, with the
conduct of the _auncient lawes_ of England, till such _lawfull_
commission or commissions appear to us, _as wee may_ DUTIFULLY _submit
to, according as by_ DECLARATION SET FORTH BY US _doth_ MORE AMPLY
_appeare_."

Now where is this MORE AMPLE DECLARATION, concerning their idea of
such a commission as they might DUTIFULLY submit to? Is not here an
_hiatus valde deflendus_? Yet such are the tattered manuscripts from
which Mr. Hening's compilation is made, that the loss of the whole or
a part of any document is quite common.

Enough appears, however, to show that this declaration did not amount
to a recognition of Charles as king _de facto_; because the above
mentioned Act I, directs that all writs shall issue in the name of the
assembly. But it is equally clear that he was, _at least tacitly_,
acknowledged as king _de jure_; that the government was established
provisionally, and subject to his pleasure; and that the power assumed
was held FOR HIM.

Now when we consider these things; when we find Robertson, on the
authority of _Beverley_ and _Chalmers_, saying that "as Sir William
Berkeley refused to act under an usurped authority, they (the
assembly) boldly erected the royal standard, and acknowledging Charles
II to be their lawful sovereign, proclaimed him with all his titles;"
we may doubt the accuracy of the statement, _in extenso_, but we
cannot agree that even _that_ statement shall be stigmatized as a
fiction.

Mr. Hening tells us (1 Sts. p. 513) that Beverley was near the scene
of action, and wonders that he should have _misunderstood_ or
_misrepresented_. Wonderful indeed it _would_ have been; for in March
1662, we find him clerk to the House of Burgesses. See 2 Hen. Sts. p.
162. We find too, in the same volume, p. 544, that Berkeley refused to
act without the advice of the council; that on receiving this he
agreed to act, and that "HIS _declaration_ TO BE governor (not the act
electing him) were PROCLAIMED by order of the assembly." Berkeley (be
it remembered) was the last royal governor, and his commission had
never been revoked, his election is not for any specific term, and the
act is accompanied with a condition that he shall call an assembly at
least once in _every two years_. How is this, if he was only elected
to fill the vacancy occasioned by the death of Mathews, who, just one
year before, had been elected _to serve two years_. Is not Berkeley in
of his old commission?

But of the loyalty of Virginia there can be no doubt. That this was in
no wise abated by the fall of Charles I, and the exile of his son, is
equally certain. The act, passed immediately after, making it high
treason to justify the murder of the one, or to deny the title of the
other, puts that out of dispute. They certainly did not stand out,
when the battle of Dunbar and the fall of Montrose had left the loyal
party without hope either in England or Scotland. But look at the very
act of surrender. Study its terms, and see the temper displayed there.
Do they acknowledge the _authority_ of parliament or protector? No:
they do but _submit_ to power. There is no profession of allegiance,
nor was any oath of allegiance ever administered during the
commonwealth. They engage indeed so to administer their power as not
to contravene "the government of the commonwealth of England, and the
lawes there established." But this was a proceeding which a respect
for _private rights_ required. They stipulate moreover, that Virginia
shall enjoy as free a trade as England herself, and put an end to all
the authority of commissions from England. It was by such commissions
that the king had governed. That "government by commissions and
instructions" is declared to be for the future "null and void." The
usurper had clutched the sceptre of the king of _England_. That of the
king of _Virginia_ he was not allowed to touch. Accordingly no more
commissions came from England. We hear no more of them until the
election of Berkeley. We are then told that the government is
provisional, and only to endure until a _lawful commission_ shall
appear. What {589} commission? Whose? The protector's? The
parliament's? No. The act of surrender (1 Hen. St. p. 363) had
abolished them. But it had not abolished the rights of the king; and
the power of the assembly and governor is thus made to wait on them.

Strange as it may seem, the act of surrender contains no word
recognizing the rightful authority of the parliament, nor impeaching
that of the king. On the contrary, as if to exclude any such idea,
this remarkable clause is inserted:

"That there be one sent _home_, at the present governor's choice, to
give an accompt to HIS MA'TIE, of the surrender of HIS _countrey_."

_Home!_ There is a simple pathos in the use of this word here, which
speaks volumes to the heart. None can feel more deeply than we do, how
utterly unworthy of this steady and passionate loyalty, was the wretch
who was its object. But they knew not his faults. They only knew him
in his lineage and his misfortunes; and though he had no place to lay
his head, yet wherever their messenger might find the outcast, there
was the home of their hearts. We mean nothing profane. God forbid! But
we cannot help being reminded of the weak warm-hearted boy, who stood
by his master's cross, and gazed with looks of love upon his dying
face, when the stronger and bolder of his followers had "forsaken him
and fled." We are more proud to be descended from the men who stood
forward in the business of that day, than we should be to trace
ourselves to Adam, through all the most politic and prudent
self-seekers that the world has ever seen.

But to return to Mr. Bancroft. Affairs being thus settled, things went
on quite peaceably; and he hence infers that the Virginians were
entirely reconciled to Cromwell and his parliament. Moreover, he finds
them claiming the supreme power, as residing in the colonial
legislature; and from this he most strangely infers a loyalty to the
parliament, the model of which he represents them as so eager to copy.
Now Mr. Bancroft himself tells us (p. 170) that as early as 1619,
Virginia first set _the world_ the example of equal representation.
From that time they held that the supreme power was in the hands of
the colonial parliament, then established, and the king as king of
Virginia. Now the authority of the king being at an end, and no
successor being acknowledged, it followed as _a corollary from their
principles_ that no power remained but that of the assembly; _and so
they say_. Does this look like a recognition of Cromwell and his
parliament, or the reverse?

But Mr. Bancroft seems to think that Virginia could not have failed to
be weaned from her attachment to the king, and won over to Cromwell
and his parliament, by the magnanimity and justice of their
proceedings. He adverts to the article in the treaty of surrender, by
which Virginia had stipulated for a trade as free as that of England,
and assures us that "its terms _were faithfully observed till the
restoration_." (p. 241.) He adds at p. 246, that "the navigation act
of Cromwell was not designed for the oppression of Virginia, and _was
not enforced within her borders_." Hence he says (p. 241) that the
pictures drawn by Beverley, Chalmers, Robertson, Marshall, and Holmes,
of the discontent produced by commercial oppression, are all "pure
fiction."

Now what says the reader to the following extract from a memorial on
behalf of the trade of Virginia, laid before Cromwell in 1656?

"What encouragement the poor planter has had to sweeten his labor,
since the Dutch were excluded trade, appears by the _general
complaint_ of them all, that they are the merchant's slaves, who will
allow them scarce a half-penny a pound for their tobacco. Beside that,
since the Dutch trade was prohibited, till this year there has been a
great deal of their tobacco left behind for want of fraught, and
spoiled, to the almost undoing of divers of them." ... "This is an
inconveniency which has attended _that act for navigation_," "but
unless it be _a little_ dispensed withal, it will undoubtedly ruin
part of the trade it was intended to advance. 'Tis true the people of
themselves, some of them at least, have this year endeavored their own
relief by _secret trade with the Dutch_," &c. &c.

Is not this decisive? If it does not prove the fact, it at least
proves the complaint. Mr. Bancroft denies both. Perhaps this paper is
a forgery. Perhaps Mr. Bancroft never saw it. YES HE DID. It is the
same paper to which he refers at p. 247, note 2, in the very paragraph
in which he says that Cromwell's navigation act was not designed for,
nor enforced in Virginia. Mr. B. indeed says "the war between England
and Holland necessarily interrupted the intercourse of the Dutch with
the English colonies." But this memorial is of the year 1656, and
peace had been concluded April 15, 1654.

Robertson speaks of the colonial governors during the interregnum, as
having been _named_ (that is his word) by Cromwell. This is roundly
denied. On what authority? None. The election proves nothing
certainly. It might have been a mere form, though it was probably
something more. But what was easier than a recommendation which it
would be perhaps best to conform to? How often was the speaker of the
house of commons so chosen in England?

Mr. Bancroft's view of this matter stands thus: Virginia elected her
own governors. Bennett, Digges, and Mathews, were commonwealth's men.
She freely chose them as governors. Ergo. She had gone over to the
commonwealth.

Now there is no proof of either of these propositions. We doubt both.
For if it were established that these gentlemen were, as we suspect,
forced on the colony, it would not be clear that they were therefore
commonwealth's men. We doubt very much whether any such were to be
found. They might have been the least violent among the royalists, and
therefore preferred.

Of Col. Bennett we know something traditionally. The idea that he was
a parliamentarian is new to us. We should require some better proof
than the Collections of the Massachusetts Historical Society. He was
indeed, one of the parliamentary commissioners at the time of the
surrender. So was Claiborne, a warm friend and favorite of Sir William
Berkeley, continued in his office of secretary of state, by the
legislature, at Berkeley's request, after his restoration. 1 Hen. Sts.
p. 547. Bennett himself retained his place at the council board, where
he still found himself, as before the restoration, in the company of
cavaliers, such as Morrison, Yardly, Ludlow, &c. &c.[1]

[Footnote 1: The characters and principles of these gentlemen may
throw some light on the subject. If we can ascertain those of the
members of the council, elected by the assembly, we shall have a clue
to the temper of the assembly itself. We may know the tree by its
fruit. If we find that body electing to a place in the council men of
very decided political character, we shall have a right to believe
that those associated with them by the vote of the same body were, at
least, not zealous members of the opposite party. In this case the
maxim "_noscitur a socio_," will surely apply. Let us see what lights
we can bring to bear on this subject.

In Churchill's voyages (vol. vi. p. 171) is "A Voyage to Virginia, by
Col. Norwood." He was a cavalier, and came over in company with
Francis Morrison, also a cavalier. Norwood was also a kinsman of
Berkeley. Arriving here, they found Sir Henry Chichely, Col. Yardly,
Wormely, and Ludlow, whom they recognized as old friends and
cavaliers.

Now in the council elected along with Bennett, immediately after the
surrender, we find two of these gentlemen, Yardly and Ludlow. The
latter had been a member of Berkeley's council that had concurred
(October 1649) in declaring it to be high treason to defend the
proceedings of parliament against Charles I, or to deny the title of
his son. West, the first named member of Bennett's council, had
occupied the same place in that of Berkeley. Pettus and Bernard were
also members of both. We might conjecture that they had dissented from
the act referred to, if we did not find them associated with Yardly
and Ludlow. We find too that Harwood, who had been speaker of the
assembly of October 1649, was also one of Bennett's council. The whole
number was thirteen, and here are six notorious royalists. Of what
complexion could the other seven have been? Two of them, Taylor and
Freeman, were members of the assembly of 1647, from two most loyal
counties.

In July, 1653, Col. Walter Chiles, who had been a member in October
1649, was speaker.

In November, 1654, Col. Edward Hill, another of them, was speaker. He
was in high favor after the restoration. He was transferred to the
council in 1655.

We find the name of Charles Norwood, as clerk of the assembly, from
that time.

In March, 1655, Col. Thomas Dew was a member of the council. He had
been speaker of the assembly in 1652, the first elected under Bennett.
_We know_ (we do not ask historians to tell us this) that he was a
loyal clansman, who was driven to Virginia by his hatred of the
usurpers, and to accommodate his name to English orthography, changed
the spelling from that of "Dhu"--since made familiar to all readers of
poetry--by Sir Walter Scott. He is now (in 1655) in the council,
making in that body seven known loyalists.

In the legislature of that year, we have the name of Sir Henry
Chichely.

In 1656, Col. Morrison (the companion of Ludlow's voyage) is speaker.

In the next assembly (1658) John Smith was speaker. We know nothing
certainly of him; but it was that assembly that deposed Mathews. They
gave him Berkeley's friend, Claiborne, as secretary of state; and for
councillors, among others, West, Pettus, Hill, Dew, and Bernard. They
made some changes, but turned out none of that party. At the same time
they introduced Col. John Carter, another of Norwood's friends. He had
been chairman of the committee, on the report of which the assembly
had just acted. Horsmenden, another of the same committee, was elected
to the council at the same time.

In March 1659, Hill, who had left his place in the council, is again
speaker. In March 1660, the assembly which reinstated Berkeley,
retained Bennett and five other of the old councillors, of whose
characters we have no other indication. These were Robins, Perry,
Walker, Read, and Wood. What they were may be inferred from this fact.
Morrison, moreover, was elected at the same time.

Can we believe, in the face of these facts, that the loyalty of
Virginia ever wavered? That it bowed before the storm we know. That
the assembly, in one instance, passed a vote of disfranchisement
against the author of a seditious paper, appears in 1 Hen. Sts. p.
380. But we also find that this vote was reversed _as soon as they
heard of the death of Oliver Cromwell_.]

{590} If then Bennett was, as we conjecture, recommended to the
assembly by the parliamentary commissioners, what induced them to
choose him? The answer is given by Mr. Bancroft at p. 241. He had
become obnoxious to Berkeley, and had been "compelled to quit
Virginia." For what does not appear. Hardly for disloyalty. In 1 Hen.
Sts. p. 235, we have his name and that of Mathews signed to a paper of
as enthusiastic loyalty as was ever penned, presented to the king
after his rupture with parliament.

But what reason have we for supposing this interference with the
freedom of election? We answer that our reasons are twofold.

1. The authority of Robertson, who relies on Beverley and Chalmers,
and doubtless consulted all the authorities he could find, is entitled
to some weight. Had he said the governors were _appointed_ by
Cromwell, we should know that he spoke at random. But his use of the
equivocal word "_named_," shows that he knew what he was talking
about, and considered what he was saying.

2. But in Hen. Sts. 499 to 505, is an evidence that we think
conclusive. Mathews took it into his head to dissolve the assembly.
They immediately voted the act a nullity, and civilly invited the
Governor to go on with the business. To this he assented, revoking the
order, but proposing to "referre the dispute of the power of
dissolving and the legality thereof to his Highnesse the Lord
Protector." This was in 1658, and the Lord Protector was then Richard
Cromwell, and not Oliver, under whom Mathews had been elected.

The house took fire immediately at this proposed appeal, and deposed
Mathews, and having solemnly declared the "power of government" to
reside in themselves, they _re-elect him_, saying that he is "BY US
invested" with the office.

Now what did this mean, if circumstances had not been such as justify
the notion entertained by Mathews that he derived his authority from
some other source, so as to have the right of dissolving the assembly.
Had there been no interference on the part of Cromwell, this whole
proceeding would have been idle and ridiculous. Yet it is obviously
the proceeding of men not disposed to trifle, and who well understood
what they were about.

Now compare this peremptory proceeding with that which took place soon
after on the death of Mathews. Richard Cromwell had then abdicated,
and there was therefore no shadow of authority in England to restrain
the action of the assembly. But what do they do? They elect Sir
William Berkeley _provisionally_, making the continuance of his
authority and their own to determine on the coming of a "lawful
commission." Now, _such commission_, as we have already shown, could
only come from the king; it was his plan of government; it had not
been practiced by the parliament; and the right to exercise it had
been denied to them and renounced by them. Does not this conduct of
the assembly show that they anticipated the restoration of one whose
right they had always maintained?

So far, we have done little more than to express our dissent from Mr.
Bancroft's conclusions. In a single instance, to which we have
adverted, he must be suspected of wilfully misrepresenting his
authorities. We allude to the memorial addressed to Cromwell in favor
of the trade of Virginia, of which he was certainly aware, and which
clearly disproves his own statement. Had this been the only instance
of the sort, we should have passed it over more lightly. But it does
not stand alone.

{591} His main drift, in his account of these transactions, seems to
be, to show that Virginia had taken the infection of Republicanism;
that she was effectually weaned from her allegiance; that she desired
nothing but to set up for herself; and that the use she proposed to
make of the abdication of Richard, and the consequent suspension of
executive power in England, was to establish the supremacy of her
legislature. In this view the assembly are represented as requiring of
Berkeley the distinct acknowledgment of their authority, which he, we
are told, recognized without a scruple. "I am" said he, "but the
servant of the assembly."

Now what will the reader say when he reads the passage from which
these words are copied. It runs thus:

"You desire me to do that concerning your titles and claims to land in
this northern part of America, which I am in no capacity to do; for I
am but the servant of the assembly: _neither do they arrogate to
themselves_ any power, farther than the miserable distractions in
England _force them to_. For when God shall be pleased to take away
and dissipate the unnatural divisions of their native country, _they
will immediately return to their professed obedience_."

Is this an assertion of the supremacy of the assembly? Is it not the
very reverse? He disclaims any power to act in a certain behalf. Why?
Because he is but the servant of the assembly; he has no power but
what is given by them, and _they do not pretend to have any such to
give_. On their principles, they could not. Looking for the
restoration, they expected "some commission" by which any authority
they could establish would be superseded; their provisional government
was the result of necessity, and its powers were limited to the nature
of that necessity. Every thing that could wait was made to wait.

What is the meaning of this strange attempt to pervert the truth of
history, and to represent Virginia as being as far gone in devotion to
the parliament as Massachusetts herself? Why does it come to us,
sweetened with the language of panegyric, from those who love us not,
and who habitually scoff at and deride us? Is it intended to dispose
us to acquiesce in the new notion, "that the people of the colonies,
all together, formed one body politic before the revolution?" Against
this proposition we feel bound to protest. We hold ourselves prepared
to maintain the negative against all comers and goers, with tongue and
pen; and to resist the practical results, if need be, with stronger
weapons. When Virginians shall learn to kiss the rod of power; to
desert their friends in trouble, and to take part with the strong
against the weak, it will then be in character to disparage the memory
of our forefathers, and to say, they were even such as ourselves. But
until we have done something to dishonor our lineage, let us speak of
them as they were,

             "Faithful among the faithless;
  Among the faithless, faithful only they."

We have said nothing of Mr. Bancroft's style. It is our duty as
critics to take some notice of it; and, we apprehend, he might think
himself wronged if we did not. He is obviously very proud of it; and,
in saying this, we fear we have condemned it. An ambitious style is
certainly not the style for history. To say nothing of the frequent
sacrifice of perspicuity to ornament, there is a tone in it which
excites distrust. We find ourselves, we know not how, diffident of
statements which come to us in the language of declamation, antithesis
and epigram.

In our boyhood Hume's history was put into our hands; and we remember
our surprise at hearing something said in praise of his style.
_Style!!_ Was that _style_? A plain story, told just as we should have
told it ourselves? Partridge would as soon have thought of admiring
Garrick's acting. The _king_ was the actor for his money, and Mr.
Bancroft's would _then_ have been the style for ours.

We have no doubt, for example, we should have been delighted with the
following passage, introduced into a description which closes the
author's remarks on the very question we have been discussing. We give
it for the benefit of any of our young friends, who may be preparing
an oration for the fourth of July. It would be nothing amiss, on such
an occasion, for a "moonish youth" not yet out of his first love
scrape. But from a grave historian, with a beard on his chin, we
cannot approve it. We give it as a sample. _Ex pede Herculem_. "The
humming-bird, so brilliant in its plumage, and so delicate in its
form, quick in motion, yet not fearing the presence of man, haunting
about the flowers, like the bee gathering honey, rebounding from the
blossoms out of which it sips the dew, and as soon returning" to renew
its many addresses to its delightful objects, "was ever admired as the
smallest and the most beautiful of the feathered race."

Alas! Alas! If this is the way to write history, we fear we shall have
to leave our northern neighbors to tell the story their own way. It is
a hard case. Let them write our books, and they become our masters.
But we cannot help ourselves. We cannot contend with those who can
write history in this style. Our only defence is not to read. A more
effectual security would be, not to buy. In that case they would not
write; and we should not only avoid being led into error, but might
escape the injury of being misrepresented to others. But Mr.
Bancroft's book is in print, and we must abide the mortification of
having all who may read it, think of our ancestors as he has
represented them. We have comfort in believing that they will not be
very numerous.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE WRITINGS OF GEORGE WASHINGTON; being his Correspondence,
Addresses, Messages, and other Papers, official and private, selected
and published from the original manuscripts; with a Life of the
Author, Notes and Illustrations; Vols. II, III, IV, V and VI; by Jared
Sparks.--Boston: Russell, Odiorne & Co.

We regret that we deferred our notice of the second and third volumes
of this interesting and valuable work, until the appearance of the
other three. It has now so grown on our hands, that it is impossible
to do justice to it in an article of any reasonable compass. Yet we
know few works that we would more strongly recommend to the public.

We have little curiosity to peep into dead men's port-folios, and
perhaps the world has seen few that would not suffer in reputation by
being tracked, through all their walk in life, by daily memoranda and
documentary evidence. The man whose history, under this searching
scrutiny, shows "no variableness nor shadow {592} of turning," most
differ very much from the multitude, even of those we call the great
and good. Nothing certainly can show a fuller and firmer consciousness
of rectitude of intention, than to begin life with a purpose of
leaving behind a full and fair account of it. Such memorials carefully
written out and preserved, like the books of a tradesman, bespeak a
steadiness of honesty, that never for a moment distrusts itself. Which
of us, commencing a diary, would feel sure that he might not do
something to-morrow that he would not choose to set down? Which of us
opening a letter book, which should exhibit his whole correspondence,
would not be tempted to leave out something?

Here is a man who chooses that his steps shall all be in the light. He
begins life, by laying down to himself rules of action and deportment.
He commits these to paper, and hands them down to posterity, with a
full register of all his acts and words and thoughts. The remarkable
modesty of General Washington, would alone prevent us from
understanding this as a challenge to the whole world, to compare his
principles, professions and actions throughout, defying any imputation
of inconsistency.

There is nothing more remarkable in this, than the evidence it affords
of the early consciousness of a something distinguishing him from
other men, which seems, most unaccountably, to have found its way into
his humble mind. It is the most striking instance on record of the
_instinct of greatness_. It is a study for the metaphysician and
philosopher. From the beginning, the work is done as if for posterity,
and executed as if intended for the eyes of the world. This in a boy,
who never made any ostentation of himself, his endowments, or his
actions; who formed a very humble estimate of his own powers, and
seemed through life to seek no reward but his own approbation, is one
of those strange phenomena which we refer to the influence of a
peculiar nature, acting by inscrutable impulses, of which the subject
of them is hardly conscious.

Did it occur to General Washington, even at that early age, that he
might be a father, and that his children might find an humble pride in
looking over the unspotted page of his unpretending life? Perhaps so.
Perhaps this thought was all that his young ambition (that passion
which humility itself cannot extinguish in the breast of greatness)
ventured to whisper to his heart. If so, the anticipation has been
nobly and mysteriously accomplished. Like the patriarch of old,
childish though he was, God has made him the father of nations; and it
should indeed be the pride of us his children, to read the history of
his life; to trace his steps; to study the system of moral discipline
by which he trained himself to greatness and virtue; to know him as he
was; and to mould ourselves by his precepts and example. No man ever
left to his posterity so rich a legacy as the extraordinary work
before us; and we owe many thanks to Mr. Sparks for the labor which
has prepared it for the public eye.

We really think that it is in this point of view that this work is
most interesting and valuable. Its importance as affording authentic
materials for what is _commonly called_ history, strikes us less
forcibly; though in this respect it must be highly useful. It
certainly affords the historian more satisfactory materials for his
work, than can be supplied from any other source, or for any other
portion of history. But what is that? What is history, for the most
part, but a narrative of events, the results of which cannot be
effected by our right or wrong apprehensions of them. What matters it
at this day, whether we believe that Cæsar killed Brutus, or Brutus
Cæsar? What will it concern posterity whether the glory of the field
of Waterloo belongs to Wellington or Blucher? But when will it be
otherwise than important and profitable to study the process by which
Washington became what he was? When will it cease to be a lesson of
wisdom, to look narrowly into the private and public history of the
most fortunate man that the world has ever seen, and observe that the
quality which most eminently distinguished him from other men, the
quality to which his success, his prosperity, his usefulness, and his
imperishable glory are mainly attributable, was VIRTUE? Since the day
when the important truth was first proclaimed, that "in keeping God's
commandments there is great reward," when was it so illustrated as in
this instance? Had there been a flaw in the character of General
Washington, could the most malignant scrutiny have detected in his
history anything dishonorable, anything unjust, anything selfish,
anything on which reproach could fasten, he could not have
accomplished what he did. No man could, be his talents what they
might, who did not bring to his task such a character for virtue as
would secure the confidence of the well-intentioned, and shame the
artful and designing from their purposes. A vicious and corrupt people
who fight for conquest; a lawless banditti who fight for spoil, may be
led to victory by talent, enterprise, courage and energy; but the
triumphs of Freedom can only be achieved under the auspices of Virtue.
When men are in a mood to rally to the banner of one whose life is
stained with crime, they do but deceive themselves if they think they
are contending for freedom. _When they are prepared to take such a one
as_ "A SECOND WASHINGTON," _they are only fit to contend for a choice
of masters._ This is eternal truth; but it will not be truth to them.

But we wander from the work before us; though we trust what we have
said will dispose those "who have ears to hear" to set a high value on
the book of which we proceed to give a short account.

The first of these volumes contains all the papers and private and
public letters of General Washington, which could illustrate either
his character, or the history of the country, up to the commencement
of the revolution. It is a portion of history highly interesting,
especially to Virginians, and on which none but a doubtful light is
shed from any other source. Here we have an authentic account of
Braddock's war; a sort of war of which the readers of history have, in
general, no idea but that which is drawn from romances and tales. It
is a warfare which does not recommend itself to the imagination, by
the "pride, pomp and circumstance" so interesting to those who "kiss
my Lady Peace at home." But since the invention of gun-powder, there
is no fighting which gives so much room for the display of prowess,
courage, coolness and address, and in which victory is so sure to be
the prize of these qualities. "Many a brave man," says Don Quixotte,
"has lost his life by the hand of a wretch who was frightened at the
flash of his own gun." Not so in Indian warfare. The man who is scared
never escapes {593} but by flight. How should he? There he stands
behind his tree, while at the distance of a few yards stands his
enemy, watching with the eye of a lynx, with his rifle to his cheek,
and ready to put a ball through any part that is exposed for a moment.
To anticipate him; to get a shot at him; to draw his fire, and then
drive him from his shelter, is a business in which success depends on
steadiness, self-possession, and presence of mind, as well as
dexterity and skill. He who _thus_ kills his man, _is_ a brave man;
and hence, among the Indians, a display of scalps is a proof of
courage never questioned. It was in this sort of warfare that
Washington served his apprenticeship. It was there he learned to look
danger steadily in the face, and to possess his soul in calmness amid
the fiercest storm of battle. There is no such school. The _art_ of
war is what a Martinet may learn. But the faculty of carrying that art
into practice, of applying its rules in the crisis which shakes the
nerves, and unsettles the mind, is only acquired by the "taste of
danger." To him who possesses that, the rest is a school-boy's task.

The other four volumes of the work contain the papers relating to the
war of the revolution. Such a body of evidence, so completely above
all exception, can hardly be found on the subject of any other war. We
are not sure that any historian has ever yet taken the time and pains
to collate and digest the whole, and to deduce all the essential
results. The means of doing so are here put in the hands of the
public, and we may hope that some one qualified and disposed for the
task will address himself to it, and furnish the world with a history
at once succinct and accurate, in which references to authorities may
stand in place of discussions. It is a fault of contemporary history
that it is almost always given on partial and imperfect evidence,
which is liable to be afterwards explained away, contradicted and
falsified. It is not until some time after the event, that all the
testimony is in the hands of the historian. That time has now come as
to the American Revolution. A concise history may be now written with
references to this work, which taken in connexion with it, will be
more satisfactory and conclusive than any now in existence. But every
one who pretends to acquaint himself with all that is most
interesting, especially to Virginians, should secure a copy of this
book.

Mr. Sparks has given us some interesting specimens of the sort of
history that we contemplate. In his appendices he presents succinct
narratives of the principal actions of the war, the accuracy of which,
the reader has it in his power to test by the evidence in the body of
the work. This is judicious and in good taste.

But after all, the great charm and value of this work is, that it is a
cast from living nature, of the mind of "the noblest man that ever
lived in the tide of time." We cannot dwell too much on the
contemplation of his peculiar character. His high sense of moral
worth, and the lofty aspirations of conscious greatness, looking out
from behind the veil of genuine modesty and humility with which he
delighted to shroud himself: the chivalrous and daring spirit ever
champing on the curb of prudence, but never impatiently straining
against it: the native fierceness of his temper, occasionally flashing
through his habitual moderation and self-command; the promptitude and
clearness of his conceptions, so modestly suggested, so patiently
revised, so calmly reconsidered in all the intervals of action; all
these qualities combined and harmonized by honor, integrity, and a
scrupulous regard to all the duties of public and private life; all
made "to drink into one spirit" all "members, every one of them in the
same body," all working to the same end; _diverse_ yet _congruous_.
What is there in the history of human nature, so grand, so majestic,
so elevating to the heart and hopes of man?

That virtue, which is never selfish in its ends, and ever scrupulous
in its choice of means, can rarely rise to a high place among the
great ones of the earth, unless associated with a strength of wing
which shall enable it to soar above those whose flight is unencumbered
by the clog of self-denial. Virtue in high places is thus so rare a
sight, that when we find it there, it so much engrosses our attention,
that we are apt to overlook the faculties by which it rose. Men like,
too, to delude themselves with the belief that their admiration is a
tribute to virtue; that the honors and emoluments they bestow are
given as the reward of virtue. Thinking thus, they think the better of
themselves, and are ready to take at his word the man who disclaims
any pretension to those more showy endowments which we reward for _our
own_ sakes. So we cheat ourselves; and so we cheat our benefactors;
not indeed of the fame _they_ prize most highly, but of that which
glitters brightest in the eyes of the world. Look at that wonderful
man, the blaze of whose glory pales even the "Julian Star" itself;
before whose power all Europe trembled, and America crouched; and let
us ask ourselves how far the extent of his achievements might have
been curtailed, had he ever permitted himself for a moment to "forget
the expedient in considering of the right;" and submitted to have his
choice of means limited by any regard to the laws of war or peace, of
man or God? His great maxim, that "in War, _time_ is every thing," was
well illustrated by the success of one, who never lost a moment in
working the complex problem of right and expediency. Compare the
rushing, desolating tempest of his career, with the cautious march of
Washington, picking his way with an anxious regard to duty, and ever
watchful of his steps, lest he might tread upon a worm. Compare his
abounding resources, all used without scruple, without reserve, with
the scanty means of the champion of our freedom, rendered yet more
scanty by his uniform care to do wrong to none, and never to soil his
hand, his name or his conscience with any thing unclean.

The fifth and last of _these_ volumes brings down the war to March
1780. How many more there will be, Mr. Sparks himself does not know.
He will go on with his selections until he shall have laid before the
public all that he deems most valuable of the writings of General
Washington. We trust that he will use discreetly and fairly his power
over the purses of his subscribers, who have engaged to take the work
for better for worse, be it more or less, at so much per volume. The
price is so liberal as to afford a high temptation; but we hope Mr.
Sparks will resist it. We should be sorry to see a work commencing so
nobly, degenerate into a mere book-making job. We hope not to have the
remains of the father of our country treated like those of an old
horse, whose heartless owner never thinks he has got all the good of
him, until his skin is sent to the tanner, his fat to the
tallow-chandler, {594} and his bones to the soap-boiler. Such is the
treatment which other great men have experienced at the hands of
"their children after the flesh;" dishonored in their graves by the
reckless and indecent publication of every thing to which their names
could give a market value. Let us bespeak a more considerate and
decorous use of the rich legacy left us by him whom we reverence as
the "father of our liberties."

It is perhaps, beside the general purpose of our remarks, to extract a
letter, illustrating a point in General Washington's character, of
which we have said nothing. That he was stern, and that he seemed cold
we know. It is equally certain that he was kind, courteous, and
tender, and it is delightful to see how eagerly his benevolence
catches at an opportunity to pour balm into the wounds of an enemy.
The following letter is found at p. 266, vol. 5.

"To Lieutenant General Burgoyne.

"_Head Quarters, March 11th, 1778_.

"Sir,--I was only two days since honored with your very obliging
letter of the 11th of February. Your indulgent opinion of my
character, and the polite terms in which you are pleased to express
it, are peculiarly flattering; and I take pleasure in the opportunity
you have afforded, of assuring you, that far from suffering the views
of national opposition to be imbittered and debased by personal
animosity, I am ever ready to do justice to the merit of the man and
soldier, and to esteem where esteem is due, however the idea of a
public enemy may interpose. You will not think it the language of
unmeaning ceremony, if I add, that sentiments of personal respect, in
the present instance, are reciprocal.

"Viewing you in the light of an officer contending against what I
conceive to be the rights of my country, the reverses of fortune you
experienced in the field cannot be unacceptable to me; but, abstracted
from considerations of national advantage, I can sincerely sympathize
with your feelings, as a soldier, the unavoidable difficulties of
whose situation forbade his success; and as a man, whose lot combines
the calamity of ill health, the anxieties of captivity, and the
painful sensibility for a reputation exposed, where he most values it,
to the assaults of malice and detraction.

"As your aid-de-camp went directly to Congress, the business of your
letter to me had been decided before it came to hand. I am happy that
their cheerful acquiescence in your request, prevented the necessity
of my intervention; and wishing you a safe and agreeable passage, with
a perfect restoration to your health, I have the honor to be, very
respectfully, &c. &c."

In General Burgoyne's reply, he says: "I beg you to accept my
sincerest acknowledgments for your obliging letter. I find the
character, which I before knew to be respectable, is also perfectly
amiable; and I should have few greater private gratifications in
seeing our melancholy contest at an end, than that of cultivating your
friendship."

How beautiful! How delightful is this exhibition of the best feelings
of the heart, under circumstances which the ferocious and brutish use
as a pretext for giving free scope to the worst! How truly does the
poet sing!

       "Fair as the earliest beam of eastern light,
          When first by the bewildered pilgrim spied,
        It smiles upon the dreary brow of night,
          And silvers o'er the torrents foaming tide,
        And lights the fearful path by mountain side:
          Fair as that beam, although the fairest far,
        Giving to horror grace, to danger pride,
          Shine martial faith, and courtesy's bright star,
  Through all the wreckful storms that cloud the brow of war."[2]

[Footnote 2: We implore the lenient judgment of our brethren of the
craft of criticism on this long quotation. We know that it is not
_selon les regles_ so to quote in a review. Besides it is trite as
well as long. But what could we do, when our heart was full of the
very sentiment which Scott has expressed so much better than we could?
To our readers, not of the craft, we say "regard rather our precept,
than our example."]

       *       *       *       *       *

_The Italian Sketch-Book_. _Philadelphia: Key & Biddle_. This is a
very handsome duodecimo, and presents more than ordinary claims to
attention. It is the work of an American, and purports to be written
during a sojourn at Venice, Florence, Naples, and Rome. The book is
chiefly made up of sketches and descriptions of these world-renowned
cities. It will be seen that there is nothing very novel in the
subject, and the question naturally arises "Who has not already heard
all that is worth knowing about Venice, Florence, Naples, and Rome?"
But, notwithstanding the triteness of his theme, our American
traveller has contrived to throw an uncommon interest over his pages.
They are finely diversified with stories well-told, essays tending to
illustrate points of local or social interest in Italy, and much
descriptive writing which has all the force and fidelity of painting.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Outre-Mer, or a Pilgrimage Beyond the Sea, by Professor Longfellow_,
is a work somewhat in the same style, and equally well written
throughout. "I have travelled"--says the Professor--"through France
from Normandy to Navarre--smoked my pipe in a Flemish inn--floated
through Holland in a Treckschuit--trimmed my midnight lamp in a German
university--wandered and mused amid the classic scenes of Italy--and
listened to the gay guitar on the banks of the Guadalquiver." The book
before us is a kind of running comment on the text of his travels,
and, as we have said before, has many of the peculiar traits which
distinguish the Italian Sketch-Book. It is, however, more abundant in
humor than that work, and is far richer in legend and anecdote. The
Professor tells a comic story with much grace, and his literary
disquisitions have always a great deal to recommend them.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Voyage of the U.S. Frigate Potomac, under the command of Commodore
John Downes, during the circumnavigation of the globe in the years
1831-32-33 and 34: including a particular account of the engagement at
Quallah-Battoo, on the Coast of Sumatra_. _By J. N. Reynolds_. This is
a thick volume of nearly 600 pages, well printed, upon good paper,
with some excellent engravings, and published by the Harpers. Mr.
Reynolds, the author, or to speak more correctly, the compiler, will
be remembered as the associate of Symmes in his remarkable theory of
the earth, and a public defender of that very indefensible subject,
upon which he delivered a series of lectures in many of our principal
cities. With the exception, however, of seven chapters, the matter
forming the work now published is gleaned from the ship's journal,
from the private journals of the officers, and from papers furnished
by Commodore Downes himself. This fact will speak much for the
authenticity of the details, and very valuable information scattered
through the book. Mr. R. himself was not with the Potomac during the
circumnavigation, having joined her in 1832 at Valparaiso. Our readers
are, of coarse, acquainted {595} with the object of the Potomac's
voyage, and with the outrage perpetrated by the Malays on the ship
Friendship in 1831, which rendered it an indispensable duty on the
part of our government to demand an indemnity. The result of this
demand, and the action at Quallah-Battoo are graphically sketched by
Mr. Reynolds. Every body will be pleased, too, with his description of
Canton and of Lima. He writes well, although somewhat too
enthusiastically, and his book will gain him reputation as a man of
science and accurate observation. It will form a valuable addition to
our geographical libraries.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The History of Ireland, by Thomas Moore, vol. 1_, in which the
records of that country are brought down from the year B.C. 1000, to
A.D. 684, has been republished by Carey, Lea & Blanchard. We intend a
very high compliment to the bard of Paradise and the Peri, in saying
that we think his prose very little inferior to his poetry. We have
not forgotten Captain Rock and Fitzgerald. The Epicurean (a very
anomalous Epicurean by the bye) is a model of fine writing. The Life
of Byron, in spite of a thousand errors, both of the head and of the
heart, and in spite too of its perpetually exciting our risibility at
the expense of the little cockney biographer himself, is a book to be
proud of after all, and should not be mentioned in comparison with a
certain absurd tissue of maudlin metaphysics, attributed (we hope
falsely) to Mr. Galt. And now, lastly, we have before us a specimen of
Moore's versatile abilities, in as temperate, as profound, as well
arranged, and in every respect as well written a history as Green Erin
can either desire or deserve. Very truly, Anacreon Moore is, in our
opinion, no ordinary man.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Blackbeard, or a Page from the Colonial History of Philadelphia_.
_Harper & Brothers, New York_. This book differs in many striking
points from the ordinary novels of the day. The scene is laid in
Philadelphia, and the author is largely indebted for many pictures of
manners, things, and opinions in the olden days of the city of
Brotherly Love to the "Annals of Philadelphia." We think these volumes
will be read with interest in England, but as a mere novel they have
very few claims to attention. The style is clumsy and embarrassed. The
character of Oxenstiern is a piece of pure folly and exaggeration;
while the atrocities of Blackbeard, which are intended to produce a
great effect upon the mind of the reader, utterly fail of this end
from a want of the _ars celare artem_ in the writer. The book may be
characterized in a few words as odd, vulgar, ill-written, and
interesting.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Pencil Sketches or Outlines of Character and Manners_. _Second
Series_. _By Miss Leslie_. _Philadelphia, Carey, Lea, & Blanchard_.
This volume contains the Wilson-House--the Album--the Reading
Parties--the Set of China--Laura Lovel--John W. Robinson, and the
Ladies Ball. All these stories have been published before in different
periodicals, and have been extensively copied and admired. Miss
Leslie's writings have obtained her much reputation, both at home and
abroad, and we think very deservedly. She is a lively and _piquante_
sayer of droll and satirical things; and has a way of showing off _à
peindre_ the little weak points in our national manners. _The Gift_,
an Annual, edited by Miss L. and published by Carey and Lea, will make
its appearance in October. It will be splendidly embellished, and in
literary matter, cannot fail of equalling any similar publication.
Among the contributors will be found Washington Irving, Paulding, Miss
Sedgewick, and a host of _stellæ minores_. It will also have the aid
of Fanny Kemble's fine _countenance_, and very spirited pen.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The American Quarterly Review for June_ has articles on National
Music--Poetry of the Troubadours--Judge Story's Conflict of
Laws--Immunity of Religion--Sigourney's Sketches--Memoir of Tristram
Burges--Shirreff's Tour through North America--Fenimore Cooper--French
Question--and Pitkin's Statistics. It includes also some Miscellaneous
Notices. This is, upon the whole, one of the best numbers of the
Quarterly which has been issued for some time. Most of the papers,
however, are still liable to the old charge of superficiality. The
_Poetry of the Troubadours_ is prettily written, and evinces a noble
feeling for the loveliness of song. But it is _feeble_, inasmuch as it
exhibits nothing of novelty, none of those lucid and original views,
in default of the power to produce which, a writer should forbear to
enter upon a subject so hackneyed. We depend upon our reviews for much
of our literary reputation abroad, and we have a right therefore, as
in a matter touching our national pride, to expect something of energy
at their hands. They should build up a reputation of their own, and
admit papers on no themes which can be found better treated elsewhere.
In the article on _National Music_, among much sensible, and some very
profound writing, there are occasional sallies which will not fail to
startle many an European _literateur_, and some broad assertions which
are very plausible and very unsusceptible of proof. For example. "It
may be observed"--says the reviewer--"that, accustomed as we are to
separate poetry and music, we must never forget that they were
inseparable among the Greeks." This we know is a very general
opinion--but, like some other passages in the review, should be
swallowed _cum grano salis_. The _Immunity of Religion_ contains some
animadversions on a sermon preached at Charleston in 1833, by the Rev.
J. Adams, D.D. President of Charleston College. This whole paper is,
in our opinion, a series of truisms from beginning to end, and the
writer, in gravely deprecating the union of church and state, and the
employment of force in matters of religion, forgets that he is
insisting upon arguments which not one enlightened person in a
million, at the present day, will take the trouble of gainsaying. The
review of _Mrs. Sigourney's Sketches_ we really do not like. The
harmony--the energy--the fire--the elevated tone of moral feeling--the
keen sense of the delicate, the beautiful, and the magnificent, which
have obtained for this lady the name of the American Hemans, have not
found an echo--so it seems to us--in the unpoetical heart of her
reviewer. But, because this is most evidently the case, are we to
think of blaming Mrs. Sigourney?

The other papers are generally respectable. The most interesting, in
our opinion, is that on Shirreff's Tour in North America.

       *       *       *       *       *

{596} _Life of Kosciuszko_.--The Foreign Quarterly Review for March
1833, contains a notice of the biography of Thaddeus Kosciuszko, by
Charles Falkenstein, re-printed with additions and corrections during
the last year at Leipzic. From the opinions expressed by the
reviewers, we are led to believe that this work possesses great merit,
and that opinion is strengthened by the copious extracts made in the
review. Indeed the narrative of a life so filled up with romantic
adventure and enthusiastic patriotism as that of Kosciuszko, could
scarcely fail to excite great interest. The history of his life has a
peculiar charm to Americans, from the association of his name and his
achievements with the annals of our revolution. The recent struggle of
the Poles for emancipation from the yoke of their barbarian
master--its unfortunate termination--and the wretched enslavement of
that generous people, which France and England tamely suffered to be
sealed by the blood of her patriots, give to every portion of Polish
history which relates to her many contests for freedom, a romantic
interest. It is well said by the reviewer whose notice has made us
acquainted with Falkenstein's work, that "There is in the Polish
character a something of barbaric splendor and rudeness, of the very
spirit of Orientalism, mingled with European education and refinement,
an ardor of patriotic valor, alloyed by versatility, both no doubt
heightened, if not produced, by the strange exciting, or rather
distracting constitution of the old and truly republican monarchy of
Poland,--combined with such a gay, light, mirthful gallantry--whence
the Poles were once termed the French of the north--that all, blending
together, give the nation a peculiar hold upon the imagination.... In
fact what we have said of the Polish nation applies with peculiar
force to the nation's champion, Kosciuszko. His whole life is a
romance, and as such, is really quite refreshing in these matter of
fact days of steam engines, rail roads and compendious compilations of
cheap literature." We presume this book has never been translated;
certainly we have never heard of it in an English form, and we were
much interested in the summary of its contents given by the reviewer.
Kosciuszko, was it appears, like many other great men, crossed in his
first love. He attempted an elopement, was intercepted by the haughty
parent of his lady love, when a sanguinary conflict ensued. Kosciuszko
was wounded, and the lady dragged back to her paternal home. It was
this unfortunate affair which caused his resignation of his commission
in the Polish army, and induced him to cross the Atlantic and offer
his services to our forefathers. We are told that he reached the new
world utterly unprovided with letters of recommendation or
introduction, and nearly penniless. His biographer thus described his
first interview with Washington:

"'What do you seek here?' inquired the General with his accustomed
brevity.--'I come to fight as a volunteer for American independence,'
was the equally brief and fearless reply.--'What can you do?' was
Washington's next question; to which Kosciuszko, with his
characteristic simplicity, only rejoined, 'Try me.' This was done.
Occasions soon offered, in which his talents, science, and valor, were
evinced, and above all his great character was duly appreciated. He
was speedily made an officer, and further distinguished himself."

The first acquaintance of Kosciuszko and Lafayette, (two men who
resembled each other in many respects besides being pure and fearless
and disinterested patriots and philanthropists) is thus described:

"He had not been long in America, when he had occasion to display his
undaunted courage, as captain of a company of volunteers. Generals
Wayne and Lafayette, notwithstanding the heat of the battle in which
they themselves were fully engaged, observed with satisfaction the
exertions of that company, which advanced beyond all the rest, and
made its attacks in the best order.

"'Who led the first company?' asked Lafayette of his comrades, on the
evening of that memorable day (the 30th of September).

"The answer was 'It is a young Pole, of noble birth, but very poor;
his name, if I am not mistaken, is Kosciuszko.' The sound of this
unusual name, which he could hardly pronounce, filled the French hero
with so eager a desire for the brave stranger's acquaintance, that he
ordered his horse to be immediately saddled, and rode to the village,
about a couple of miles off, where the volunteers were quartered for
the night.

"Who shall describe the pleasure of the one, or the surprise of the
other, when the general, entering the tent, [would it not rather be a
room or hut?] in a village, saw the captain, still covered from head
to foot with blood, dust, and sweat, seated at a table, his head
resting upon his hand, a map of the country spread out before him, and
pen and ink by his side. A cordial grasp of the hand imparted to the
modest hero his commander's satisfaction, and the object of a visit
paid at so unusual an hour."

       *       *       *       *       *

_Tocqueville's American Democracy_.--M. Alexis de Tocqueville, one of
the commissioners sent to this country by the French government, to
investigate the penitentiary system of the United States, and whose
report on that subject met with much attention, has recently published
an elaborate work under the title "De la Democratie en Amerique," 2
vols. 8vo. The work has not reached us, but from the extracts which we
have seen in the northern journals, we are induced to believe that it
possesses much merit, and presents the operations of our government in
a novel and striking point of view.

       *       *       *       *       *

_German work on America_.--The first number of a work to be entitled
"The United States of North America in their historical,
topographical, and social relations," by G. H. Eberhard, is announced
as forthcoming at Hildburghausen. The publishers declare their
intention in this work, to "present a digested epitome of all that is
worth knowing respecting the United States, combining the utmost
completeness with accuracy and impartiality." The qualifications of
Mr. Eberhard for the task he has assumed, are said to be ample.


{597}


SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

Vol. I.]  RICHMOND, JULY 1835.  [No. 11.

T. W. WHITE, PRINTER AND PROPRIETOR.  FIVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM.




PROFESSOR BEVERLEY TUCKER'S VALEDICTORY ADDRESS TO HIS CLASS.

The following correspondence and address have been sent us for
publication, by the members of Professor Tucker's class at William and
Mary College. We give place to them with pleasure, and commend the
admonitions of the amiable and learned professor to all young
gentlemen about to enter upon the practice of the law. The friendly
and paternal spirit of his advice, gives an uncommon interest to this
production, and shows that his have indeed been "labors of love."


WILLIAMSBURG, 5th July, 1835.

_Much Esteemed Friend:_--

I am requested, in the name of your class, to solicit you either to
have your Valedictory Address published, or deliver it to us for that
purpose. I sincerely hope for your compliance; and although our
exercises for the present session have ended--although we no longer
stand in the relation of students and professor--and notwithstanding
we are about to part (some of us) perhaps forever, we _must hope_ that
the _tie_ which has bound us together for the last eight months,
instead of _weakening_, will continue to "_grow_ with our growth and
strengthen with our strength," and that the day is _far_ distant when
that union shall break. Go where we may, a fond recollection of your
past services will be long cherished by us. We know the interest you
_have_ felt, and still feel in our welfare, and I hope your exertions
to promote the interest of those who have been placed under your care,
are duly appreciated. You have done _your_ duty, and all that has been
wanting must be charged to _us_. You have given us a chart by which to
steer our political ship, and _should_ we succeed in stemming the
current of opposition, may _you_ live to enjoy our triumph. Permit me
now, in conclusion, to tender you our united sentiments of the highest
esteem and respect.

WM. T. FRENCH.

       *       *       *       *       *

WILLIAMSBURG, July 5, 1835.

_My Dear French:_--

I have great pleasure in complying with the request of my young
friends, so far as to hand the lecture to the printer. I am not aware
of any merit in it, such as your partiality sees, to justify me in
permitting you to incur the expense of publication. But in that
partiality and its source, I have more pleasure and more pride than I
could have in any composition. Self-love will not permit me to believe
that I possess the friendship of those who have been placed under my
care without having deserved it. Self-love is "much a liar," but is
always believed; and she could hardly tell me a tale more acceptable.
To acquit myself faithfully and satisfactorily of the duties of a new
and untried station, was the engrossing wish of my heart during the
whole course. When I remember the manner in which my class went
through their examination, and reflect on the pleasures of our
intercourse, the marks of confidence which I continually received, and
the affectionate feelings with which we part, I am sure I have not
altogether failed. But I should be unjust to you, if I did not say
that I am sensible how much your assiduity has done to supply the
defects of my instructions.

May God bless and prosper you all, (for I speak to all,) and make your
success in life not only honorable to yourselves and me, but to your
friends and country. May each of you be a gem added to the bright
crown with which the glory of her sons encircles the gray head of the
venerable and _kindly_ old college. If ever there was a heart in walls
of brick and mortar, it is surely there; and cold is he whose heart
does not warm to it. In her name, once again I say God bless you.

Yours faithfully,

B. TUCKER.

       *       *       *       *       *

ADDRESS.


Neither duty nor inclination will permit me to take leave of you,
young gentlemen, without offering a few remarks, of general
application to the subject of our late studies.

We part, perhaps to meet no more. Some of you go into the active
business of life, some to pursue your researches under other guidance.
To both alike, my experience may enable me to suggest thoughts, and to
offer advice, which may be found of some practical value.

Whether your immediate destination is to the bar or the closet, you
will alike find the necessity of continuing your studies. To give them
such a direction as may be profitable and honorable to you, is my sole
remaining duty.

There are many branches of the law which you will still find time to
investigate at leisure. Many years will probably elapse, before you
will be called to take the _sole_ management of any case involving
valuable rights or intricate questions. The land law, and the
perplexing minutiæ of chancery jurisdiction, will be of this
description. When engaged in such cases, you will commonly find
yourself associated with older and abler counsel, from whom you will
then obtain, at a glance, more insight into these difficult subjects
than I have been able to afford. Under such guidance, {598} you will
have opportunities to investigate the law, with an eye to its
application to your case. You will then see the practical value of the
principles with which you have been made acquainted, and may execute
your first tasks in that line, as successfully as if you were already
imbued with every thing but that knowledge which nothing but study and
practice combined can afford.

But though, in regard to matters of this sort, a general acquaintance
with the grand principles of the law is as much as you can be expected
to carry to the bar, there are other duties which you must assume, in
a complete state of preparation. Let me particularize a few of these.

You will find it then of the utmost importance, to be thoroughly
acquainted with the science of pleading. I have not concealed from you
that the loose practice of our courts dispenses habitually with many
of its rules, and has done much to confuse them all. But they still
retain all their truth, all their reasonableness, and much of their
authority. The courtesy of the bar will indeed save you from the
consequences of any mistake you may make in the outset. But though
this may screen your errors from the public eye, they will not escape
the animadversion of your brethren. They will be prevented from
forming such an estimate of your acquirements, as will lead them to
recommend you to their clients, in the hope of obtaining from you
valuable aid. It is by such recommendations that young men most
frequently gain opportunities to make an advantageous display of
talent, and an introduction into that sort of business which is, at
once, a source of honor and profit.

It sometimes happens, (though, to the credit of the profession such
occurrences are rare,) that a young man, on his first appearance at
the bar, encounters adversaries who do not extend to him the
forbearance which youth has a right to expect. He is taken at a
disadvantage. His want of experience and readiness lays him open to a
more practised opponent, who ungenerously strikes a blow by which his
client is injured, and he himself is brought into disrepute. To him
who is really deficient in capacity or acquirement, such an attack is
sometimes fatal. To him who, on a fit occasion can retaliate on his
adversary, it is of decisive advantage. Mankind are generally disposed
to take sides with the weak and injured party, and to visit with their
indignation any ungenerous abuse of accidental advantages. A young man
therefore, thus assailed, is sure to have with him the sympathy of the
profession and of the public. They look, for a time at least, with
interest to his course. They are impatient to see him redress himself;
and, until he has done so, all the rules of comity and forbearance
which generally regulate the practice, are suspended in his favor.
_He_ is free to take advantages of his ungenerous assailant, which,
under other circumstances would be denounced as ungentlemanly. And
they would be so, because they would be in violation of the covenanted
rules of the profession. But between him and his adversary there is no
such covenant. A state of war abrogates all treaties. It follows that
all the maxims of courtesy which forbid any advantage to be taken of
slips in pleading, do not restrain him; and he is free to hold the
other up to all the strictness of the law. It is expected he should do
so. If he does not, it is concluded that he does not know how. But if
he has once carefully studied the science and made himself acquainted
with its principles, he stands on strong ground, and sooner or later
his triumph is sure. The older and more hackneyed his adversary, the
greater his advantage; for it is true in law, as in morals, that evil
practice vitiates the understanding. The _habit_ of loose pleading
unsettles the knowledge of the rules and principles of pleading, and
many nice technicalities are totally forgotten. There is not, for
example, one old county-court lawyer in a hundred, who remembers that
$100 means nothing in pleading, and that a declaration in which the
sum should be no otherwise expressed, would be so bad as to make it
doubtful whether even the sovereign panacea of our late Statute of
Jeofails would cure it. But though _this_ be doubtful, there is no
doubt that, on demurrer, it would be fatal. A demurrer then, being
filed and submitted _sub silentio_, it is probable that such a defect
would escape even the eye of the court. In that case a reversal of the
judgment would be sure, and a triumph would be gained that would
gratify the profession, and command the admiration of the multitude.

A thousand cases of the same sort might be suggested, where an old
practitioner, though on his guard, (as he must be against one whom he
has provoked to retaliation,) would, from a mere defect of memory, or
the established influence of vicious practice, fall into blunders
which would place him at the mercy of an adversary who has his
learning more fresh about him. How many, for example, will remember
where to stop the defence, in drawing a plea in abatement, or to the
jurisdiction of the court? How many ever think of the necessity of
entitling their pleadings? How many know how to take advantage of this
defect, even when it occurs to them?

But though you should escape the attack of any illiberal practitioner,
yet cases will occur, in which the nature of the controversy will
require great accuracy in drawing out the pleadings to a precise and
well defined issue. In such cases, no disposition to mutual or
_self_-indulgence in the bar, can prevent the necessity of pleading
correctly. In such cases, opportunities will be offered you of
reciprocating the kindness of your seniors, by lending them the aid of
your pen, and assisting them {599} to recall forgotten technicalities.
The value of such aids will raise you in their esteem, establish you
in their regard, and ensure you their good offices. Out of such
circumstances grow alliances which are strength and honor to both
parties. A well read young lawyer, associated with one of less
learning but more experience, sagacious, vigilant, and versed in human
nature and the established though irregular routine of business, is
like the lame man mounted on the shoulders of the blind. Their powers
are not merely united; they are reciprocally multiplied; they fall
together habitually. Their joint success commands confidence and
practice, and finally the fruit of all their triumphs enures to the
benefit of the survivor.

But there is another point of view in which an intimate knowledge of
the rules and principles of pleading is of permanent advantage,
notwithstanding all the looseness which our practitioners habitually
indulge. It has been well said, that "the record is the lock and key
of the law." You will often find that without this interpreter, the
ancient books are sealed to you. It is by this alone that you will
sometimes be able to discover the point really decided. The concise
notes of the old reporters taken for the use of those already familiar
with the great principles and leading maxims of the science of
pleading, are perfectly unintelligible to the mere sciolist.

It often happens too, that a lawyer undertakes a suit or defence which
cannot be sustained, and thus involves his client in unnecessary
expense. Such blunders would often be avoided by a ready familiarity
with the science of pleading. The attorney has but to ask himself,
"how shall I frame the declaration or plea?" and the answer shows him
the impossibility of making good his case. He advises accordingly;
and, though the advice be at the moment unpalatable, it will be
afterwards remembered with gratitude and respect. No reproach is
keener or more just, than that of a client who has been decoyed into
expensive litigation by the rapacity of the disingenuous, or the
blunders of the unskilful. A place among those whose advice may be
relied on, is the safest and most honorable at the bar. It cannot be
lost without some great error. It gives a lien on posterity. The
father hands down to the son a respect for his constant and faithful
adviser. Friend communicates it to friend; neighbor to neighbor. The
showy qualities which are the gift of nature to others, are
neutralized by it. The plain man, destitute of such endowments,
becomes the patron, the dispenser of business and benefits to him
whose eloquence shakes the court--commands his gratitude, secures his
friendship, and, on all admissible occasions, makes this envied talent
his own.

There is another subject on which an ever ready preparation is even
more indispensable than on the subject of pleading. I mean that of
_evidence_. On this, of necessity, we have touched but lightly. It
would be properly, one of the principal subjects of a second course.
To stop short between a cursory notice of it and a thorough
investigation, such as we have not had time to make, might mislead the
student. He might overrate his knowledge if he found himself as well
acquainted with that as with other branches of the law; and supposing
he had enough, might venture to the bar without acquiring more. But
this is a topic of which a superficial knowledge will not do, even at
the beginning. It must be understood perfectly; it must be understood
distinctly; it must be wrought into the very texture of the mind, and
ever present there. The occasions on which this knowledge is wanted,
can rarely be anticipated. They start up like fire from the ground,
and he whose information is not various, exact and ready, is liable to
be disconcerted, embarrassed and disgraced. They often occur in those
apparently plain cases, which the partiality of friends sometimes
intrusts to the sole management of an untried lawyer. To be baffled,
through want of skill in such cases, is to injure those who have
sought to serve you. It mortifies and discourages your friends, and
what is worse, it disheartens you.

You will be often employed too, to set aside an office judgment, and
plead, _pro forma_, in a case admitting of no defence on the merits.
In such a case, where nothing is expected, your adversary, however
able, may be unprepared through some neglect of his client. Relying on
your rawness and want of skill, he may venture to trial. You strike at
the gap in his armor with the dexterity of a veteran; he is nonsuited,
and your success is the immediate source of honor and emolument. You
find yourself gazed at, followed, and employed by those who never saw
you before, and who know nothing of you but that, in a plain case,
admitting of no meritorious defence, you had just baffled one of the
first men at the bar. The consequence is, you are presently engaged in
business of more consequence, and if you acquit yourself well in it,
your practice is established and your fortune made.

To these two subjects then, of pleading and evidence, I advise you to
apply so much attention as to make you feel sure that you understand
them thoroughly. Having done this, let them be again revised
immediately before you go to the bar, and let them, in all the early
stages of your practice, be the constant objects of your attention and
study. You can never understand them too well, and your knowledge of
the last especially, can never be too ready. It is by ignorance on
these topics, that men lose causes they ought to gain. Such defeats
are disgraceful and ruinous. When the right of the case is against
you, it is your {600} misfortune; but you are never blamed. But to be
defeated with law and fact both on your side, is to be weighed in the
balance and found wanting.

And here let me say a word of the cases which you lose, because the
law is against you. For these there is one short rule. "Though you
lose your case, do not lose your temper." It is easy for a young man
to argue himself into a conviction of the justice of his client's
case; but if you do not make others see it too, you must learn to
distrust that conviction. Remember that the argument which has
convinced you, without convincing others, came to you through the
favorable medium of self-love. A young man who doubts the justice of
his first cause just after having argued it, must be either very dull,
or very philosophical, or the case must have been utterly desperate.
On the other hand, remember that the judge is rarely exposed to any
undue bias. He can scarcely ever have a motive to do wrong; and he is
a man of tried integrity, practised to resist and overcome the
influence of such motives. Then remember that he is old, learned and
experienced, selected from among his fellows for his endowments; and
thus learn to acquiesce in his decisions with that cheerful
complacency which so well becomes a young man, distrustful, as all
young men should be, of his own judgment.

Above all things, never stimulate the dissatisfaction of your client.
You tell him he is wronged. He believes you. _You_ blame the judge.
_He divides_ the blame between the _judge_ and _you_. Was the judge
prejudiced _against you_? Do not say so, or men will not employ you to
practice before him. Was he ignorant? was he dull? was he inattentive?
You had the same chance to awaken his attention, to rouse his dulness,
to enlighten his ignorance, as your adversary. If you did not succeed,
another might, and your client will try another the next time. Let him
believe, if he can bring himself to do so, that he only failed because
the law was against him, and there is nothing to prevent his trying
you again. Better so, than to gratify him for the moment by catering
to his evil passions, at the risque of injustice to another, and
injury to yourself. Apart too from the injustice, prudence forbids
that any blow be struck at men in power, which is not well aimed, and
sure to take effect. He that throws up stones, endangers his own head.
"He that spits against the wind," said Dr. Franklin, "spits in his own
face."

There is another consideration to be regarded here. The profession is
a _unit_. Its respectability depends on that of the head. It is an
arch, of which the bench is the key-stone. Let them who should uphold
it, withdraw their support, and all will fall together. Would you
degrade the seat to which you aspire? Would you dim the lustre of that
honor, which is to be the brightest reward of a life spent in the
labors of your profession? Hardly more unwise is the youth, who would
revoke the prerogatives of age, forgetting that he shall himself be
old.

But there is a present advantage in a gentle and complacent
acquiescence in the unfavorable decisions of the court. It engages the
sympathy, the respect, and good will of all who witness it. Among
others it bespeaks the regard of the judge himself. However impartial
he may be, this will not be without its value. If he is seen to be
your friend, men will employ you, in the _hope_ that his friendship
may produce a bias in your favor. Your very enemies will serve you, by
charging him with partiality, in the hearing of those who may wish to
avail themselves of it by engaging your services. Besides, man is but
man. We lean to conviction from those we love. Why else is the
eloquence of a lovely woman so persuasive? We may man ourselves
against prejudice; but the very effort to do so unfixes the attention,
and the words of one who is odious to us are lost in air. But the
voice of a friend is music to the ear, and sinks into the mind. He is
a poor metaphysician who undervalues the influence of the affections
on the very sense of hearing.

It is of great importance, in this point of view, that you should not
misapprehend the relation between the bar and bench. A young man
entering into life, is apt to magnify the consequence and authority of
office; and he naturally falls into the belief that the incumbent is
disposed to presume upon it, and abuse its powers. There can be no
greater mistake than to apply this notion to a judge. The beautiful
fiction of Law, by which the members of the profession are considered
as brethren, of whom the judge is but the elder, hardly deserves the
name of fiction. There is no corps animated by a spirit so truly
fraternal, nor is there any member of it to whose comfort this spirit
is so essential, as the judge himself. Few men attain to that
elevation, without learning that the sanction of judicial authority is
opinion. The judge is armed indeed with the process of contempt. But
what is its true use? To conciliate the forbearance of others by his
forbearance in refraining from the use of it. In this view, it is
right that he should have it. But his comfort, his respectability, the
very stability of his office are secured, not by the power that he
_does_, but that which he does not exercise. Depend on it, among all
the brethren of your profession, you will find none to whom your
friendship will be so desirable as the judge himself.

Remarks of the same sort may be made with regard to your intercourse
with the members of the bar. You will find them for the most part
gentlemen and friends, disposed to lead you gently by the hand.
Requite their courtesy in kind. If an advantage is taken of you, I
have told you how to retaliate. You will have the whole {601} bar on
your side. But such cases are rare. You will probably meet with
nothing illiberal. None will crow at you until your spurs are fully
grown. No sarcasm will be dealt out against you, unless by a junior
like yourself. In such case, in general, pass it by. It will be
thought that your self-respect restrains you from affording sport to
the by-standers, and you will rise in the respect of others. Men
naturally respect those who are seen to respect themselves. You may
indeed be sometimes provoked to retort, by attacks which will make a
retort necessary and proper. In that case, your previous habit of
forbearance will stand your friend. It will dispose others to presume
you to be in the right, and to approve your conduct. It will enable
you to reflect; to do nothing rashly; to choose your words; to measure
the force of your blow; and to strike without laying yourself open. To
such rencounters apply the advice of Polonius to his son:

                        "Beware
  Of entrance into quarrel, but being in
  Bear it, that the opposer may beware of you."

If you are compelled to strike, let no second blow be necessary, and
you will not soon be called to give another.

I might multiply remarks of this sort without end, and perhaps with
little profit to you; for it is too true, "that no man learns wisdom
by another's experience." I am bound to own that it is not by the
practice of these maxims that I have learned their value. But
experience has perhaps convinced me of it somewhat sooner, because
they were inculcated in my youth, by one whose advice I fear was never
justly appreciated until his voice was hushed forever. My suggestions
to you may answer the same end. If, when my head lies low, the
recollection shall come to your minds accompanied by the feelings it
awakens in mine, my labor will not be lost or unrewarded.

But there is one maxim learned in that same school, which no one who
expects to thrive by his profession must neglect. The success of a
lawyer and his honor as a man depend on his fidelity and punctuality.
I need not recommend these to you. But a single auxiliary rule, in the
observance of which there is perfect safety, may be of use.

"Whenever you receive money for a client, always consider that
_specific_ money as his. Set apart the identical dollars and cents,
just as you received them, done up into a parcel labelled with his
name, and accompanied by a statement showing the amount received and
the balance due after deducting your fees and commissions. Let a
counterpart of this statement be drawn up in a book kept for the
purpose, and always carried with you; and at the foot of this
counterpart, take your client's receipt." In this proceeding there is
something level to the apprehension, and obvious to the senses of all
men. It will engage confidence, and multiply in your hands that sort
of business, which, if not the most honorable, is the least laborious,
and not the least profitable.

And now, my young friends, we close a relation which has been to me
one of the happiest of my life. God grant it may prove equally
profitable to you. If it does not, the fault is in me. I have indeed
the satisfaction to know that my exertions are appreciated by you, at
more than their real value; and that wherever your lots may be cast,
you will long remember the months we have spent together with feelings
responsive to my own. It has been my endeavor to divest the subject of
our studies of its dryness, and to render it, if possible, less
unpalatable than you had expected to find it. The task was difficult,
but I hope I have not altogether failed. I have felt it my duty too,
to lay aside the pedagogue, and to disarm my office of all austerity.
In doing this I had but to yield to my natural disposition. The rules
of our institution indeed placed me _in loco parentis_. But the
relation of an elder brother was more congenial to my feelings. I am
happy to believe that it has been so filled, as to establish the
sentiments appropriate to it in each of our minds; and that, when the
infirmities of age shall overtake me, there is not one of you who
would not extend an arm to stay my tottering steps, as there is not
one on whose shoulder I would not lean with confidence.

But my method of instruction was not adopted merely because it suited
my disposition. I believed it most appropriate to the subject of your
studies. It in some measure prepares you to enter in its true spirit
into that relation to the heads of your profession, of which I have
spoken. You will find few judges to whom the authority of office will
not be as irksome as it is to me; and it will be in your choice to
establish, between yourselves and your brethren of the bar and bench,
the same sentiments which make our separation at once pleasant and
painful.

I cannot take leave of you without offering and inviting
congratulations on the distinguished harmony which has pervaded every
department of our venerable institution. It has been a complete
fulfilment of the reciprocal pledges passed at the commencement of the
course, "that you should be treated as gentlemen, and that you would
so demean yourselves." How far this desirable end has been promoted by
the peculiar character and structure of the society of this place, you
are capable of deciding. We must have been unwise, not to avail
ourselves of the aids afforded by the moral influence of a circle of
gentlemen and ladies, intelligent, refined, polite and hospitable,
zealous for the honor and order of the college and the happiness of
its professors and students. It is this ever present influence that
has enabled us to dispense with the rigor of discipline, elsewhere so
necessary. It is this which enables William and {602} Mary College to
preserve its distinctive characteristics. In any other situation they
would soon disappear. The city and the college have grown together.
They are moulded on each other. Each is a part of each. Each is
necessary to the other. You might learn as much, or more, elsewhere;
but where else would you leave behind, from what other place would you
carry with you so much of those kindly affections, the cultivation of
which is not the least important part of education? On these we have
determined to stake the usefulness, the permanency, and the prosperity
of our institution, and in these we find a reward for our labors,
which nothing can take away.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS ON THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA,

By a young Scotchman, now no more.


_Boston, 1832_.

DEAR HENRY,--Mr. Paulding and Miss Sedgewick, are, in my opinion,
inferior in genius to the American writers I mentioned in my last.
They may be classed as the secondary novelists of this country, though
in general literature, Paulding is equal if not superior to Cooper.
His tales are usually short and want interest; but his characters are
well sketched, his incidents natural, and his opinions and
observations characterized by good sense. There is, however, an
affectation of humor in what he writes, that does not please me. It
seems to consist more in the employment of quaint terms and odd
phrases, than in the incident or character itself, and would appear to
be the result of an early and frequent perusal of the works of Swift
and Rabelais. His productions are neat and sensible, but not very
imaginative or striking. The interest or curiosity of the reader is
never powerfully excited, but he never fails to please by the manner
in which he conducts his plots; the easy and perspicuous style he
employs, the clear and happy illustration of the vice or folly he
holds up to indignation or scorn, and the successful though sometimes
exaggerated developement of the character he wishes to portray. In
both Paulding and Cooper there is an overwhelming American feeling,
which bursts forth on all occasions, and which, to a foreigner, seems
to partake of the nature of deep rooted prejudice. It results,
however, I have no doubt, from an ardent love of country, increased
perhaps by the silly contumelies and sarcasms of the reviewers and
travellers of our country. Mr. Paulding has not displayed any great
depth or expansion of mind in anything he has yet written, though he
has tried his wing in both prose and verse. His forte is satire,
which, like that of Horace, is more playful than mordant and bitter.
The productions of Miss Sedgewick which I have seen, are remarkable
for good sense, but without much vigor of imagination. She succeeds
best in quiet life. The delineation of the workings of passion, and of
stormy and powerful emotions, are beyond the reach of her powers; but
what she attempts she always does well. Her plots are generally
without complication, and display no great fertility of invention; the
incidents are not very striking and the characters are sometimes tame,
and occasionally extravagant. They are not like the delineations of
Miss Edgeworth, or Miss Mitford. You cannot form an idea of the
nationality of the individual she sketches, and would as soon take him
for a native of any other country as of her own. There is a manifest
defect in this particular, in all the novelists I have mentioned. With
the exception of the Indians who are occasionally introduced, there is
scarcely any difference between their Americans, and the inhabitants
of other lands. Cooper has indeed presented a finer gallery of
American characters than any other writer, especially in his sketches
of the early settlers or pioneers; but his characters, except in a few
instances, are not usually distinguished by striking national
peculiarities. This may possibly originate from the singular fact that
in this country where men are free to rove where inclination leads,
and to be under no other restraint than that which religion, law, or
decency imposes, there is less peculiarity of character or
individuality, than in any other portion of the globe with which I am
acquainted. They have not yet attempted to give as in England,
sketches of American society as it now exists, or may have existed
since the organization of their government. Whether such pictures
would indeed be interesting I am not prepared to say; but from the
society in which I have mingled, I do not think it has variety enough,
or differs sufficiently from that of other civilized nations to render
such pictures striking or amusing. Genius, however, can accomplish
every thing, and might give to what appears to be vapid and
_ennuyant_, some novelty and interest.

There are some other novelists in the United States, whose
productions, as they have sunk, or are rapidly sinking into oblivion,
it is scarcely necessary to name. One of these is a man of talent,
who, you will recollect, was an occasional contributor to the literary
periodicals of our country, while a resident there. I mean J. Neale.
His romances, from their wildness and extravagance, have been but
little read, and are now nearly forgotten. He still, however, employs
his pen, I understand, in doing what he can to edify and amuse his
countrymen. Novel reading has been legitimatized by Sir Walter Scott,
and though his productions furnish an admirable standard, nothing in
the nature of romance now goes amiss, and the demand for works of
fancy seems to increase in proportion to the number issued from the
press, and the food that is furnished. Although the Americans are
great novel readers, there is not {603} much of romance in their
character. There is too much matter-of-fact about them; they are too
calculating and money-making to serve the purposes of the novelist.
They form but indifferent heroes and heroines of romance, and hence
Cooper is obliged to resort to the sea to rake up pirates and
smugglers, or to go back to the revolution or the early settlement of
his country to find characters and incidents calculated to give
verisimilitude and interest to his tales.

In dramatic literature, but little has yet been done in the United
States. Few appear to have devoted much of their attention to dramatic
composition. I have seen but ten or twelve American plays in the
course of my researches; and these, though they possessed a good deal
of merit, have been suffered to sink into neglect, and are rarely
performed. A much larger number, however, would appear to have been
written and prepared for the stage. According to a catalogue I have
lately seen, no less than 270 dramatic pieces have either been
prepared for the theatre of this country, or written by Americans. Of
these many were of course got up for temporary purposes, and when
these purposes were answered were no longer remembered; but you will
be surprised to learn that of this number, commencing in 1775, there
are no less than _thirty-three tragedies_, the best of which are those
which have been recently brought out, Metamora, Ouralasqui, a prize
tragedy by a lady of Kentucky, and a combination of tragedies, by
Paine, called Brutus, which has been on the stage for several years.
The rest are scarcely remembered. The writer who seems to have devoted
the largest portion of his time to dramatic literature in this country
and who may be called the father of the American drama, is Mr. Dunlap,
who has figured for many years in the various characters of dramatist,
manager, and painter. His dramatic pieces amount to about 50, and he
has already outlived their fame. Some of his translations from the
German are still exhibited; but his original compositions are now
never performed, and are almost forgotten. Mr. J. N. Barker of
Philadelphia, stands next in point of fecundity, having given birth to
ten dramatic bantlings in the course of his life, some of which are
very creditable to their parent, but none are, I believe, stock plays.
The prejudice against native writers was at one time so strong that
the managers deemed it prudent to announce Mr. Barker's Marmion, Sir
Walter's poem dramatized, as the production of Thomas Morton the
author of Columbus. Mr. Dunlap was also I understand obliged to resort
to the same expedient in relation to two or three of his plays; but as
moon as it was known, their popularity, which had at first been
considerable, immediately ceased, and they were laid upon the shelf.
Such are some of the difficulties with which the American writer has
to struggle; but these I am happy to learn are now giving way, and a
more liberal spirit is beginning to prevail. It is to be hoped that
the dramatic muse of America will soon be enabled to triumph over all
the impediments which she has had to encounter, and repose in the same
bower and be crowned with the same chaplet as her more fortunate
sister of romance. Among the American plays which accident brought
under my notice, was a comedy in five acts, entitled the "Child of
Feeling," published in 1809, and written by a citizen of Washington.
It seems to have been a juvenile production, written without much
knowledge of the world, but with a due regard to the unities. The
dialogue wants sprightliness and the plot interest, and I merely
mention it now because its contains among its _dramatis personæ_ a
character which is to me entirely original, and which if he really
existed, the author must I think have caricatured in his copy. He is
called Etymology, and does not belie his name, for he is constantly
occupied in tracing every word that is spoken by himself or others to
its root, and makes as may easily be supposed, some comic and
ludicrous blunders. Till very recently, the author of even a
successful play received scarcely any compensation for his labor, and
the fame he acquired was but of short duration. Now however, it is
otherwise, and both reputation and emolument attend the successful
dramatist. The comedies, by American writers that I have seen, are not
remarkable for their wit or humor, and therefore do not long retain
their hold upon the stage. Dramatic exhibitions are not however held
by the Americans in very high estimation, and this may be one of the
causes of the low state of dramatic literature here. But the principal
causes would appear to be the want of leisure, the devotion of the
people to higher and more lucrative avocations, and the facility with
which dramatic productions of established merit and popularity can be
obtained from England. These causes operate in like manner I conceive,
to prevent the attainment of that high poetical excellence which has
yet to be reached by the worshippers of the muse in this country. The
following remarks on this subject by an American writer are so
pertinent, that I will transcribe them for your information. "We
regret to say," says he, speaking of American poetry, "that much less
has been done than might reasonably have been expected, even during
our short political existence. We have indeed as yet scarcely done
anything at which an American can look with conscious pride, as a
trophy of native poetic genius. The ponderous and vapid Epic of
Barlow, and the still more leaden and senseless heroics of Emmons, are
far from giving reputation to the poetry of our country; and the
fugitive and occasional pieces of Percival, Bryant, Halleck, &c. are
not exactly such as we should select as a proof {604} that we have
done much in poetry. We have been in existence as a nation for upwards
of half a century, and yet we have produced nothing that is certain to
reach posterity, or that can be classed higher than the minor
productions of Moore, Campbell, or Byron, of the present day. There is
an apparent want of originality, and too great an appearance of
imitation in the poetical efforts of our native bards to carry them
far down the stream of time, though it must be conceded that they have
discovered in these efforts no ordinary portion of genius. There would
seem to be something either in the nature of our political
institutions, or in the general character of our pursuits, which is
inimical to the developement of high poetical power. We are not a very
imaginative people; we prefer the reality to the ideal; we pursue the
substance rather than the shadow. Our ambition is early fired by
political distinction, or our exertions are directed to the attainment
of competency or wealth. The public mind has been led into a train of
thinking somewhat adverse to the indulgence of poetical enthusiasm,
and not calculated to render it susceptible of deep and intense
delight from the contemplation of poetical beauty. It has been led to
consider that the highest efforts of genius are those which are
displayed at the bar or in the senate, and to regard the power of
forensic and parliamentary eloquence as the loftiest exhibition of
intellectual excellence. To that which the mind is early taught to
respect and admire its greatest exertions will be directed, and hence
the number of those who resort to the profession of law, the career of
legislation, or the pursuits of commerce," &c.

It is unquestionably true, that no great original poetical work of
distinguished merit has yet made its appearance in the United States,
but it cannot at the same time be denied, that the individuals this
writer has named, with Bryant, Sigourney, Willis, and several others,
possess a fine poetical vein, the _mens divinior_ of Horace. Some of
their effusions contain passages of great beauty and splendor, and may
be fairly classed with those of the first poets of our country. Most
of them however, have merely what Mad. De Genlis calls the "art of
making verses;" and either from the want of encouragement, the
stimulus of praise, or continued enthusiasm, wing their flight briefly
into the regions of poetic fancy, and seldom afterwards attempt any
more lofty or daring excursions. But I must pause. I will endeavor in
my next to bring my remarks on the science and literature of the
United States to a close.




FINE PASSAGE IN HOOKER.


Hooker in his Ecclesiastical Polity says, "The time will come when
three words, uttered with charity and meekness, shall receive a far
more blessed reward, than three thousand volumes written with
disdainful sharpness of wit."




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO ----.


  The dial marks the sunny hour,
    Every brilliant moment noting,
  But it loses all its power
    When a cloud is o'er it floating,
            As if gloom should be forgot!

  Thus on Time has Mem'ry dwelt,
    Tracing every fleeting minute,
  When thy radiant smiles were felt
    Courting each, if they were in it,
            Noting none if they were not!




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

PARAPHRASE

Of a figure in the first volume of Eugene Aram.


  Tho' the Moon o'er yonder river
    Seems a partial glance to throw,
  Kissing waves that brightly quiver
    Whilst the rest in darkness flow,
  There's not a ripple of that stream
  Unsilvered by some hallowed beam.

  Thus in life the bliss that mellows
    Ills, that else the soul would blight,
  Seems to fall upon our fellows
    Like that glance of partial light;
  Yet each spirit sunk in sadness,
  Feels in turn its ray of gladness!




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MY SISTERS.


  Tho' I have sworn in other ears,
  And kissing, sealed the oath in tears,
  Have owned a little world divine,
  Between my Sarah's lips and mine,
  And more than mortal blessed have felt,
  While there in Heav'nly bliss we dwelt,
  Yet I _loved_ not.
  But when I look, dear girls on ye,
  E'en in the look my worlds I see;
  No vow has passed--our years have proved
  That we have ever truly loved--
  And in your every prayer I hear,
  My name so kindly whispered there,
  Oh! then I _love_.

ROSICRUCIUS.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES.


  Sleep on, thou dear maiden, I'll guard thee from harm,
  No foe shall come nigh thee while strength's in this arm;
  As thy sweet breath comes o'er me wild wishes may rise,
  But honor still whispers--Remember the ties
  Which bind her to one to whom she is dear
  As his hopes of a heaven, she's all he has here.
  Yes, far be it from me my friend to betray--
  To gain thy affections, whilst he, far away,
  But little suspects me, or dreams I would dare
  To deceive his heart's treasure--so lovely, so fair:
  Then sleep on, thou dear maiden, I'll guard thee from harm,
  No foe shall come nigh thee while strength's in this arm.

J. M. C. D.


{605}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

GRAYSON GRIFFITH.


There is in a pleasant part of the Old Dominion, a thrifty village
named Goodcheer. The inhabitants, from the first settlement of the
place, were kind, and bland, and social. Indeed many of them went
further. They jested, they fiddled, they danced, they sang songs, they
played at cards, they drank wine, they frolicked. Yet was there among
them a strong and steady current of public opinion against acts of
very low and gross meanness or depravity. They were not liars, or
thieves, or swindlers, or rakes.

In this village lived Gregory Griffith, the tanner, whose industry and
probity earned for him a respectability and an independence rivalled
by none except the old patriarch of the village, more generally known
by the name of the Major. Gregory had married the eldest daughter of
old farmer Ryefield, a woman well suited to make him happy. Her
disposition was easy, and her habits industrious and economical. They
were a bonny couple.

  "The day moved swiftly o'er their heads,
   Made up of innocence and love."

Fourteen months after their marriage, their first born son, a lovely
child, smiled in the face of his parents. Him they called Grayson. Nor
was he the only pledge of their love. They alternately rejoiced over a
daughter and a son, until their quiver was full, having four sons and
three lovely daughters. The death of their second child, who bore her
mother's name, had in the fourth year of their marriage, wrung the
bleeding hearts of these parents, and chastened their feelings to
sober thinking. Between their first born and their third child lay an
interval of nearly five years--a period which Mr. and Mrs. Griffith
always spoke of with deep emotion.

Grayson, in his childhood, had but feeble health--a circumstance which
secured to him very indulgent treatment. This indulgence rose to
excess after the death of the lovely Martha, his little sister. So
soon after the death of the daughter, as the gay villagers could with
propriety, they planned a general meeting at Mr. Griffith's. They
came, and after some time spent in sober enjoyment, a game of whist
was proposed. The proposal sensibly affected Mrs. Griffith. She seemed
to feel that it was too soon after her babe's death. The tears started
in her eyes, and she sought a place to weep. She went to her toilet
and bathed her face, and returned with an air of constrained
cheerfulness. Meanwhile Mr. Griffith had taken his seat with a second
company who were playing loo. Before Martha's death, Grayson had been
regularly carried to the nursery, as the sun threw his lowest and
latest beams on the summit of a hill in sight from the portico. But
after the death of his sister, he was encouraged to spend the evening
with his parents; and when overcome by sleep, his cradle and his
pillow were the bosom and the lap of parental fondness. And when
company was present, he was often awake until a late hour. On this
evening every one had something to say to Master Grayson. All the
ladies kissed him, and more than one promised him a daughter for a
little sweetheart. When whist and loo became the amusement, Grayson
was much interested, especially when he saw his father dealing out.
The very beaminess of his eye seemed to throw a charm around the
figures on every card. At first he said nothing. At last he went to
his mother and said: "Mamma, won't you teach me to do like papa? O, I
wish sister Martha was not dead, that she might see the pretties papa
has got. Mamma, what are the papers with the hearts on?" The mention
of Martha's name overcame Mrs. Griffith. She led Grayson to her
bed-room, and wept and kissed him until, overcome by sleep, he forgot
his joys and his sorrows until the next day. The nurse having lodged
the sweet boy in the long crib at the side of his parent's bed, Mrs.
Griffith returned to her company. Either her appearance, or a sense of
propriety in her guests, operated a speedy dissolution of the party.
The company being gone, Mr. Griffith said he wished he had not
consented to play that evening--that Martha had been dead but a year,
and that he really thought that as his child had been taken to heaven
when not two years old, it was time for him to begin to think of
preparing to meet her. Mrs. Griffith wept at the mention of Martha's
name, repeated what Grayson had said, observed that she had felt
badly, but that they must not be melancholy. She also said it was very
kind in the neighbors to endeavor to cheer them up. It was after
midnight, in the month of June, before these parents slept at all. At
the very dawn of day Grayson awoke his parents by kissing them often,
and calling their names aloud. So soon as he could get his father's
attention, he said: "O father, what were those pretty things you had
in your hand last night? Father, were they yours? May I have some?
Can't I do as you did with them? Father, what was you doing? Please,
sir, give me some to carry to school to-day." Mr. Griffith was not
displeased that Grayson did not wait for an answer to his
interrogatories. To his request for some to carry to school, he
replied that Mr. Birch, the teacher, was a religious man, and would
not let the boys carry such things to school. Grayson said: "And an't
you religious too, papa?" and kissed him. Mr. Griffith looked at his
wife. They both smiled confusedly.

After breakfast, some of the neighbors called and inquired for the
welfare of the family. Some of the ladies kissed Grayson, as did his
mother, and he went to school. At play-time he told the children what
he had seen, and one of the older boys explained the matter to the
rest of the company. He said the old people loved fun, and also played
for money--and yet they would not let their boys play. "Never mind,"
continued he, "I can make fun, if you will all beg some pins and bring
here to-morrow. Now, fellows, don't forget--bring a good many." The
next morning every mother and sister were faithfully plied for pins,
and every boy's sleeve was brightened with them. Before the teacher
had arrived, the elder boy, before named, had taught all his juniors
two ways of playing pins--one on a hat, and the other called "heads or
points." In a few days one boy had secured all the pins, and kept them
safely in a little case made of a section of reed. The spirit of
gambling, however, did not expire with the loss of the pins. Indeed
the loss of the many was the gain of one, and that one was the object
of profound admiration.

In a day or two, one of the boys came to school with an ear of white
and another of red corn, and a piece of {606} chalk in his pocket, and
whispered to all his play fellows that now they would have fine fun.
Every urchin was restless for play-time. Grayson Griffith was sure the
master's watch must have stopped or must be too slow, and said so. At
length the hour of recreation came, and as soon as all were fairly out
of the teacher's hearing, the aforesaid boy prepared to teach his
fellows the game of fox and geese. With his chalk he chequered a
board, and arranged his white and red grains in proper order--calling
the white grains of corn geese, and the red foxes. Soon he initiated
every boy, and Grayson Griffith among the number, in the mysteries of
the game.

Ere long it was proposed that every boy should ask for a cent at home,
and bring it to school. It was done. Grayson Griffith asked for one
cent, and his father gave him two, and his mother one. They said he
was old enough to have pocket money. He was now nearly eight years
old. In the playtime, all the boys agreed to throw heads or tails,
until they had won or lost the money that could be had. At the end of
the sport, Grayson had seven cents--but on his way home, he dropped
one in the grass, and by throwing heads or tails with another boy, he
lost three more--so that at night he had no more and no less than in
the morning.

That evening he asked if his father would go to the race next day. His
father replied he did not know. "Well," said Grayson, "I bet you three
cents and my barlow knife against ninepence, that Colonel Riley's
Firefly will beat General Hobson's young Medley." "You will bet?" said
Mr. Griffith. "Why, yes," said Grayson, "did not you bet at loo,
father?" Grayson and his father, as by mutual consent, waived the
conversation.

Next day Grayson told at school what had occurred. Mr. Griffith did
not go to the races; but in the evening some of the gentlemen came to
see him, and induced him to bet as high as twenty dollars on a game at
loo. Grayson seemed hardly to notice the occurrence, yet he was in
reality closely observing, and caught several of the expressions of
the gentlemen visiters. The next day, at a game of fox and geese, he
cried "Damme soul." And as he went to school he kept saying, "Clubs
are trumps--high, low, jack and the game." He thought it sounded
pretty.

In the meantime Mr. Griffith's family increased. He had now three sons
and a daughter; and Grayson would often promise to show his little
brother how to play fox and geese when he should grow a little larger.
Mrs. Griffith had also played at cards when any very special company
was present, or she was much urged.

Mr. Griffith about this time gave a hundred dollars towards building a
church in the village, and subscribed twenty dollars a year towards
the minister's salary; and many of the people had become very serious,
and even religious. The good minister, like his master Jesus Christ,
was very fond of children. All the children knew him in six weeks
after he went to live in Goodcheer, and they all loved him. They would
speak to him all the way across the street. One day Mr. Goodnews (for
that was the minister's name) called at Mr. Griffith's, and asked
Grayson if he knew how many commandments there were. His answer was,
"I bet you I do." "But," said Mr. Goodnews, "I never bet, my dear
little boy. Did not you know it was wrong to bet?" "No," said Grayson,
"it is'nt--Father and mother bet." Mrs. Griffith's face colored, and
she stammered out, "My son, you ought not to tell stories, even in
fun. You will make dear Mr. Goodnews think very badly of your
parents." "Any how, mother, it is true," said the boy.

When Grayson was eleven years old, he was allowed to go to the races.
Here his fondness for sport and gaming was much increased. He also saw
many things that he did not understand, and some that made him
shudder. His parents had given him at different times money, which he
had saved, and adding to which, what he received that morning, the sum
total amounted to one dollar and a quarter. The race that day was
chiefly between two noted animals, Major Clark's Rabbit, and Colonel
Nelson's Yellow Gray. Betting ran high. At first Grayson bet
twenty-five cents in favor of Rabbit; then he bet fifty cents against
twenty-five on the Yellow Gray; then he bet his remaining fifty cents
against another fifty cents in favor of Yellow Gray. In the meantime
he bought some beer and some cakes, and paid away twenty-five cents of
his money. When he first remembered that he might lose, he thought he
would not be able to meet all his engagements; but on reflection he
discovered, that let who would win, he could not lose all. The race
was run. Rabbit was beaten, and Grayson got his seventy-five cents,
and paid what he had lost, and had now left one dollar and a half. At
first he thought he would go home, and started--but a boy stepped
forward and said, he could show him some _tricks_--that he had a
rattle-come-snap, &c. Grayson went with him into the bushes, and there
Grayson lost one dollar at some sort of game, became vexed, and went
home. At night he would have determined never to bet any more, had it
not been that some gentlemen came to his father's, and talked
earnestly about their gains. Then the thought entered his mind that it
was entirely owing to good luck that some succeeded, and that he would
have better luck another day.

A few days after the races, Mr. Griffith was called to see his mother
die. She had been a very worldly-minded, proud woman--but her last
sickness had humbled her. With her last breath she spoke of herself as
a great sinner, and of her salvation as doubtful, and most solemnly
warned all her children not to follow her example. The minister at
Goodcheer went over to preach the funeral sermon, and returning in
company with Mr. Griffith, he thought he perceived some seriousness in
his manner, and introduced a very friendly and solemn conversation on
the importance of preparing for death. From that time Mr. Griffith
began to change, and in twelve months he and his wife both joined Mr.
Goodnews's church. They also presented their five children to the
Lord. This was a great change, and was much spoken of by the
villagers. It is thought the father and mother were both truly
converted. The day the children were baptized, Grayson did not behave
well in church, yet he dared not to do anything very wrong. The next
day, when one of the boys laughed at him for being baptized, he at
first thought he would say nothing, and had he done so, all would have
been well. But the laugh tormented him. So in going home from school
he made fun of it, and said the old people had got mighty religious.
When he got home he felt dreadfully at seeing Mr. Goodnews at his
father's; but he {607} soon left the house, and took the old cat in
his arms, and called the dogs, and went to chase cats in the old
field.

His parents with difficulty prevailed on him to attend Sabbath school.
He said five days and a half in a week were enough to go to school. He
also disliked to come to prayers. He was frequently out until a late
hour at night, and once was found with some very bad boys in an old
house on a Sabbath night, doing what he called "projecting." His
parents had all along opposed the cold water men, and had allowed
Grayson to have some sweetened dram in the morning out of their cups.
And even after Mr. and Mrs. Griffith joined the church, it did not
seem easy to conquer in a day all their prejudices against the
temperance society. These things led Master Grayson to drink julaps,
and punch, and even grog. But he did not drink much. He had also
learned to use profane language to an extent that was very distressing
to some pious people who had heard him; but his parents supposed he
never swore.

When Grayson was sixteen years old, he read Hoyle on Games; and though
he understood very little of what he read, he conceived that gaming
must be a very profound science. Especially was this impression
deepened by hearing a member of congress say, that Hoyle was as
profound as Sir Isaac Newton. He read Hoyle again, and even on the
Sabbath. His parents began to suffer much uneasiness about him; they
sometimes wept over his case; they took great pains to make religion
appear amiable--but he was eager in his pursuit of vanity.

When Grayson was eighteen or nineteen years old, he became acquainted
with Archibald Anderson, a most unworthy young man, of low breeding
and much cunning. Archie persuaded Grayson to go a pleasuring the next
Sunday--told him he had found a bee-tree, and that they would get some
girls and go and take the bee-tree next Sunday. They went, and
although Grayson tried to think it fine fun, it was a very gloomy day.
A thousand times did he wish himself in church. At night he came in
late, and went immediately to bed. Next day his father inquired where
he had been. But Grayson let him understand that young people must not
be watched too closely. In a day or two Mrs. Griffith became alarmed
at finding in Grayson's apparel evident preparations to elope; but
gentle and kind treatment soon seemed to regain his confidence.

Mr. Griffith had, in the course of business, previously borrowed a
thousand dollars from one of his neighbors, who had since removed to
the city of Allvice--and wishing to raise his bond, he gave Grayson
$1060, being the principal and interest for one year, and money to buy
himself a suit of clothes, and started him to town. Grayson had never
been to the city before, and his hopes were very high. On the evening
of the third day's ride, he arrived in the city of Allvice, and put up
in Blockley Row, at Spendthrift Hotel, next door to the sign of the
Conscience-seared-with-a-hot-iron. After supper he went to the
bar-room, and asked a young man "how far it was to any place where he
could see some fun." "What, the theatre," said the young man. "Any
place where I can see a little fun," said he. The young man said,
"follow me." Ere long they were at the door of the theatre, where
Grayson saw in large letters over a door--"The way to the pit." He
knew not what it meant, but said to the young man, "Don't let us go
that way." "No," said his companion, "we will go to the gallery. You
know _they_ are in the gallery." Grayson knew not who was meant by the
emphatic _they_; but following his guide, was soon in a crowd of black
and white women, and young and old men. Taking the first lesson in the
species of crime there taught, he stepped down a little lower, and
asked to what place a certain door led. He was told, "to the boxes."
Entering that door, he found many a vacant seat, and listened--but
when others laughed, he saw nothing to laugh at, until the clown came
on the stage. At him he laughed--he roared. Yet he felt as if he had
lost something, but could not tell what it was. "In the midst of
laughter the heart is sad," were words he often repeated, as he sat in
a box alone. The play being ended, he endeavored to find his way to
the hotel, but was greatly discomposed at remembering that his money
had been left in his saddle-bags, and they not locked, and that he had
not seen them since he came to town. At length he reached his
lodgings, and found all safe. He went to bed, but could not sleep.
Most of the night was spent in reflection, or rather in wild and vain
imaginations. A little before day a well dressed gentleman was shown
into the room where our young hero lay, there being two beds in the
room. The new inmate took a seat, and sighed; he paced the floor; he
took out his port-folio, and wrote a few words; he dropped his pen and
said, "What a fool." At length Griffith (for he is now too old to be
called by his given name,) ventured to inquire whether he could in any
way assist his room-mate to a greater composure. "O sir," said the
man, and sighed. At length the stranger said: "Eight days ago I left
home with $3,600 to go to the north to buy goods. I came here day
before yesterday, and to-night they have got the last cent from me at
the faro bank. And now, O what a fool!--I had rather take five hundred
lashes than do what I must,--write to my partner or my wife to send me
money to carry me home." Griffith expressed regret, but of course
could offer no consolation. He resolved, however, to pay the $1,060 as
soon as he could find the man to whom it was due. This he accordingly
did before nine o'clock next morning. The rest of the day he walked
the streets. Every little while $3,600 kept ringing in his ears. At
night, not having bought his suit of clothes, he went to the bar, and
there found the same young gentleman who the night before had
accompanied him to the theatre. Griffith took a seat by a window, and
the well dressed young man came to him and said: "Young gentleman, I
see you are fond of real genteel pleasure; let us go down into hell,
and win those fellows' money." Perhaps more mingled emotions never
agitated a bosom. In the first place he had been called a young
gentleman--an honor which, though he had deserved it before, had
seldom been given him. Then the idea of "real and genteel pleasure."
But the very sound of "going down to hell!" He would not go in "the
way to the pit" the night previous--and now could he go to hell? At
length he concluded that it was a mere nickname, and that the place
was really no worse than if it were called heaven, and he replied, "I
don't care if I do." They both left the room and went to the stable.
"Stop a minute," said Griffith, "let me see if Decatur has a {608}
good bed and a plenty to eat." In half a minute he satisfied himself
that his horse fared well, and he followed his young acquaintance into
one of the stalls, through which they passed by a blind door into a
long, narrow and dark entry. "Follow me," said the young man.
Presently they entered a large room. Griffith was struck with the
abundance of good things to eat and drink, which too were all free for
visiters. At a table on one side, sat an old man with a playful
countenance. He rose and said: "Last night a man won $3,600 at this
table." Three thousand six hundred dollars thought Griffith--and "how
much had he to begin with?" said he to the old gentleman. "Only a ten
dollar note," was the reply. In another part of the room, Griffith saw
a young man sitting behind a table, and leaning against the wall, with
his hat drawn down over his forehead, and wearing a heavy set of
features. Before him on the table lay three heaps of money--one of
silver--another of gold--a third of paper. Griffith eat some very fine
blanc mange on the table, and drank a little brandy, after which he
concluded he would risk ten dollars on a card. He did so, and put a
ten dollar bill into his pocket. His next risk was five dollars, which
he lost. With various success he spent an hour, at the end of which he
had tripled his money. He then retired to his room, and slept until a
late hour in the morning. Then he went to a merchant tailor, and
ordered his new suit, and spent the day in musing--visiting
factories--attending auctions, and laying plans for the night. "If I
had held on I might have broke them," said he; "I should have gotten
$3,600!" Night came, and with it a self-confident feeling peculiar to
the young gambler. He returned alone through the stall into "hell,"
and there lost all he had but five dollars. The next night he won
$150. The next night, which was to be his last in the city, he went,
and for a time succeeded. Once he had $700 in pocket, but before
day-light he had lost every cent he had, and making known his
situation, two men who had won his money, gave him each five dollars,
and advised him to leave town at day-light. That was a wretched night
to Griffith. His couch was a "bed of unrest." His very dreams were
startling. At daylight he paid his bill, and had remaining three
dollars and a quarter. He mounted Decatur, and with a heavy heart
journeyed towards the village of Goodcheer. When he found himself in
sight of home, he felt in his pocket and found he had seventy-five
cents. He also felt for the cancelled bond, but could not find it.
Riding into the woods, he examined his saddle-bags, and found the bond
in a waistcoat pocket. Seizing it with great joy, he shed a tear, and
mounted again. All the way home he had thought much of the manner in
which he should account for not having the new clothes. At length
seeing no way of escape, from confusion at least, in case his father
should inquire respecting the matter, he cherished the hope that his
father would say nothing. So he paced along, and got home just in time
for dinner. There was an air of affected cheerfulness in young
Griffith's gait and manner, that was unusual. He did the best he
could--took care early to deliver the cancelled bond--said he was not
much pleased with the city, and told something of what he had seen.
Next day his father asked if he had gotten the new suit. He replied
that he had concluded not to get it then, and reddened very much. Mr.
Griffith told his wife that he had fears about Grayson. They both
wept, and agreed to pray for him more than usual.

In the course of time, young Griffith being twenty-one years old, left
his father's, with $700 and Decatur, to seek his fortune in the West.
He soon obtained employment, and in the course of two years was able
to commence business as partner in a new firm. But, unfortunately, he
was not satisfied in the village where he was, but broke up and went
to the town of Badblood, where he opened a store. He was not long here
until a quarrel commenced betwixt him and one of his neighbors. The
occasion of the quarrel was a disagreement as to the beauty of a piece
of music. One declared the other to have a bad taste, and this was
regarded as insulting. Of course a challenge was given, and accepted.
The day of combat arrived. At the first fire no blood was spilt. This
was owing to the great agitation of both the combatants. At the second
fire Griffith wounded his antagonist slightly, but himself received no
wound. At the third fire Griffith's right arm was broken, and his
antagonist was wounded in the thigh. Here the seconds and friends
interfered, and declared they had fought enough. Had it not been for
public opinion, they would have thought that it was enough to be shot
at once a piece. But they were both content to quit, and even to drink
each other's health, before they left the ground. In the course of
eight or nine weeks, they were both in their usual health, and
attending to their accustomed duties.

The effect on Mr. Griffith's family on learning that Grayson was
expected to fight, was very distressing. The day the challenge was
given, Griffith wrote to his father thus:

_My very dear Father:_--On the morning of the day on which this shall
reach you in due course of mail, I shall have settled an affair of
honor. I do not love to fight, because I neither like the idea of
killing or being killed. If I go on the ground, I shall certainly take
life or lose it. I can't help it. I should be posted as a coward, if I
did not. Mr. B. will write you as soon as it is decided. Love to
mother and the children. God bless you. I can't bear an insult. Your's
ever,

G. GRIFFITH.

An entire week was this family in suspense, when at last, by request
of the father, dear Mr. Goodnews, the minister, was at the office, and
got the letter and opened it, and read the account as before given. He
immediately went to Mr. Griffith's, and found both the parents in bed
with a high fever, and their countenances covered with wan despair. As
he entered the door he tried to look cheerfully. "Grayson is dead,"
said the almost frantic mother. "No, he is'nt," said the minister.
"Then he is mortally wounded," said she. "No, he is not," said he.
"Then he is a murderer; he has killed a man! O, my first-born
Grayson!" "My dear Mrs. Griffith," said the good minister, "the Lord
is better than all your fears. Grayson and his antagonist are both
wounded indeed, but neither mortally." "O bless the Lord, bless the
Lord," said Mrs. Griffith, and swooned away. On using proper means she
was restored, and became calm and quiet; but it was an hour before Mr.
Goodnews could read the whole letter to her. Mr. Griffith suffered
greatly, but was much {609} occupied with the care of his wife. He
really feared that things would have terminated fatally. In a few days
the parents rallied, and wrote Grayson a most affectionate and solemn
letter, which he never answered.

The next news of importance which these parents received respecting
their son was, that he was married to an amiable, though a thoughtless
and giddy girl. In a year they heard that he was the father of a sweet
boy. In eighteen months more they heard that he had a sweet daughter.
Not long after, they heard that he made frequent and unaccountable
excursions from home, and presently they heard, that on a steam boat
that ran between the town of Badblood and the Bay of Dissipation, he
had by gambling, lost all his money. What they had heard was true.
Losing his money, he hastened home--made some arrangements for his
family--disposed of as much property as was left--received five
hundred dollars in hand--left two hundred with his wife--and with the
other three hundred set out professedly to visit his parents at the
village of Goodcheer. But the demon of gambling had possessed him--and
Griffith in a few weeks found himself with but one hundred dollars,
remaining at Spendthrift Hotel, in Blockley Row, in the city of
Allvice in the Old Dominion. Here Griffith resolved to retrieve his
fortunes. He sought the faro bank, and in an hour was pennyless. Poor
Griffith was not far from perfect ruin. He spent the night in dreadful
tossings, and in the very room where he had lodged years before. He
fancied that he saw "$3,600" in flaming figures before him. In the
morning he walked the streets. He watched to see whether he could
recognize any old friend among the hundreds he met. He read the names
on the sign-boards; he searched the morning papers; yet no bright
prospect opened before him. In the afternoon he wandered into Purity
Lane, and had hardly entered that street, when he saw on the knocker
at the door, "Amos Kindheart." He asked a servant who was washing down
the white marble steps, whether the "_Reverend_" Mr. Kindheart lived
there, and was answered in the affirmative. Asking to be introduced
into his presence, he was soon shown into the study. "Is this the Rev.
Mr. Kindheart?" said he. "It is," replied the good man, "please to be
seated." "Are you not acquainted with Rev. Mr. Goodnews?" "Yes sir."
"Do you not also know Gregory Griffith?" "Yes sir; I stayed at his
house more than a week some years ago; and if I am not deceived, this
is his son Grayson, who used to exercise my horse night and morning
when I was there." Mr. Kindheart expressed much pleasure at seeing
him, and learned that he had a wife and two children in the town of
Badblood, in the State of Misery; he also learned that he had been a
merchant. Mr. Kindheart treated him very affectionately, gave him a
handsome little present, invited him to dinner next day, and excused
himself for that evening, as he had in a remote part of the city an
engagement that could not be broken. Early next morning a little
ragged servant handed Mr. Kindheart a sealed note from Griffith,
stating that he had been imprudent, and requesting him to send by the
bearer a sum sufficient to meet the expenses of a passage to the
pleasant village of Goodcheer, from which place the amount should be
returned at an early date. Mr. Kindheart replied in a note that he had
not the money then, but would get it before the next evening, when the
first stage would leave, and renewed the invitation to dinner that
day. Dinner came, but no Griffith was there. Several hours before it
was time for the stage to start, Mr. Kindheart called with the money
at Griffith's lodgings, but he was not to be seen. In a short time he
called again, and then again. Still he could not be seen. The truth
was, Griffith's conscience would not let him face a man from whom he
knew he desired money only that he might have the means of gambling.
He had no serious purpose of visiting Goodcheer.

For many days Griffith loitered about the city in perfect
wretchedness, and without one cent of money. At length he went to the
proper city police officer, and told him that there were several
gambling establishments in town, that many persons visited them, and
that he could give important testimony in the case. Then going to
Hardface and Takeall, two gamblers, he told them that unless they
would give him $600, so that he might fairly and speedily escape, he
would be retained as a witness against them at the next sessions. The
gamblers agreed to give him $500, hastened his departure in a private
conveyance, but started after him a man, who overtaking him in the
next post town, horsewhipped him very severely. Griffith bore this
rough treatment like a dog. He squealed, he cried, he howled, he
danced--but he did not resist.

From this time Griffith wandered about, until, in the course of a few
months, he found himself again with his family. At first he seemed
pleased to kiss his babes and embrace his wife; but the next day went
to a faro bank in Badblood, and lost all he had--even his wife's
wardrobe and toilet. At this time he resolved on destroying his own
life. He went to three different shops, and procured laudanum in a
quantity sufficient to take life. He went home, and as he ascended the
first flight of stairs, he emptied the contents of each vial into his
stomach. O woman, what an angel of mercy thou art! His wife met him at
the door, with unwonted demonstrations of love. His little boy
prattled most sweetly; his little girl breathed in her crib as gently
as a May zephyr. His wife told him of several pleasant and smart
things which the children had said and done that day. He began to
weep--then to tremble--then to dislodge the contents of his stomach.
"My dear Nancy," said Griffith, "I shall be dead in a few hours, but
never mind." His wife perceiving that laudanum was in his stomach,
instantly prepared a potent emetic, and mixing it with a large tumbler
of hot water, offered it to her husband, and he consented to drink it,
supposing it could not be improper. In a few minutes, through the
influence of nausea, from the effects of brandy, and from the dose
just given, the stomach was emptied. Poor Griffith suffered much, but
gradually recovered. None save his wife knew of the attempted violence
on his own life.

At length a few benevolent people proposed to him to leave Badblood,
and go into the interior. He consented, and they gave him the
necessary money, as he and his family entered the stage. Griffith was
much affected by their kindness, especially that of one old Baptist
gentleman, who said very tenderly, "God bless you all." They travelled
day and night, until they were two hundred miles from the place of
their recent miseries, when a violent fever and painful dysentery in
{610} their little boy compelled them to stop. The house where they
stopped, though not promising much in outward appearance, was yet neat
and clean. Mr. Felix, the landlord, and his wife, were intelligent,
industrious and pious. They were strict temperance people, and no
liquor could be had for drink within fifteen miles. Griffith of course
became very cool. The first day he was very wretched; he had no
employment--he had no heart to assist in nursing the sick boy. Towards
evening he took a gun and walked into the field, and shot a partridge.
At first he seemed pleased that he might thus promote the comfort of
his little son, but then he remembered that animal food of any kind
would injure him. The next day he was more miserable than ever, until
about noon he saw fishing rods, and on inquiry found that there was a
fish-pond not very distant. He went and angled for hours, but the hot
sun had driven every fish under the banks and tussocks. He sat four
long hours, and had not even a nibble. He returned with a heavy heart;
yet it was pleasant to more than his wife, to observe a growing
earnestness and frequency of inquiry into the health of his child. The
next day, being Friday, a meeting commenced at a church not three
hundred yards distant from the house of their kind landlord, and by a
little persuasion, Griffith was prevailed on to attend. The first
sermon was very animated, and was on that text: Isaiah lii. 3: "Thus
saith the Lord; ye have sold yourselves for naught, and ye shall be
redeemed without money." Griffith sat on the back seat, and paid more
attention than one would have supposed from his appearance. The second
sermon was preached by an old gentleman, on the text, 1 Timothy, i.
15: "This is a faithful saying and worthy of all acceptation, that
Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, of whom I am chief."
Returning home, Griffith thought the preachers both affectionate and
able; but he really thought some things must be personal. Indeed, the
young man who had preached first, had a very dark and piercing eye,
which when animated in preaching, made almost every one think he was
looking all the while at him alone. When Griffith came home, he sat by
his sick child, and told his wife what he had seen and heard. That
night he was restless and wakeful. In the morning he took a long walk
before breakfast, and at the usual hour repaired to the church. A
sermon was then preached on the Cities of Refuge, and the preacher
earnestly exhorted his hearers to flee for refuge to the hope set
before them in the gospel. The exercises of Saturday afternoon, were
prayer and singing, accompanied by short and solemn exhortations. In
all these services Griffith manifested deep interest, though he said
nothing, except that he detailed to his wife what he had seen and
heard. He also said, that as their boy was now much improved in
health, and as Mr. Felix's oldest daughter would stay at home next
day, his wife must accompany him to church. Sabbath morning came, and
although there seemed to be many difficulties, yet they were all
surmounted, and Mrs. Griffith and her husband, for the first time in
several years, went in company to the house of God. The text was,
Isaiah liii. 5: "He was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised
for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and
with his stripes we are healed." During the delivery of this sermon,
Griffith was seen to weep. His wife, however, had two reasons for not
feeling easy. Her apparel was really poor; but she was soon relieved,
by seeing that all the people were plainly attired. She also suffered
much uneasiness about her son. But good Mrs. Felix had directed her
eldest son to return home in an hour after the service should begin,
and bring word whether all was right. Her son came with a message,
which she soon, in a whisper, communicated to Mrs. Griffith. The
message was, that the boy had fallen asleep--that his room had been
made dark--that he seemed to sleep very sweetly, and would perhaps not
wake for an hour or two. Mrs. Griffith got the message just in time to
be entirely composed during the administration of the Lord's Supper,
which service immediately succeeded the first sermon. It was a solemn
scene. There were few dry eyes in the house. At the close of the
communion service, the company of believers rose and sang that
favorite spiritual song--

  "How happy are they
   Who the Savior obey," &c.

Griffith and his wife both thought "how happy are they." They both
hastened home, as did Mrs. Felix also. Finding their boy much better,
and their kind hostess herself determining to remain at home in the
afternoon, both Mr. and Mrs. Griffith returned to the church. When
they came near the church they heard singing, and just as they entered
the door, the congregation sung, and repeated the closing lines of a
hymn as follows:

  "Here, Lord, I give myself away,
   'Tis all that I can do."

Griffith sighed, and said to himself--"O that I could give myself
away, and the gift be accepted." They had just taken their seats, when
the preacher announced his text in Revelation xxii. 17: "And the
spirit and the bride say, come: and let him that heareth say, come:
and let him that is athirst, come: and whosoever will, let him take
the water of life freely." The sermon did not exceed forty minutes in
length, yet it was a faithful, tender and solemn entreaty to all
sinners, the least and the most vile, to come to Christ and live.
After service, one of the ministers went home with Mr. Felix, and
having observed Griffith's behavior at church, he said many good
things in his presence and for his benefit. Griffith and his wife
spent most of that night in solemn reflection and silent prayer. On
Monday morning a neighbor called to complete some arrangements with
Mr. Felix, in reference to supplying the place of their teacher, who
had recently died. In an unexpected train of conversation, they were
led to speak of Griffith as perhaps a suitable man. In a few days it
was mutually agreed that Griffith should teach the school for the rest
of that session, which was but three months. His family being provided
for, he commenced his school. Yet for days and weeks, both he and his
wife suffered much pain and darkness of mind. At length they both,
about the same time, hoped that they had found him, of whom Moses in
the law and the prophets did write. After trial of some weeks, they
were admitted to the communion. The day after this event, Griffith
wrote an affecting letter to his venerable parents. This letter was
evidently blessed, not only to the comfort of their hearts, but also
many of the pious people in Goodcheer were much affected by it. {611}

  "Great is the grace, the neighbors cried,
   And owned the power Divine."

Griffith immediately established the worship of God in his family, and
rejoiced in God with all his heart. Nor was his wife a whit behind in
holy delight at the change. Griffith's conversion led him to inquire
into the lawfulness of gambling. He had three questions to decide. The
first was, whether he should pay a debt of $60 incurred in gambling?
He soon resolved to pay it, as it was the manner of contracting, and
not the payment of the debt, that was the sin. The next question was,
what should he do respecting the $9,000, which he found by estimate he
had lost at different times? To this he could only say, that most of
it was won by strangers, and by men who had long since died in
wretchedness and poverty. He could not get it. By a careful estimate
of what he had won from men whose names and residence he knew, over
and above what they had won from him, and including the $500 extorted
from the gamblers, by threatening to volunteer as witness against
them, he found that he owed in all, rather more than $1,500. Resolving
to pay the whole sum, if spared and prospered, he engaged to teach
school another session of ten months; and although he could not save
much of his earnings, he resolved to save what he could.

How astonished was he, when a few days after he formed this purpose,
as he was going to school in the morning, a gentleman hailed him as
Mr. Griffith, and said: "Sir, I won from you several years ago nearly
$700; there is the money, with some interest. I am a christian. I
cannot keep it; there it is." With these few words, the traveller
proceeded. Griffith was so amazed, that he even forgot to ask his
name, or residence, or the course of his journey. Of the $700,
Griffith sent $200 to the widow of a poor silly drunken man, from whom
he had, not long before his complete downfall, won that amount. He
sent $200 more to a young clerk, whom he had well nigh ruined as to
morals and character, and from whom he had won $180 two years before.
He sent $300 to the father of a little blind girl, from whose deceased
brother he had won that amount, saving the interest, and requesting
that it might be employed to send the blind child to the Asylum for
the blind. By the kindness of Providence, other sums were restored to
him, amounting in all to a few hundreds. His economy and industry, and
good capacity as a teacher, also secured to him a growing income from
his school--so that in a few years he had paid every debt, and
restored all money obtained by gambling. He has since bought a small
tract of land, and built a very neat cabin, with two apartments, upon
it. He calls it the Retreat. He is now forty-three years old--still
keeps a school--has a good income from his own industry--enjoys
tolerable health, and has around him many of the comforts of life. His
wife and children still live, and help to make him happy. His
penitence and humility are deep; yet is thankfulness the reigning
exercise of his heart. The goodness and grace of God, through Jesus
Christ, are themes on which he never tires.




Dryden's genius was of that sort which catches fire by its own motion;
his chariot wheels got hot by driving fast.--_Coleridge_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES

Written in Mrs. ----'s Album.


  Give me a subject! O! propitious fate!
    That by collision with my frigid brain
  Shall strike out fire![1] Love? Honor? Friendship? Hate?
    The jaded ear doth loathe the hackneyed train!

  Give me a subject! thus a Byron sang--
    And from the Poet's mind in perfect form
  Like brain-born PALLAS, forth Don Juan sprang,
    A captivating Demon--fresh and warm.

  Give me a subject! Alexander raved,
    A world to conquer!--and the red sword swept--
  No truant Planet sought to be enslaved,
    And bully Ellick disappointed wept!

  A theme, ye stars! that with yon clouds bo-peep--
    They wink, sweet Madam!--but, alas! are dumb:
  "I could call spirits from the vasty deep"
    To freeze thy gentle blood! But would they come?

  There are no themes in this dull changeless world!
    Spinning for aye on its own icy poles--
  Forever in the self-same orbit whirled,
    A huge TEE-TOTUM with concentric holes!

  Ev'n Heaven itself had not poetic been
    Though filled with seraph hosts in guiltless revel,
  Had not one bright Archangel changed the scene--
    Unlucky wight! to play himself the Devil!

  Then came the tug of Gods! for rule and life--
    The unmasked thunders shook the stable sky--
  But MILTON sings of the immortal strife,
    And lived much nearer to the times than I.

  Prythee! go seek him, if thou would'st be told
    A graphic story, pictured to the ear
  With matchless art, by one who did behold,
    So thou wouldst think--the war storm raging near.

  Hast read the Poem, Ma'am? So have not I,
    But I have heard that what I say is true--
  And by my faith I'm much disposed to try
    And give the Devil's bard and Devil his due!

  But I am modest--and do not intend
    To outsoar Milton in his lofty flight--
  Nor would my Muse poor Byron's ghost offend,
    He hated rivalry--and so--good night!

[Footnote 1: A familiar suggests that an "_oaken towel_" might produce
the desired effect. No doubt; and hence the expression "cudgel thy
brains."]




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE DIAMOND CHAIN.


  While Rosa near me sweetly sung,
    And I beheld her blue eyes' light,
  A chain around my heart was flung,
    Its every link a diamond bright.

  But now that we are forced to part,
    And her loved voice no more I hear,
  The chain is withering up my heart--
    Its diamonds each a burning tear.

QUESTUS.


{612}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

WHERE SHALL THE STUDENT REST?

A Parody on Constance's Song in Marmion.


  Where shall the student rest
    Whom the fates destine
  Old law-books to digest,
    That baffle all digesting?
  Where through tomes deep and dry
    Spreads the black letter,
      Where endless pages lie
        Genius to fetter.
          Eleu loro,
          Eleu loro,
      Toil "sans remitter."
  There, while the sun shines bright,
    In law-fogs he's buried;
  There too by candle light,
    On law points he's worried:
  There must he sit and read,
    Puzzled forever--
  When shall his mind be freed?
    Never-more, never.

  Where shall the _lawyer_ rest?
    He the hors-pleader?
  With brass and blunders drest--
    His client's misleader:
  In the lost lawsuit,
    Borne down by demurrer,
  Or forced to withdraw suit,
    Or quaking with terror.
          Eleu loro,
          Eleu loro,
      Fearing writ of error.
  His sham-pleas the court shall chide,
    Disgusted to see them;
  His warm blush the crowd deride
    Ere he can flee them;
  Blund'ring from bad to worse,
    Disgraced forever--
  Clients shall fill his purse,
    Never! oh, never!




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE AGE OF REPTILES.


  Poets affect, that when the Earth was young
    All Nature's works were beautiful and bright,
  That Planets in their spheres harmonious sung
    Like Seraphs--joining in celestial flight;
  That flowers bloomed in one eternal spring,
    Scenting with luscious sweets the ambient air,
  That life was luxury, and pain a thing
    Not meant for man, but spirits of despair.

  Lady! it was not so--the world was rude--
    Behold the proof in Mantell's strange narration:[1]
  Its form, and elements, and fabric crude,
    And REPTILES were the "Lords of the Creation:"
  O! ingrate man! bethink thee of thy fate,
    Had thy Creator called thee then to being
  And left thee to the chances of a fate
    Beyond all bearing--hearing--feeling--seeing!

  Then lumbered o'er the rugged Earth strange forms,
    Misshapen--huge--gigantic--living wonders--
  Howling fit chorus to discordant storms,
    That, like a thousand Ætnas, crashed in thunders.
  Cleaving the dismal sky, with rushing sound
    Appalling monsters hurl their cumbrous length,
  And through the murky sea, in depths profound,
    Gambolled Leviathans in mighty strength.

  What thinks Philoclea of the pristine Earth?
    Believ'st thou Nature smiled at such beginning?
  If those huge occupants inclined to mirth,
    Their's was an age of awful ugly grinning!
  The seaman's figure of a seventy-four
    Showing her teeth--her guns in triple tiers--
  Were no hyperbole in days of yore,
    Howe'er extravagant it now appears.

[Footnote 1: See the Edinburg Philosophical Journal and the 21st No.
of Silliman's Journal, for some account of the Geological Age of
Reptiles, by Gideon Mantell, Esq. F.R.S. &c. &c.]




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ANSWER

To Willis's "They may talk of your Love in a Cottage."


  You may talk of your sly flirtation
    By the light of a chandelier;
  With music to play in the pauses,
    And nobody over near:
  Or boast of your seat on the sofa,
    With a glass of especial wine,
  And Mamma too blind to discover
    The small white hand in thine.

  Give _me_ the green turf and the river--
    The soul-shine of love-lit eyes--
  A breeze and the aspen leaf's quiver,
    A sunset and GEORGIAN skies!
  Or give me the moon for an astral,
    The stars for a chandelier,
  And a maiden to warble a past'ral,
    With a musical voice in my ear.

  Your vision with wine being doubled,
    You take twice the liberties due,
  And early next morning are troubled
    With "Parson or pistols for two!"
  Unfit for this world or another,
    You're forced to be married or killed--
  The lady you choose--or her brother--
    And a grave--or a paragraph's filled.

  True Love is at home among flowers,
    And if he would dine at his ease,
  A capon's as good in his bowers
    As in rooms heated ninety degrees:
  On sighs intermingled he hovers,
    He foots it as light as he flies,
  His arrows, the glances of lovers,
    Are shot to the heart from the eyes!




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EPIGRAM.


  Said a Judge to a culprit he'd known in his youth,
    "Well Sandy! What's come of the rest of the fry?"
  "Please your worship," said Sandy, "to tell you the truth,
    They're every one hanged but your Honor and I."


{613}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

VISIT TO THE VIRGINIA SPRINGS,

_During the Summer of 1834_.

NO. III.


Whilst at the Salt Sulphur, I found it necessary, for a time, to
exchange that for a water of a somewhat different character; and as
the Blue Sulphur had begun to attract considerable attention, I
determined to resort thither. Accordingly, I took the stage for
Lewisburg, twenty-five miles distant from the Salt Sulphur, and within
thirteen miles of the Blue. We travelled over the White Sulphur road
as far as the splendid Greenbrier bridge on this turnpike, where we
were landed at a hotel, to await the arrival of the Fincastle stage,
to carry us on to Lewisburg. It was already dark before the stage came
up, and although but three miles of our road lay before us, yet the
whole distance was ascending, so that we could not travel out of the
slowest walk. We however reached Lewisburg in time to discuss the
merits of an excellent supper, and get into comfortable lodgings by a
very reasonable bed time.

I was detained at this place for want of a conveyance to the Blue
Sulphur, there being as yet no regular stage. The time, however,
passed off pleasantly. Lewisburg contains about seven or eight hundred
inhabitants; its situation is elevated--the scenery around quite
picturesque; and, if the improvements progress as they have done for
the past few years, it will soon become a very pretty village. This
place is much frequented, during the spring season, by visiters at the
White Sulphur--the distance being only nine miles, over a smooth, and
for the most part, beautiful road.

After two days, I succeeded in obtaining a horse, and on the following
morning set off, in company with a gentleman of the neighborhood, on
the remaining thirteen miles to the Blue Sulphur. The way usually
travelled by carriages is circuitous; consequently, we struck across
through the country, on the most direct route to the Springs. Our road
was exceedingly rough and hilly, without anything peculiarly
interesting. Indeed, we were so completely imbosomed among the hills
and forests, that nothing could be seen except the long ridge of the
Muddy Creek Mountain, which lay before us. Before reaching the base,
the road had dwindled into a blind bridle path, winding amongst the
spurs of the mountain; and on ascending, it became so precipitious,
and so covered with loose and rolling stones, as to render it almost
impassable. We at length succeeded in reaching the summit--not however
without having been obliged to dismount occasionally, and allow our
horses to clamber after us over the worst parts of the way. We then
travelled for two miles along the top of the mountain, over a level
and beautiful road; after which we descended by a rough and rocky
path, similar to that on the opposite side. A few miles more, over a
fertile and cultivated country, brought us into the vicinity of the
Blue Sulphur, or in the language of the country, to the Muddy Creek
settlement.

As the accommodations at the Spring were already occupied, we rode up
to an old fashioned log house, with a long piazza in front, surrounded
by lombardy poplars and apple trees, and screened from the road by an
intervening hill, and obtained accommodations with its kind and
pleasant occupants. No part of my time among the mountains, was
attended with more peculiar or deeper interest than that passed in the
Muddy Creek settlement. Every thing about this region is calculated to
bring one back to the early days of our country. The habits and
customs are all after the unpretending fashion of the pioneers; and
human character is here seen in its native simplicity. Refinement,
with its luxuries and follies, has not yet penetrated this secluded
region, to corrupt the plain and simple customs of its generous,
open-hearted and upright yeomanry. Here too, as a friend remarked, we
realize, to some extent, the amazing and almost startling rapidity
with which our nation has sprung into existence. But a few years ago
this was the undisputed home of the Indian. This identical house was
once the last house on the frontier of civilized America; and one of
the family now alive, was among the little band who first ventured
across the Alleghany mountains, and carried the sounds of civilized
life into these desolate wilds. Hers was the last family on the
western frontier. Not a civilized being stood on the wide waste of
wilderness which stretched far away to the shores of the Pacific. But,
with unexampled rapidity, civilization has transformed the whole face
of the country; and this old lady, who thought she "had gotten to the
end of the world when she got to Greenbrier," has, within her own
recollection, seen a nation springing up west of her, already putting
on the vigor and energy of mature years, and outstripping the nations
of the eastern world.

This interesting old lady, is indeed a complete "chronicler of the
olden time." Her attire is in perfect keeping with her character. She
still preserves the simple style of the by-gone century, uncorrupted
by the supposed improvement of a later generation. The close cut cap,
scarcely concealing the silvered locks of age--the muslin
handkerchief, drawn neatly over the shoulders, covering a part of the
plain tight sleeves, and confined under the girdle of a long-waisted
tea-colored gown, were admirably suited to the bending, yet dignified
and venerable figure which they adorned. Then to sit during the
pensive hours of evening in the old piazza, overlooking the garden a
few feet before us, which was the site of one of the earliest forts,
the fields and the peaks, the scenes of frightful Indian massacres,
and listen to her narratives of the perils and trials of the pioneers
of {614} Greenbrier, is a treat which a few years will probably put it
out of the power of any to enjoy. Her graphic delineations of the
horrors of a frontier life, sometimes excited our imagination to such
a pitch, as to render it difficult to compose the body to repose at
the accustomed time of retirement, or to restrain the mind from
frightful dreams during the sleeping hours. The whole Muddy Creek
settlement abounds with Indian tales. Every mountain, knob and hollow,
is notorious as having been the scene of some bloody deed or memorable
exploit of the red men of the forest, as they made the last struggle,
before giving way to the invaders, and leaving forever their native
wilds.

But our present destination is the Blue Sulphur. The distance thither
from our house is rather more than a mile. The intermediate region is
level low ground, bounded on each side, at some distance, by a ridge
of mountain. These two ridges gradually converge, until they pass the
Spring about one hundred yards, where a third ridge brings a sweep
immediately across the line of their direction, and closes that end of
the valley. The space about the Spring is a perfect level, amply
extensive, and admirably adapted for improvements on a large and
handsome scale.

The Blue Sulphur, like many of the valuable mineral springs of this
state, has heretofore been known only as a place of neighborhood
resort. A few diminutive log cabins had been erected by the farmers of
the adjacent country, who, after the labors of harvest, were
accustomed to bring their families, with a wagon load of goods and
chattels, and take up their residence here during one or two of the
summer months. The virtues of the Muddy Creek Springs have long been
known and esteemed by these visiters. A year or two since the property
was purchased by a company, who are now providing extensive and most
inviting accommodations. I do not know that I can be charged with
disloyalty to my native state, in rejoicing that these Springs have
partly fallen into the hands of northern men. Our own citizens have
generally shown such an astonishing want of energy in carrying on
these valuable watering places, that we believe it to be better that
one of them has come into the possession of those, who are willing, at
any expense, to do it and the public justice; and who, in proportion
to the time they have owned the property, have shown a spirit of
improvement greatly surpassing that of the proprietors of most of the
other Springs. One of the first changes under the auspices of the new
administration, was the substitution of the title of Blue Sulphur for
the more ignoble appellation of Muddy Creek Springs.

The company, immediately after the purchase of the property, commenced
their improvements, and at the period of our visit, were prosecuting
them with a spirit worthy of admiration. These improvements consist of
a long and imposing brick hotel, three stories in height, at the upper
extremity of the valley, and facing the entrance to the Springs. This
is flanked on each side by a row of brick cottages, which at their
outward extremities, unite with similar ranges, running parallel with
the bases of the mountains and each other, until they nearly reach the
Spring, forming together three sides of a hollow square. The
intermediate lawn, can by a little cultivation and exercise of taste,
be rendered very beautiful. A temple, surpassing in appearance that of
any of the other watering places, is to be erected over the Spring,
and the reservoir, &c. to be fitted up in corresponding style. The
Spring is large, discharging a quantity of water nearly equal to the
White Sulphur. The sediment from which the establishment has derived
its modern name, is of a blue or rich dark purple color.

At the time I visited the Blue Sulphur, some of the new buildings were
partly finished, and a tavern keeper from the neighborhood had opened
a boarding house on the ground; and although the accommodations were
quite rough, there were at one time as many as seventy-five visiters.
Most of these were citizens of Charlestown, who had fled from the
cholera, which was then raging on the Kanawha.

The mountains in this vicinity abound with game, and accordingly,
hunting is the favorite amusement of the visiters. Almost every
morning a company started, with hounds and horns, on a "deer drive,"
and they seldom returned without bringing with them one of these noble
animals. On one morning, a fine buck was driven down, and shot within
a few feet of the Spring. Others of the visiters make excursions
through the mountains, to enjoy the attractions which have been
lavished with such profusion on this section of country. Perhaps one
of the most pleasant of these, is a ride of some ten or fifteen miles
to a spring which has lately come to light, and which for a sulphur
spring is rather _sui generis_. It was discovered by an old farmer,
who was engaged in boring for salt water. When he had sunk his shaft
to the depth of some fifty feet, the water bursted up, and rushed from
the opening of the well. But instead of salt, it was sulphur water;
and it has continued to run with unabated freedom to the present time.
Little is as yet known of its peculiar properties. It deposits a white
sediment. The proprietor, I understand, will neither make improvements
himself, nor allow others to do so. Perhaps, however, we can dispense
with his spring. There are enough already improved, among these
mountains, to meet the case of almost any invalid. Among these, the
Blue Sulphur is by no means the least worthy of notice; and we must
not therefore leave it, before we have said something of its medicinal
qualities.

Those who know most of the Blue Sulphur, {615} say that it combines
the valuable properties of the White and Red Sulphur. This is probably
true to some extent. The Blue Sulphur operates upon the liver with
great energy, and at the same time acts as a tonic. These are,
respectively, qualities of the White and Red Sulphur. The White
Sulphur, although it scarcely ever fails to rectify derangements of
the liver, depletes, and generally to some extent, produces debility.
The latter effect, we believe, is never produced by the Blue Sulphur,
owing probably to its tonic properties. We do not know, however, how
far either has claim to preference. As to the similarity between this
Spring and the Red Sulphur, we suppose it ascertained that wherever
there is a derangement of the sanguiferous system, except where the
lungs are affected, the action of the Blue Sulphur is equally, if not
more salutary, than that of the Red. This water is, however, very
exciting; perhaps even more so than the White Sulphur, and should
consequently, like that Spring, be avoided by pulmonary invalids.
There is also an approximation in the action of the Blue and Salt
Sulphur waters. Both of these Springs are efficacious in affections of
the stomach. Where the invalid retains a considerable degree of vigor,
or where the system is irritable, the Salt Sulphur would be decidedly
preferable, as that water occasions very little of the unpleasant, and
in such cases, perhaps injurious excitement caused by the Blue Sulphur
water. Where dyspepsy has advanced so far as to occasion extreme
debility, probably the Blue Sulphur should be resorted to, at least
for a while, as that water would sustain and strengthen the system, at
the same time that it removed the disease. These remarks are the
result of the observation of the practical effects of these waters,
and of the experience of others, without pretension to professional
skill. We believe, however, that they will be found strictly correct.

The similarity between these Springs to which we have alluded, need
not be injurious to either, whilst the probabilities in favor of the
restoration of an individual who comes to these mountains for health,
is increased by this circumstance. It is the opinion of those who have
been most at these watering places, that after two weeks constant use
of any water, it begins to lose its power on the system.[1] If the use
is discontinued for a few days, or if you resort to another Spring for
a short time, a return to the original Spring is attended with the
same effects as when first resorted to. A variety of waters,
therefore, even when their qualities are to some extent similar, is a
decided advantage. The invalid who has gotten his system charged at
one Spring, can resort to another of a sufficiently different
character to secure the object of a change, and yet resembling the
original water sufficiently to suit the necessities of his case. A
turnpike will soon be completed from Lewisburg to the Blue Sulphur,
and again connecting with the Kanawha turnpike, west of the Springs,
which will render this place easily accessible.

[Footnote 1: Perhaps the Red Sulphur is an exception.]

After a sojourn of a week, I again turned my face towards the Salt
Sulphur. I had as a companion an intelligent gentleman, extensively
acquainted with the country; and in accordance with his proposition,
we determined to reach that place by a route somewhat different, and
offering more natural attractions than that by which I had come over.
In the course of the evening, we passed through some of the finest
farms in Western Virginia. I do not believe that the prairies of the
"far West" can exhibit more luxuriant fields of corn than some of
those in this section of Greenbrier. We passed the Muddy Creek
Mountain at a _gap_, and our way, although little more than an
indistinct bridle path, was more pleasant than that by which I had
before crossed. The view from the highest point on this gap, almost
defies description.

From the section of country which we had left behind us, rose Keeny's
Nob, a huge peak upon which the Indians used to light signal fires,
and which derived its name from some romantic circumstance--rearing
its summit far above the adjacent mountains, and spreading out its
swelling sides and the projections of its base over the neighboring
country; from this, and continuing round to the right, before us, were
alternate ridges and vallies, covered with dense forest, as yet
apparently untouched by the woodman's axe, and only broken by the
Greenbrier river, whose high and bleak naked cliffs could be seen at
the distance of some miles. Beyond, was Peter's Mountain, coming down
from the west, and running off to the east, in a straight unbroken
line. Immediately before us, were the variegated fields of a few rich
grazing farms. Farther on, the mountain upon which Lewisburg is
situated, excluding the White Sulphur from the view; and in the
distance, the "back bone" of the Alleghany, which you cross five miles
beyond the White Sulphur on the turnpike, whose line could be
occasionally discerned as it wound among the spurs of the mountain. To
the left lay some cultivated country, terminated by ridges upon ridges
of mountains. The sun was in the last hour of his daily course, and
with his evening rays illumined the hills, giving the varied hues,
from the brightest to the deepest green, to the waste of "silent
wilderness" which stretched far away to that quarter of the horizon.
We were soon, however, obliged to relinquish this scene, combining so
much of the grand, beautiful and sublime, and hasten down the
mountain, in order to get as far as possible through the worst of the
hills and hollows before night should overtake us.

{616} I took the stage at Lewisburg next morning, and by noon arrived
at the Salt Sulphur, which was now thronged, and exhibiting all the
life, and bustle, and fashion, which crowds of the gay and wealthy
bring with them. Every garret and domicil about the establishment,
capable of being slept in, had been called into requisition the night
before. We heard, before reaching the Springs, that the proprietors,
on the previous evening, had sent on to stop visiters bound thither,
in Union, until quarters should be vacated at the Salt Sulphur. All
the crowding, however, could not interfere with the perfect system of
this establishment. Every thing went on with as much regularity, and
in the same comfortable style, as when there were but fifty visiters.
After spending a few days very pleasantly at this place, I secured a
seat in Shank's fine line of coaches for the Sweet Springs, about
twenty-two miles southeast of the Salt Sulphur.

The road was generally good, and the country more beautiful and
picturesque, but less romantic, than any we had seen in this section
of country. Our driver was quite a rapid traveller, and by the aid of
fine teams, he carried us over the ground at very good speed, and
before dinner, had landed us in front of the old white tavern at the
Sweet Springs.

The crowd here surpassed, if possible, that at the Salt Sulphur. On
our arrival, it seemed exceedingly doubtful whether we could remain on
the premises at all. Every room on the ground was full. Many of the
visiters lodged on the bar-room tables, and on the benches of an old
court-house, at present the Spring's church. By dint of perseverance,
and the aid of friends, I at length succeeded in getting a cot
squeezed between two of five or six others, in an old log school-house
on the outskirts of the premises. The accommodations at the Sweet
Springs are generally very good; the fare excellent. The crowd was at
this time so great, as to render it impossible that every one should
be comfortable. The usual dining-room was nothing like large enough
for the company. Two long additional tables were set in the bar-room.

The "Sweet Springs" are considered by some equal in beauty to the
White Sulphur. Nature has perhaps done as much here as at any watering
place among the mountains; but I do not think the improvements or the
arrangement of the buildings at all equal to those at the White
Sulphur. The extensive undulating lawn, and grove of noble oaks--the
cottages on the open green, or peering from amidst the trees, do
indeed present a beautiful scene. But the latter are scattered in rows
or groups over the ground without any regular order, and the lawn has
never undergone any of the operations of art. The Spring rises under
the piazza of a low and long house, at the foot of the hillock on
which the tavern stands, and in a hollow formed by this, with the
small hill on which the cabins are principally built. The reservoir is
a circle of about five feet diameter, surrounded by a railing two or
three feet high. Great quantities of carbonic acid gas are constantly
emitted, which comes bubbling up through the water, giving it somewhat
the appearance of boiling.

The "Sweet Springs" derived its name from the taste of the water. I
thought it, however, a complete misnomer. The taste of the water is
very singular, and at first rather unpleasant--but containing,
according to our perception, very little sweetness. The house
adjoining the Spring contains the baths; the finest cold medicinal
baths, probably, in the country. The water rises from a gravelled
bottom, over perhaps the whole extent of the baths, which are very
spacious.

The Sweet Spring water is a powerful tonic; and after the system has
been thoroughly cleansed at the other Springs, this is an admirable
place for recruiting flesh and strength before leaving the mountains.
The same precaution given to pulmonary invalids, is even more
necessary here than at the White and Blue Sulphur. The water is highly
exciting, and consequently very injurious to such persons.

As soon as possible after arriving here, I obtained a seat in the
stage for Fincastle--and on a fine morning in the latter part of
August, rendered more balmy and delightful by the mountain breezes, we
set off, in company with two other coaches, for the Valley. The press
of passengers in that direction was so great, that notwithstanding the
two extras, our coach carried, including all sizes, fourteen besides
the driver. We commenced ascending the Sweet Spring Mountain, soon
after setting out, and enjoyed the beautiful view of the Valley of the
Springs and the surrounding country, which is afforded from its
summit. Two other mountains still lay in our way. The second of the
three if called the "Seven Mile Mountain," that being the distance
passed in crossing it. On reaching its base, we chartered two
additional horses, and drove "coach and six" to the top, where we left
them, and with the other coaches went rattling and thundering down the
mountain. We soon after passed the last of this formidable trio, and
after a pleasant drive through the flourishing county of Botetourt,
reached Fincastle. At this place we intersected the "Valley Line,"
which carried us over the great Natural Bridge and down the Valley of
Virginia.

The writer did not visit the Warm and Hot Springs, and consequently
does not notice them.




Remark the use which Shakspeare always makes of his bold villains, as
vehicles for expressing opinions and conjectures of a nature too
hazardous for a wise man to put forth directly as his own, or from any
sustained character.--_Coleridge's Table Talk_.


{617}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

_Extracts from the Auto-biography of Pertinax Placid_.

MY FIRST NIGHT IN A WATCHHOUSE.

CHAP. I.


The title of this narrative intimates to the reader by a natural
inference, that its writer has spent more nights than one in that
abode of the unruly--a watchhouse. I will be candid, and admit the
fact, that twice during a pretty long and not unadventurous life, it
has been my lot to enjoy the security afforded by that refuge of the
vagrant. _Twice_ only--I confess to no more. The first of these
dilemmas I am about to speak of now--the second may form a subject of
future narration.

There are few of my readers who have not heard of the city of
Montreal, in the Province of Lower Canada, and fewer still who know
much of its peculiarities, social, political or architectural, on
which it is my design hereafter, supposing that I can keep on good
terms with Mr. White, to enlighten them--but not at present. Well, it
was my happiness, at an early period of my life, to reside in the good
city of Montreal. What carried me there, is my own affair, and I shall
merely say that I was neither a trader who cheated the poor Indians
out of their pelteries, a smuggler of teas and silks across the
frontier, a tin pedlar, nor a bank-note counterfeiter, all of which
classes often find it convenient to take up a temporary residence in
Canada. I was a wild ungovernable lad, with no parent or guardian to
direct me, left entirely to my own impulses, and unfortunately
enjoying the pecuniary means of assisting those impulses to bring me
into all manner of scrapes, from which it required much ingenuity to
extricate myself.

The long winters in Canada may convey to a southern reader an idea of
dreariness and discomfort, locked up as the people are in enduring
frosts--buried for months in continual snows--with one unvaried
monotony of dazzling white pervading the face of nature--the streams
fast sealed with "thick ribbed ice"--and a thermometer at from twenty
to thirty degrees below zero for weeks together. In short, a southern
fancy paints Old Winter, ruling with despotic sway, unrestrained by
the checks and balances which limit his authority in our more moderate
climate--usurping a portion of the nominal domains of autumn and
spring--and inflicting through his prime minister, Jack Frost, the
most rigorous exactions of a government of force, on the unresisting
people--penetrating into their dwellings at all hours, interfering
even in the mode of their dress, attending all their movements in town
or in country, and invariably assailing the lonely traveller on the
extended prairie or in the dreary forest. Such is undoubtedly the
picture which a southern imagination draws of a Canadian winter. But
social life can modify the worst extremes of nature's inclemency, and
find in the very evils of our condition sources of delight and
enjoyment. So far from suffering during the winters I spent in Canada,
I recall those joyous periods, when I was engaged in the constant
pursuit of gaiety and pleasure, and when care had no control over my
spirits as the brightest spots on the far off waste of memory.

How different were those winters from the fickle, capricious season
through which we have just passed. Poets and tourists have celebrated
the beauty of Italian skies. I have never seen them--but I can fancy
nothing brighter than the heavens in Canada, on a clear frosty night,
when every breath of vapor is absorbed and rarefied by the intensity
of the cold. Never have I realized in other countries the complete
distinctness with which each star comes forth in the azure vault--the
palpable suspension of each body of light in the field of air. In
other skies the stars and planets seem delineated on a ground of blue.
In a Canadian winter night you realize that each orb is in suspension,
moving and twinkling through the surrounding ether. This is difficult
to describe, and some who have not seen and _felt_ the glories of the
northern heavens as I have--aye, felt them in a double sense, gazing
upon them until my soul was wrapt into sublime ecstasy, and my
upturned nose frost bitten into the bargain--may think that I am
talking nonsense.

But the social delights of a Canadian winter are more to my purpose,
in disabusing the fancy of those who shiver when they think of these
hyperborean regions. Such tremors may be justified when we fancy a
winter tramp across the steppe of Russia, or a visit to a Koureen of
Zapojoreskies. But Canada--dear, delightful Canada! The gaieties of
thy long winters--the dancing--the driving--the dining--the
flirtation--the lovemaking, with which thy frosty months abound, might
keep warm the heart of a dweller underneath the tropics.

It was during the winter of 18--, that after a long cessation of
theatrical representations in Montreal, a new theatre, which had
recently been built, was opened under the management of Mr. T----,
with a company principally picked up from the northern theatres of the
United States. Since the performances of Prigmore's old company,
previous to the declaration of war, in which, I believe, George
Barrett, since a favorite in high comedy, was the Roscius, playing
Romeo, Hamlet, &c. and in which Fennel played as a star, there had
been no regular theatrical establishment in Montreal--although the
officers of the garrison gave occasional dramatic exhibitions, and the
young citizens sometimes enacted a play or two during a season. A
regular theatre was a new thing, and excited much attention. The
manager was perhaps the finest specimen of self-conceit that the world
ever saw.[1] He was a short stumpy kind of man, with a face of most
fixed character, which delineated all the passions with the self-same
expression. His smooth pert visage, lit up by two bead-like black
eyes, seemed so entirely contented with its natural expression, as to
render it unnecessary to assume any other. His voice, shrill and
guttural, emulated his face in its uniformity. He had a _game leg_,
about three inches shorter than its brother, which gave him a halt of
so decided a character as not to be disguised. Yet he believed himself
to be a most distinguished actor, and {618} fully competent to the
representation of Richard III, (for which his lameness was often
quoted by him as a _natural_ advantage) and even the more youthful and
well favored heroes of Shakspeare. The vanity of this man might have
been harmless, had he not been the manager. But in that capacity it
interfered most wofully with the well ordering of affairs. The company
was by no means strong. A Mr. Baker played the high tragedy badly
enough. Mc---- and Richards shared the next grade, the former doing
the seconds in tragedy and the ruffians in melo-drama. Of this man I
must say something, as he is connected with my narrative. For some
misconduct, the nature of which I know not, he had been driven from
the stage in England several years before, and enlisted as a foot
soldier in the 40th regiment. As such, he served in Upper Canada
during the war with this country; and when he obtained his discharge
in Montreal, the theatre being about to open, he was engaged to
personate the Cassios, the Horatios, the Baron Steinforts, &c. If his
temper was ever amiable, it had gained nothing by his military
service. He was morose and troublesome; but as the company was
composed, useful and rather a favorite.

[Footnote 1: He was not only an actor, but a dramatist. He was, or
claimed to be, the author of "Rudolph, or the Robbers of Calabria," a
very tedious piece of Brigandism; and "One o'clock, or the Wood
Dæmon," almost a literal version of Monk Lewis's "Wood Dæmon." He used
to accuse Lewis of having stolen his melo-drama, and told a long and
rather incomprehensible story of the manner in which the theft was
perpetrated. He also wrote a play called "Valdemar, or the German
Exiles," which was performed in the new theatre, at the period alluded
to in my story, and possessed, I think, soma little merit. Besides
being actor and play wright, he was a scene-painter, and kept a tavern
in the good city of Montreal.]

Of the females I shall notice but one, as she is to be the heroine of
my story for the present, and as, but for her, (like Mr. Canning's
needy knife-grinder) I should have no story to tell. What shall I call
her? Not by her _real name_ surely--for she has since held a high rank
among the heroines of the stage. I will call her _Fenella_; leaving
the curious to guess her real name, while I assure them that she is an
actual entity, whose performances I doubt not, many of my readers have
frequently admired. She was then an interesting woman of about twenty.
There was something a little mysterious in the circumstances under
which she made her first appearance in Montreal, which rendered her
the more attractive. She had with her an infant child; and yet she was
advertised as a _Miss!_ Shocking inferences were of course drawn among
the censorious; and sensations of a different description encouraged
the loose and licentious young men about town, to suppose that this
living indication of Fenella's frailty was a guarantee of the success
of their unhallowed addresses. Those who knew her, told a curious
story of her adventures in ----, the turn of which had driven her to a
temporary exile in Canada. The substance of the story was this: She
was the daughter of a poor widow, who earned her living by her needle.
Fenella was, when very young, remarkable for the beauty and vivacity
of her countenance, the grace of her figure, and an intelligence
beyond her advantages. An ambition to rise from her humble condition,
tempted her to resort to the stage. She appeared and was applauded,
for she exhibited true signs of talent of no common order. She was
engaged, but filled a subordinate station for two or three years. The
management of the ---- theatre changed during this period, and the old
gentleman who had assumed the duties of manager, was not long in
perceiving the merits of Fenella as an actress, while her personal
attractions awakened within him the remnant of amatory fire which time
had not extinguished, and subjected her to the unseasonable ecstatics
of a sexagenary lover. This part of her good fortune had few charms
for a sprightly girl of seventeen. But the ancient manager had a son,
who, while he equalled the old gentleman in the perception of female
attractions, had far greater charms in the eyes of the females
themselves, being a handsome well built fellow, and having had some
practice in the delicate task of making himself agreeable to the _beau
sexe_. It so turned out, that, while the old gentleman was making an
inquiry into the state of his feelings towards the pretty young
actress, which ultimately induced him to persecute her on all
occasions with his protestations of passion, the young man had
actually made successful advances to the discriminating fair one, and
had so far succeeded as to create a reciprocal sentiment in her
breast. They had betrothed themselves, (or as we tamely say, _were
engaged_,) but the old gentleman's passion for Fenella, was a serious
obstacle to their happiness. His temper was irascible, and he required
submission from all beneath him to his most unreasonable fancies. His
son was naturally desirous of avoiding his anger, and having
discovered the state of his father's feelings, he was desirous of
keeping secret the true state of affairs. In this dilemma, the young
couple decided upon a private marriage. Even after that event, her
husband thought it advisable to avoid a rupture with his father; but
when, in the natural course of things, Fenella was about to become a
mother, the secret could no longer be kept, unless by her absenting
herself from ----. She therefore left her husband, and entered upon a
temporary engagement in Montreal.

Such was the story then told, and believed by all the charitable
portion of Fenella's admirers. I believed it then, and have had some
reason since to think it true, as, after remaining two years in
Canada, she returned to ---- and joined her reputed husband, lived
with him for several years, until his death, and bears his name to
this day.

Like other young men, I was fond of the theatre, and visited it
frequently. I was a great admirer of Fenella as an actress, but had no
acquaintance with her during her first season. Several of my young
friends were enlisted among her adorers, a numerous train, embracing
all ages, from the beardless boy to the bachelor of threescore. As far
as my observation extended, the managed this retinue of lovers with
great adroitness. To the young, she talked sentimentally, and excited
their fancy--with the old, she was prudent, and went just far enough
to retain their homage without committing herself. I had often rallied
Harry Selden, an inflammable young friend of mine, upon his hopeless
passion, for he was desperately enamored of the bewitching actress. He
confessed his lamentable infatuation, but insisted that I was only
secured from a similar fate by the distance which I kept from the
sphere of her attractions. This opinion I combated, and one evening,
when he proposed to test my stoicism by taking me to Fenella's
lodgings after the play was ended, I was too confident that I could
not be caught by the same snare in which he was entangled, to refuse
the challenge, and readily agreed to his proposition. We went to the
theatre, and Selden having presented me to her in the green room, we
accepted Fenella's invitation to see her home, and partake of a _petit
souper_ at her apartments.

It is proper perhaps, that I should here describe the lady, according
to the regular rules of tale writing, although as I have no great
talent in that line of {619} description, I shall undoubtedly make a
bungling business of it. Fenella was rather above the middle height,
uncommonly well made, and her form fully developed that graceful
outline which denotes the full grown woman, in contradistinction to
the more angular symmetry of girlhood. Her face was oval, so much so
that there was something Chinese in its contour, although in nothing
else: her hair was a light chestnut, and so exuberant in its growth as
to contribute materially to her beauty. Her eyes were blue, bright and
sparkling when her fancy was excited, or languid and voluptuous when
at rest. But the mouth of this attractive creature was the prime
beauty of her countenance. It is difficult to imbody in words the
varied charms that played about her ripe and tempting lips. Certainly
I had better not attempt it. I will therefore leave my gentleman
readers to finish the sketch, by imagining the prettiest and most
attractive woman of their acquaintance--not _absolutely_ a beauty--and
I think they will have a correct idea of Fenella.

I was too young to have known much of women, but I was sternly
resolved not to be overcome. Fancy me then _téte à téte_ with Fenella
and my friend Selden, supping on cold tongue, and sipping white
sherry. At first I felt uneasy, but was still sure I should brave all
consequences. Gradually as I looked upon the animated countenance of
my hostess, the ice of my reserve was thawed, for my apparent coldness
seemed to have inspired her with the determination to warm me into
sentiments more complimentary at least to her powers of fascination. I
afterwards learned that Selden had betrayed to her my ridicule of the
devotion of her admirers. It was therefore merely natural that she
should have resolved to rank me in the number. Nor had she misjudged
her power, or the softness of my nature. I melted beneath her smile,
like wax before the flame--and ere we rose from the table I had become
aware of a new and indefinable sensation towards her: all I can say of
it is, that it was not _love_, although it had a close affinity to
that passion.

The freedom and ease of her conversation was new to me. She spoke of
her numerous lovers without embarrassment, and in some instances with
no little sarcasm; but she constantly qualified her raillery by
confessing that they were _good souls_, and alluded to the presents
which they made her in the most amiable terms.

Time rolled on, and a month or two found me a constant visiter at the
lodgings of Fenella. I then flattered myself that I was a favorite. I
gallanted her frequently to the theatre, and waiting in the green room
until she had changed her dress, attended her home, supped with her,
and often prolonged my stay to a late hour. I never talked love to
her--for I did not _know how_--and she had so much experience in that
matter that I feared I should make myself ridiculous. Her power over
me was complete, yet I cannot charge her with having exerted it in a
single instance unfairly. Her whole design against me seemed to have
been confined to the excitement of a degree of admiration commensurate
with her personal attractions. At that point she appeared satisfied;
but as I grew in intimacy with her she shewed herself sincerely my
friend, frequently checking my fool hardy impetuosity, and giving me
good advice, which might have come with a better grace from the less
lovely lips of my aunt Deborah. I soon accommodated my sentiments and
conduct to those of Fenella, and while I became her most devoted
friend, I dropped entirely the character and feelings of a lover. A
tacit understanding soon became established between us; and I was
admitted to liberties in my new character, which I could have enjoyed
in no other. These familiarities were misunderstood by my friends; but
in spite of their firm belief, there was nothing amatory in our
intercourse.

About this time Fenella's benefit at the theatre was announced, an
event of some importance to her, as the second season of the theatre
had been particularly unproductive, and the limping manager had failed
almost entirely to pay the salaries of his performers. I think Douglas
was the play selected by her, in which she was to personate Lady
Randolph; and in order to the effective _cast_ of the piece, it was
essential that Mc---- should perform Glenalvon. He had frequently
treated Fenella with rudeness, and evidently disliked her; he objected
to the part assigned him, and absented himself from the rehearsals of
the tragedy. But as he was notoriously a devotee of the bottle, and
frequently remiss in his duty, little was thought of his absence. The
benefit night arrived; the time came for the curtain to rise; but no
Glenalvon had appeared behind the scenes; and it was soon made known
that Mc---- had not studied the part, and would not appear that night.
The house was crowded; and to Fenella's great mortification, it was
necessary that some other performer should _read the part_. This was
done, and the play came off lamely enough.

Fenella was not destitute of spirit, and she resented this affront in
the proper manner. Mc----'s benefit took place a few weeks after, and
she resolutely refused to play for him. As she was the only actress in
the company possessing any claim to talent, it was impossible to
_cast_ a piece without her; and the consequence of her name being
absent from the bills for Mc----'s benefit was, that no one attended,
or so few as to render it a most irksome task to go through the
performances. The rage of the disappointed beneficiary was boundless:
he vowed that he would be revenged upon Fenella for the injury she had
done him, although in just resentment of an affront for which he
deserved no better treatment.

Mc---- was a good draughtsman, and frequently sketched figures with
great accuracy. He resorted to his pencil as the instrument of his
revenge, and caricatured Fenella with so much skill, that while no one
could mistake the original of the sketch, the incongruities of the
details were such as to render it highly ludicrous.

The chief quality of a caricature seems to be _disproportion_--an
unfitness of parts to each other. Simple exaggeration does not suffice
to produce the effect desired, for if all the details of the picture
be equally exaggerated, it may present a disagreeable likeness, but it
does not produce that deep sense of the ridiculous which arises from
an incongruous classification of the details. This rule is perhaps
better tested than any other, by the _reductio ad absurdum_, and it is
well illustrated by those extravagant French prints, in which heads of
enormous comparative dimensions are placed upon bodies and limbs
ridiculously diminutive, the effect of the {620} disproportion being
heightened by the accessaries of dress, &c. This is perhaps the most
extravagant kind of caricature, but it requires far less skill than
those sketches in which the more minute incongruities of features,
form and costume, are resorted to. These sometimes exhibit much
graphic ability, and it is a curious fact, that in pictures of this
kind, where every feature is distorted, the strongest likenesses are
sometimes preserved.[2] It is _truth_ presented through the medium of
the ludicrous. Like the burlesque in writing, which exhibits an
argument even more forcibly, because it presents the whole matter in a
ridiculous light. But I am forgetting my story.

[Footnote 2: Some striking examples of this have been produced by the
French caricaturists, who, though far inferior to their English
brethren in broad humor, excel them in the subtilty of their
conceptions. I remember a series of prints representing Charles X and
his ministers, in the forms of various beasts. The king was personated
by the _Giraffe_, then exhibiting at the _Jardin des plantes_ in
Paris--the ministers by other animals, whose instinctive qualities
were intended to represent the several characteristics of those
dignitaries. For instance, as well as I remember, the Fox played
Prince Polignac, the Wolf, Count Peyronnet, &c. to indicate the
cunning and rapacity of those ministers. The accuracy of the
likenesses in those prints was remarkable. I believe Louis Phillippe
and his ministers have more recently been shewn up in a similar
manner.]

I had not seen Fenella for several days, when passing along St. Paul
street one morning, I met an acquaintance, who accosted me with,

"Bless me, Pertinax, where have you been so long? I was last evening
at Fenella's, and she actually hinted a suspicion of your defection
from her cause."

"Why to tell you the truth Nichols, I have absented myself with
_malice prepense_."

"She is of that opinion, and takes it unkindly of you, that while she
is suffering so much vexation, you of all others, who neither flatter
nor make love to her, should prove recreant."

"Vexation! what do you mean?"

"Come, come, you will not pretend that you know of nothing which
should annoy her, when the cause of her annoyance is the talk of the
whole town."

"Nothing whatsoever--I know of nothing that could give her uneasiness,
unless that stupid Lord William Lenox[3] has been besieging her again.
I saw him driving a tandem carriole this morning. Perhaps he drove to
her lodgings and worried her with his vapid talk."

[Footnote 3: This sprig of nobility, is the third son of the Duke of
Richmond, who was then Governor of the Canadas. At that early period,
Lord William had made himself notorious by the seduction of a married
woman, whom he kept as a mistress for some time. The people of
Montreal were much scandalized at that affair. He has since become
well known to the world by his marriage with the celebrated singer,
Miss Paton,--by squandering her earnings in the most profligate
manner, and by his divorce from her. The lady is better known in this
country as Mrs. Wood, and under that name her singing has been
universally admired here. Lord William's last enterprise, it appears,
is a theatrical one--as the English newspapers state that he is now
the manager of a provincial theatre.]

"Nonsense! She has not seen Lord William for a week."

"Well, what _is_ the matter then?"

"And you really have not heard?"

"I tell you I have heard nothing of the kind."

"And you have not seen Selden, nor Seymour, nor Marryatt, nor
Cleaveland."

"Neither of them for two days. I have been a perfect hermit, shut up
among my books, during that period."

"And you have heard nothing of a caricature?"

"Out upon you--caricature! No!"

"You surprise me. Well, I must be the first to inform you, that Mc----
has put his threat of revenge into execution, by making our friend the
subject of a caricature, confoundedly well done, and striking in its
resemblance, but so ludicrous that it is impossible to resist laughing
at it. Here it is"--and he produced the sketch.

Fenella's costume was peculiar, although no way extravagant. During
the winter, her street dress was a tight fitting blue cloth pelisse,
trimmed in front with gold buttons, with two or three on the waist
behind; a black fur tippet round the throat, and a black fur bonnet
and feather. The picture did not shew her face, but represented her
moving from the spectator. The dress was a perfect copy, and the
figure could not be mistaken; but the skill of the artist had given to
it the most masculine character, and the posture was so ludicrously
vulgar, as to produce great effect. Indignant as I was at this
dastardly method of casting ridicule on an amiable woman, I could not
but be sensible of the talent which had rendered a mere figure so
extremely ridiculous.

"And where did you get this, Nichols?" said I.

"Oh, they are to be had for money. This is the first that was
exhibited. Passing by the barber's shop just below the City Hotel,
yesterday morning, I saw it in the window, and purchased it for the
modest sum of two crowns. Before night another was exhibited, and
bought by Cleaveland for three crowns; and this morning another copy
appeared, which Selden bought for _five_. The rascal rises in his
price at every repetition, and is in a fair way to make up for the
loss at his benefit. There is another in the window now, and if we
pass that way you may see it. Our object in buying them was to get
them out of the way, for you cannot conceive how much annoyed Fenella
is, at this vulgar representation of her figure. But as long as we
buy, Mc---- will produce copies."

"Come along. I will have some talk with this barber"--and we made our
way to the shop, at the window of which, as Nichols had stated, the
picture hung, while a crowd of idlers were stopping to laugh at this
ridiculous effigy of a popular actress.

We entered the shop and demanded the price of the caricature.

"Ten dollars," was the reply.

"Have you the audacity," said I, "to demand such a sum for a daub like
this?"

"I have."

"And how do you rate its value so high?"

"By the demand for it. I have not an article in my shop that commands
so ready a sale. Those who buy know the intrinsic value of the picture
better than I do. I only judge of it by the price which it will
bring"--said the fellow with a roguish smile, which tempted me to
knock him down.

"Well," said I, "you have killed the golden goose this time, or I am
mistaken. You shall not sell another of them if I can prevent it."

"Oh I have no fear of that. The lady herself will buy {621} them,
rather than allow them to hang long in my window."

"You are an impertinent varlet, and I trust will be chastised as you
deserve."

I should have said more; but Nichols hurried me away, lest my hot
temper should get me into some awkward scrape--and we walked to
Fenella's lodgings.

What happened there and afterwards, must be deferred to another
chapter, when the reader shall be introduced into the watchhouse, and
his curiosity gratified in regard to my sojourn there.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

DISSERTATION

On the Characteristic Differences between the Sexes.

NO. II.


_Religious Differences_.

In no respect do we find the characteristical differences between the
sexes more marked than in regard to religion; and certainly, we see
woman in no attitude more engaging, more interesting or useful, than
in the quiet, but graceful performance of her duties to her Maker.

The belief in the providence of some superior being or beings, has
ever been a source of obligation to mankind in all ages and countries.
Man may be pronounced to be emphatically a religious being. Every
where, whether savage or civilized, do we behold him looking to the
god or gods of nature, and dreading their punishment, not only in the
world to come, but even in this. It is this spirit of devotion which
"calls forth the hymn of the infant bard, as well as the anthem of the
poet of classic times. It prompts the nursery tale of superstition, as
well as the demonstration of the school of philosophy." "If you search
the world," says Plutarch, "you may find cities without walls, without
letters, without kings, without money; but no one ever saw a city
without a deity, without a temple, or without some form of worship;"
and Maximus Tyrius, another of the ancients, declares that, "in such a
contest, and tumult, and disagreement of opinions on other subjects,
you may see this one law and speech acknowledged by common accord,
that there is one God, the king and father of all, and many gods, the
children of God, and ruling together with him. This the Greek says,
and this the Barbarian says; and the inhabitant of the continent, and
the islander, and the wise and the unwise."

This universal consent in the operation of a superintending and
controlling providence, is one of the most luminous and important
facts of our nature. It rests the evidence of natural religion not
upon the unsteady basis of argument or reason--not upon the sophisms
of philosophers, or the edicts of monarchs, or popes, or councils; but
upon the immoveable basis of nature--upon _instinct_ itself. "There is
no era," says Mr. Allison, "so barbarous, in which man has existed, in
which traces are not to be seen of the alliance which he has felt
between earth and heaven; and amid the wildest as amid the most genial
scenes of an uncultivated world, the rude altar of the barbarian every
where marks the emotions that swelled in his bosom, when he erected it
to the awful or beneficent deities whose imaginary presence it
records."

But although there be that within us which leads directly to the
contemplation of divinity, and of the retribution which awaits us in
another world, yet we are not to conclude that this belief is not
strengthened and confirmed by reason and experience. On the contrary,
the argument in favor of a God and rewards and punishments hereafter,
gains strength, with the increasing age, experience and knowledge of
the world. Religion, in the midst of ignorance and barbarism,
degenerates into gross superstition and revolting idolatry. By means
of reason and knowledge, we are the better enabled to overleap the
vast chasm interposed between us and the divine nature; to
contemplate, in the detail and in the aggregate, both the minute and
the great throughout the universe; to observe their beautiful
arrangement and harmony, and the wondrous unity of design in all the
parts: a unity which at once prostrates all the absurdities and
contradictions of the far famed polytheistical religion of the Greek
and the Roman--the fanciful idolatry and star gazing worship of the
Chaldean Shepherd, and the Magi of Babylon--or the more fearful, more
mysterious, and yet more ridiculous superstition of the Egyptian
priests of old, who at a period far back, when time was yet young, and
the history of other nations was scarce begun, officiated in those
mighty temples upon the banks of the Nile, whose awful ruins, now
scattered through the land of Egypt, tell us of the mighty of the
earth, who have lived, and strutted, and bustled for a season, but at
the appointed hour, have been cut down like the flower of the field.
It is this great, this beautiful unity of design, which we see
manifested throughout the works of creation, which proclaims the
existence of the one indivisible God, "Who hath measured the waters in
the hollow of his hand, and meted out heaven with the span, and
comprehended the dust of the earth in a measure, and weighed the
mountains in a scale, and the hills in a balance." It is this same
unity of design, proclaimed by philosophy and comprehended by reason
alone, which so powerfully supports the monotheistic religion of the
christian, and sustains that beautiful, humane and generous scheme of
salvation foretold by the Jewish prophets of old, and consummated by
the sacrifice on Mount Calvary, of the meek and humble Saviour of the
world.

Again, when we look abroad to animated creation, and see that man
alone has placed within him a principle which guides and directs him,
independently of instinct--a principle which, in spite of all the arts
of sophistry and self-delusion, tells him in language which cannot be
mistaken, that he is responsible for his acts; and when we further see
the immense amount of vice and wickedness in this world which does not
meet with its deserved punishment here, and virtue failing to receive
its reward;--when we behold all this, and reflect, as we cannot fail
to do, that the Creator of the world is a God of justice and
impartiality, we are at once driven into the belief that there must be
a hereafter, where all these things will be equalized. It is when we
see the wicked son, the unnatural father, and the fiendish
mother--when we peruse the histories of such monsters as Nero,
Caligula, Commodus, Louis XI of France, or Richard III of England--of
the Tullias, the Messalinas and the Macbeths, that we are forced to
acknowledge that there must be a _Tartarus_. Again, we meet with {622}
humble virtue and piety in this world, possessed by those who labor
and toil through life, sometimes groaning under the oppression of a
cruel persecutor, who, bloated with vice, is nevertheless wallowing in
apparent luxury and ease, while the victims of his oppression are
overwhelmed with every calamity and misfortune "which flesh is heir
to"--each one of whom, in the hour of death, may truly say, in the
pathetic language of the patriarch of old, "short, but replete with
woe has been my day." When we contemplate this, the mind does not rest
satisfied, without an _elysium_ where the weary are to be at rest, and
the wicked to cease from troubling. "Wherefore do the wicked live,
become old--yea, are mighty in power? Is there no reward for the
righteous? is there no punishment for the workers of iniquity? is
there no God that judgeth in the earth?" It is only the awful
retribution of a hereafter which can satisfactorily explain to all

  "Why unassuming worth, in secret lived
   And died neglected; why the good man's share
   Was gall and bitterness of soul;
   Why the lone widow and her orphans pin'd
   In starving solitude; while luxury,
   In palaces, lay straining her low thought,
   To form unreal wants; why heaven-born truth
   And moderation fair, wore the red marks
   Of superstition's scourge; why licensed pain,
   That cruel spoiler, that imbosom'd foe,
   Imbitter'd all our bliss."

Not only, however, does our belief in the supreme benevolence and
justice of the deity, force upon us the conviction of a future state
of rewards and punishments; but the very contemplation of the human
mind, with its faculties and passions, points us to another world. We
have faculties which are capable of ranging beyond the sphere in which
we move. We have longings which this world, with all its stores of
provisions, cannot satisfy. These faculties and these longings point
distinctly to another world. Lord Bacon has truly asserted, that if
the child in its mother's womb could reason like a philosopher--could
survey its little hands, mouth, eyes, feet, lungs, &c. and perceive
that they discharged no adequate functions in the womb, he would, if
impressed with the belief of the wisdom and design of creation, come
necessarily to the conclusion that this was not the place of his
permanent abode--that he was ultimately to be ushered into some other
world, where all his physical energies and intellectual powers would
be brought into play, and have an ample field to range in. So
likewise, if I may use the beautiful language of Dugald Stewart, "When
tired and disgusted with this world of imperfections, we delight to
contemplate another, where the charms of nature wear an eternal bloom,
and where new sources of enjoyment are opened, suited to the vast
capacities of the human mind." And thus do we find both instinct and
reason contending alike for the truth of the great principles of
religion.

With these preliminary remarks, I will now proceed to examine into the
differences between the sexes in a religious point of view; and here I
may assert at once, without the fear of contradiction, that woman
always has been, and is now, in almost every country upon the face of
the globe, more religious than man. This difference between the sexes
is still more striking under the christian dispensation, than under
any other religion perhaps, which has ever existed in the world. In
our own country, we all know that the female communicants form an
immense majority in all our churches. "Very many of them (says Timothy
Dwight in the 4th vol. of his Travels, and no one was better qualified
to speak on this subject)--very many of them are distinguished for
moral excellence--are unaffectedly pious, humble, benevolent, patient
and self-denying. In this illustrious sphere of distinction, they put
our own sex to shame. Were the church of Christ stripped of her female
communicants, she would lose many of her brightest ornaments, and I
fear, _two-thirds_ of her whole family."[1]

[Footnote 1: I have no doubt that President Dwight has underrated the
number of female communicants in the United States. From conversations
with the most intelligent of the clergy, I should be disposed to say
they formed three-fourths, or four-fifths of the communicants.]

How then does it happen that woman is more religious than man--that
she is every where found yielding a more ready and more perfect
devotion to the God of nature? We have seen that instinct, feeling and
reason concur in the support of religion. Which of these is the main
impelling cause with woman? I am disposed to say the two former. She
is not so much disposed to skepticism as man; she does not wait for
the slow deductions of reason, before she is willing to yield her
assent. She does not withhold her belief, like man, until she can
contemplate the power, majesty and unity of the deity, in the
countless millions of bright orbs, rolling in harmony and
magnificence, along those complicate and luminous paths which have
been assigned to them in the infinitudes of space. She does not wait
until she can descend from the contemplation of this grand, this
sublime prospect, to the infinitesimally minute parts of nature, and
view with the eye of philosophy, their order, harmony and design,
where she may behold the existence of deity proclaimed in those
countless millions of millions of animalculæ, which escape the
unassisted vision of man--each one displaying a form, a structure, a
complexity of organs as perfect, as beautiful, as well adapted to the
sphere in which he moves, on that little atom of creation, which is a
world to him, as the grandest and most imposing animals of nature. No!
She does not require for the generation of her faith, thus to be able
to range from the bottom to the top of creation--from the infinitely
small to the infinitely great--to behold in the vast and the minute

  "The unambitious footsteps of the god
   Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing,
   And wheels his throne upon the rolling worlds."

She looks into her own heart, and finds there the want of a consoling
religion. She looks into the pages of holy writ, and builds her faith
on the revealed will of her Maker. "Thus saith the Lord," is the
simple but stable foundation on which her hopes are rested. With man,
religion is much more a matter of speculation, of reason and
philosophy, than with woman.

Let us now investigate, if possible, the causes of this very
interesting difference between the sexes.

_Causes.--1st. Education_.

And in the first place, it is in a great measure attributable to the
peculiar education of the sex. I mean the education which woman
receives from her parents and {623} teachers. The education of man is
much more scientific, according to the present custom of society, than
that of woman. Science, as we shall soon see, whilst it enlarges the
powers of comprehension and ratiocination, by leading us into the
mysteries of nature, and teaching us the "_causas rerum_," is
calculated at the same time rather to curb the feelings, and to
control the imagination. The consequence is, that a scientific
education fortifies the mind against the too ready admission of
doctrines, whatever they may be, and prevents us from yielding assent
to truths, when we are not prepared to give a reason for the faith
that is within us. In the education of woman, every thing is done to
preserve her native feelings in all their original purity and
strength. Her studies are of a more light and literary cast, such as
administer to the imagination or warm the sensibilities. In her case
the play of the instincts and of the feelings is not cramped by the
controlling influence of logic and reason; and hence, no doubt, one
cause of the religious differences between the sexes.

For the same reason, the religious enthusiasm of woman, is very apt to
degenerate into superstition--that of man, into dogmatism and
fanaticism. Woman, generally, cares very little for mere creeds and
doctrines, but is apt to believe in miraculous interpositions, and a
special providence. Woman possesses more devotion and more genuine
love for her God--her eye is fixed on heaven, and the ardor of her
religious aspirations always points her to the glorious mansion
prepared on high; where, in the fulness of her devotion and piety,
surrounded by the bright effulgence of the throne of omnipotence, she
may pour forth the torrent of her love in hymns sung to the praise of
her Maker. She looks to this grand, this glorious end, and prays to
her God that it may be hers, and that he will direct her into the
right path.

Man, on the other hand, is so much taken up by the study and
investigation of the circumstances which attend him on his religious
journey through life, that he forgets in the scrupulous study of his
means, the end and object of all his devotion. It is not only
necessary with him, that he should go to heaven, but he is too often
resolved to go there in no other way than his own. And we may almost
assert with the author of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire,
that by his vain reasonings, and quibbles, and sophisms, he sometimes
so narrows the bridge which is to conduct us to a blissful eternity,
as almost to reduce its width to that of a razor's edge, to be walked
over only by those whose sophisticated intellects can comprehend the
absurd jargon of his theologico-metaphysical creed. It was very
difficult during the middle ages, to engage the females in those
tremendous, but nonsensical disputes between the Realists and
Nominalists, which involved the peace and happiness of whole nations.
What cared they about _universals genera and species_. Little did they
concern themselves with the learned disputes of the Thomists, the
Scotists, and the Occamites. The amors of Peter Abelard, were much
more interesting to them, than his voluminous dissertations upon the
Scholastic Theology. And we can well imagine, that few women would
care to read that mighty production of the _Angelical Doctor_ Saint
Thomas Aquinas, bearing the imposing title of _Summa Totius
Theologiæ_, containing the formidable amount of 1,250 folio pages of
very small print in double columns, with 19 more of errata, and 200 of
index. But enough of this. Some of the other sex even may _now_ sicken
at the idea of encountering a work so formidable as this, although it
be upon the vital subject of theology.

Women are much more superstitious, generally, as I have already
remarked, than men. They much more readily believe in dreams, visions
and miraculous interferences. Women deeply in love, have often been
known to die from the effects of unfavorable dreams about a distant
lover, in a perilous situation. McNish, in his interesting work on the
Philosophy of Sleep, tells us of a young lady, a native of Ross-shire,
who was deeply in love with an officer who accompanied Sir John Moore
in the Peninsular war. The constant danger to which he was exposed,
had, of course, a very great effect on her spirits. One night, after
falling asleep, she imagined she saw her lover pale, bloody, and
wounded in the breast, enter her apartment. He drew aside the curtains
of the bed, and with a look of the utmost mildness, informed her that
he had been slain in battle, desiring her at the same time to comfort
herself, and not take his death too seriously to heart. "It is
needless," says McNish, "to say what influence this vision had upon a
mind so replete with woe. It withered it entirely, and the unfortunate
girl died a few days thereafter." Many such instances as these might
be adduced, where all the explanations and consolations of philosophy
have been rejected, and the unfortunate lady has actually died from
the grief produced by the confident expectation of the realization of
a dream or vision. I can well imagine the eagerness with which the
females of antiquity would crowd around their seers, and their
oracles, to have unveiled to them the mysteries of the future. Even
now, women are much more disposed to consult gypsies and fortune
tellers, than men. But they are most apt to incline to these petty
superstitions, if I may use the expression, when under the influence
of strong passion, such as that of love. We all know, that one deeply
in love, is apt to be a little superstitious; and many there are
besides the Phebe of Irving, who can wander forth in the "stilly
night," when the moon is pouring her silvery radiance over the world,
and kneel upon the "stone in the meadow," and repeat the old
traditional rhyme

  "All hail to thee, moon, all hail;
   I pray to thee, good moon, now show to me
   The youth who my future husband shall be."

_2nd. Religious Wants_.

Another reason, no doubt, of the religious differences of the sexes,
is the greater demand or want, if I may use the phraseology of
political economy, which woman experiences for religion. Her whole
education, physical and moral, and her consequent position in society,
contribute to the creation of these religious wants. There are times
and situations in which we all feel in a very peculiar manner the want
of religion. There are periods when the billows of adversity are
rolling high and threatening to overwhelm us with ruin--when all our
ordinary resources have failed--when there is in this world no arm
that can save, no power that can protect us--then does the voice of
nature whisper to us to turn to him who hath promised to be a father
to the fatherless, and a husband to the widow, and to him in the hour
of our peril do we address the fervent prayer. {624} There is no part
of the Journal of the Landers with which I have been more affected,
than that in which John Lander speaks of the disaster of Kirree, while
descending the Niger. Himself and brother had been separated, they met
again on the river, but in the moment of the most heart-rending peril,
when a savage enemy was upon the point of immolating them, and of
destroying at once all those bright visions of glory and usefulness,
which ever float in the ardent imagination of the traveller, and urge
him over seas, and lands, and mountains, and deserts. "This day (says
John Lander,) I thought was to be my last, when I looked up and saw my
brother at a little distance gazing steadfastly upon me; when he saw
that I observed him, he held up his arm with a sorrowful look, and
pointed his finger to the skies. O! how distinctly and eloquently were
all the emotions of his soul at that moment depicted in his
countenance! Who could not understand him. He would have said 'trust
in God.' I was touched with grief. Thoughts of home and friends rushed
upon my mind, and almost overpowered me. My heart hovered over the
scenes of infancy and boyhood. Recollecting myself, I bade them as I
thought an everlasting adieu; and weaning my heart and thoughts from
all worldly associations, with fervor I invoked the God of my life,
before whose awful throne I imagined we should shortly appear, for
fortitude and consolation in the hour of trial. My heart became
subdued and softened; my mind regained its serenity and composure; and
though there was nothing but tumult and distraction without, within
all was tranquillity and resignation." And thus do we find that
adversity often leads us to pay devotion to our God. When the
treasures of this world in which the heart dwelt are swept away, we
are more disposed to look to the imperishable treasures of another
world. "When there is no object on this side the grave on which to fix
our hopes, we delight to extend them beyond the troubled horizon which
bounds our earthly prospects, to wander unconfined in the regions of
futurity,"

  "Where all is calm as night, yet all immortal day
   And truth, forever shines; and love forever burns."

On the other hand, how truly dismal and appalling at such hours as
those I have been describing, is the condition of the genuine Atheist.
When the plans, and projects, and schemes of this world have failed
him, and all his earthly hopes are untimely blighted by the sad
strokes of cruel fortune; where is his consolation--where his refuge?
Shall he turn to those whom the world once called his friends? Alas!
they were with him in summer and sunshine, when his flocks were
feeding on a hundred hills--when his indiscriminate and boundless
hospitality was the theme of praise on the tongue of the selfish and
sycophantic sensualist, who delighted in his "glutton meal;" and his
splendid mansion was the scene of music and of revelry. In the hour of
his bereavement they turn from him, and even mock him in his
misfortunes! Shall he attempt again to mend his broken fortunes and
rise once more in the world's thought? Perhaps some insuperable
barrier stands before him; friends have deserted him, and old age may
be fast incapacitating him to run again the race of earthly ambition;
and the base treachery of friends, and the mortifying neglect of a
cold and selfish world, may have implanted in his heart, the deep and
uneradicable feeling of dark and gloomy misanthropy, which may forever
unfit him for wearing the world's honors, or coveting the world's
praise. Shall he throw his thoughts beyond this world's horizon, and
look with the spirit of prayer and supplication to heaven for that
support and consolation which is denied him here? No! no! His fatal
skepticism prevents his hopes from resting on another world. It shuts
him up here amid all the gloom and horror of his terrestrial
mansion--concentrates all his dismal thoughts within his own
overwhelmed soul, and leaves him a prey to misery and despondency.

        "A woe stricken being, to whose heart
  The visions of earth can no rapture impart,
  On whose brow the pale garlands of Hope have all faded,
  While his soul by the midnight of sorrow is shaded;
  What balm could you bring to his bosom's deep sorrow,
  If eternity promised no glorious to-morrow?"

I hope then I have said enough to show that there are times and
seasons when the heart of man turns instinctively to the God of nature
for support; that there are times when philosophy, and science, and
friendship, all must fail to administer consolation to the oppressed
heart:--it is then that religion and religion alone can furnish the
balm that can neutralize woe. Under its benign influence the billows
of adversity may roll on--they may break over our heads, but cannot
overwhelm the soul when sheltered securely under its divine panoply.

Now let us inquire whether woman experiences oftener than man those
moments of sorrow and affliction, which religion alone can assuage;
and this inquiry, I think, must be answered by all, in the
affirmative. The sorrows, and griefs, and trials of woman, are not of
so palpable, conspicuous, and sometimes violent a character as are
those of man. They do not attract so universally the gaze of the
world--their consequences are not so extensive--they do not so much
occupy the pen of the historian, or draw forth the speculations of
philosophy; but they are more numerous, more secret; and for this very
reason more calculated to turn her to her God for consolation. I have
already in the preceding number shown, that woman, from her position
in society, is obliged to conceal more than man. She experiences many
sorrows and afflictions, which like the Viola of Shakspeare, she never
tells to any one, but keeps them locked up in her own bosom to brood
over in solitude. Rousseau says, a man truly happy, neither speaks
much nor laughs much--he hugs, so to speak, the happiness to his
heart. "_Il reserre, pour ainsi dire, le bonheur autour de son
coeur._" The assertion which Rousseau here makes concerning the
happiness of man, is strictly true, when applied to the misery of
woman--especially to that most numerous class of her griefs which
spring from wounded affections. This species of misery, if I may
borrow the pencil of Rousseau "elle reserre autour de son coeur." Her
shrinking modesty dares not confess it to the world; sometimes even
the penetrating scrutiny of an affectionate mother is shunned and
deceived. What then is her resource? She knows there is a God who
inhabiteth the high and lofty places of eternity, who has promised to
turn from none who seek him--she feels that all her sorrows are known
to him. She can truly exclaim in the language of the Psalmist, "thou
hast searched me and known me. Thou knowest my down sitting, mine
uprising: thou {625} understandest my thoughts afar off. Thou
compasseth my path and my lying down, and art acquainted with all my
ways. For there is not a word in my tongue, but lo, O Lord! thou
knowest it altogether." With this being then, who already knows all
her afflictions, does she commune--to him she pours forth the torrent
of her feelings, and tells the tale of her concentrated woe, which no
vulgar ear shall ever hear. This communion becomes sweet to her in the
hour of her afflictions, and she bestows upon him who has promised to
be the friend of the disconsolate and broken-hearted, that love which
perhaps has been slighted and despised by another. "As the dove (says
Irving,) will clasp its wings to its sides, and cover and conceal the
wound that is preying on its vitals--so is it the nature of woman, to
hide from the world the pangs of wounded affection. Even when
fortunate she scarcely breathes it to herself; but when otherwise, she
buries it in the recesses of her bosom, and there lets it cower and
brood among the ruins of her peace."

It is at such times as these she feels the great want of religion; and
accordingly we find that on tracing the history of woman, we often see
her religious career commencing after some great disappointment--after
some cruel stroke which has been inflicted on the feelings and
affections. In Catholic countries we frequently see women, after these
great disappointments, retiring from the world and immuring themselves
for the remainder of their lives within the walls of a nunnery, where
at a distance from the world and free from the rude gaze of an
inquisitive society, they may spend the remainder of their days in
silent and pensive melancholy, softened and ameliorated by sweet
communion with God. You rarely hear of this on the part of man. If he
survives the misfortunes that for a time have oppressed him, he
plunges into the active business and bustle of the world, and in the
midst of his employments he finds new occupation for his mind--he
summons it away from the contemplation of his grief. New feelings are
called into play, and often succeed in banishing the old. How often do
we find _ambition_ becoming the succedaneum of _love_.

But woman has not this opportunity of withdrawing herself from the
scenes of her misfortunes and griefs. Every object around her reflects
back their images upon her mind; and, go where she will, she is still
like those unfortunate beings, laboring under the illusions of
spectral apparitions;--the phantoms are around her still, gazing on
her with lurid glare whilst awake, haunting her whilst asleep. Nothing
but religion can afford her solace, under afflictions so oppressive
and crushing. Without it, she may well exclaim in the language of the
"Dirge,"

  "Vain is the boasted force of mind,
   When hope has ta'en her flight;
   Then memory is most unkind--
   And thought is as the dread whirlwind
   That works on earth its blight."

In addition to what is said above, it may be observed that the
physical infirmities of woman, are greater than those of man; she is
liable to sudden changes in health, which endanger her life. Every
child which comes into the world, is an admonition to the mother on
the precariousness of human life, and the necessity of living in a
state of constant preparation for another world.

_3d. Dependence and Physical Weakness_.

Another cause, no doubt, of the more religious character of woman, is
her greater feebleness and dependence upon the powers around her, than
that felt by man. When we look to the stupendous mechanism of the
heavens and the earth, and contemplate the mighty powers that are at
work in the universe, the mind naturally turns, in the spirit of
devotion and prayer, to that infinite, incomprehensible, mysterious
being, who guides and directs those powers. When we contemplate, for
example, the globe on which we stand--think of it as moving at the
rate of more than sixty thousand miles per hour, around that luminous
orb, which at the distance of millions of miles, binds it down to its
prescribed orbit; when we think again of this mass on which we stand,
vast and grand to us, but an atom to him who placed it here, rolling
on its axis, carrying us forward with a compound velocity, which if it
could be suddenly arrested by some opposing mass competent to the
resistance, would be sufficient to tear from their bases all the
mountains and hills of the earth, and hurl their scattered fragments
o'er the vallies--a velocity, whose sudden cessation would prostrate
alike the animal and vegetable kingdoms, burying all in one common
chaotic ruin, from which no one being would escape to sing the funeral
dirge of a _dead world_. When we contemplate all this, and know that
there is a hand competent to the control of these mighty powers; that
under its influence, while thus rapidly hurled along through the
illimitable regions of space, the busy operations of men are going
forward; that the grand tower, the enormous pyramid, the slender reed,
and the delicate spire of grass, stand alike unaffected and unshaken
by this velocity; that the slumbers of the infant on its little couch,
and the spider weaving her delicate web in the "autumnal fields," are
alike undisturbed;--when we look again, and contemplate that thin
elastic medium which we breathe, covering the earth like an invisible
mantle, all quiet and calm at the sunset hour, so that even the
thistle-down lies still and motionless on the earth's surface; then
think again of that same medium, lashed into the fearful tempest,
spreading dismay and destruction along its desolating track, and
scattering the mariner and his cargoes over the billows of the sea; or
when we contemplate that principle of heat which pervades the
universe, constituting the great _vis vivica_, or enlivening power of
nature,--so placid, so sweet, and it would scarcely be metaphor to
add, so _tender_, as it exists around us in the mild and bland
atmosphere of a summer's morning, when

                            "The lark,
  Shrill voiced and loud, the messenger of morn,
  Calls up the tuneful nations. And ev'ry copse
  Deep tangled, tree irregular, and bush
  Bending with dewy moisture o'er the heads
  Of the coy quiristers that lodge within,
  Are prodigal of harmony."

And then think again of this same agent confined in the earth's mass;
by its sudden action laying hold on the globe with the grasp of more
than ten thousand giants, upheaving the dense and mighty stratum which
lies above it, shaking whole continents by its power, and burying the
toppling cities with the accumulated wealth of ages under its fearful
ruins; when we contemplate, I say, all these powers around us, we see
our dependence on _them_, and again _their_ dependence on {626}
omnipotence. The feeling of dependence forced upon the mind, begets a
spirit of devotion and trust towards the God of nature. At first,
overwhelmed by the evidences of mighty power exerted around and over
us, we are almost disposed to cry out in the language of holy writ,
"what is man that thou shouldst be mindful of him, or the son of man
that thou shouldst deign to visit him." But our confidence revives
when we recollect the promise that "if God so clothe the grass of the
field, which to-day is and to-morrow is cast into the oven, shall he
not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith."

This spirit of dependence, wherever felt, always begets more or less a
religious spirit of devotion. It is this spirit which, in ages of
ignorance and superstition, begets the worship of heroes, of
statesmen, and philanthropists. It is this spirit which has added such
as Hercules, Castor, Pollux, Isis, Osiris, &c. to the vast catalogue
of the gods in the polytheistic religions of antiquity. It is this
same spirit, which makes the subordinate officer and the soldier, look
with awe and the most confident reliance on the successful military
chieftain, who has so often manoeuvred them like a machine, and has
gained victory after victory by those rapid combinations and skilful
evolutions, which to the mind that does not comprehend, appear to be
the result of inspiration rather than the effects of human wisdom.
Wherever in fine, there is a system of dependence, there you will find
always more or less a spirit of reverence. How intensely does this
spirit manifest itself in a father or mother, who has knelt before an
emperor or king, and obtained the pardon of a condemned son. Now, as I
have already observed, woman feels this dependency much more strongly
than man. She is the weaker vessel, and hence there is a devotional
feeling excited by this dependence, which follows the chain of
dependence up, link by link, until it reaches the throne of
omnipotence. Woman does not feel this dependence from a contemplation
of the mighty physical energies exerted around her by the great powers
of nature; but it arises from her greater weakness and dependency when
compared with the other sex.

Do we not all know that there is something much more devotional in the
love of woman than man--a something much more nearly allied to
religion? Do we not know that this same weakness and consequent
dependence, makes woman more confiding, more trusting, more submissive
than man? She feels much greater veneration for the great and the
powerful, and acquiesces much more readily in the tyranny and
oppression of rulers. Even women of the very first order of intellect
feel this reliance and trust on the greater powers around them. Mrs.
Jameson says, in speaking of the Portia of Shakspeare, "I never yet
met in real life, nor ever read in tale or history, of any woman
distinguished for intellect of the highest order, who was not also
remarkable for this _trustingness_ of spirit, this hopefulness and
cheerfulness of temper, which is compatible with the most serious
habits of thought, and the most profound sensibility. Lady Wortley
Montague was one instance; and Madame de Stael furnishes another much
more memorable."

The physical weakness of woman and her consequent dependence on man,
makes religion more necessary to her for another reason. It is her
interest that every restraint should be imposed on the passions of
man; that he should walk in the paths of virtue and morality; that his
superior strength should be subdued and tempered by motives of
humanity. He is then more kind, more attentive, and more loving to
her. He is then a better father, a better economist,--in fine, a
better citizen, fulfilling more perfectly all the relations of life.
The Christian religion, as we shall soon see, is eminently calculated
to produce this happy result, and consequently woman is deeply
interested in its spread. Let no one start forward with the objection,
that in this way she is the better enabled to _govern_ her husband. I
admit this, if, to govern him, means to restrain him from vice and
immorality; but surely this is a government which no honest good
citizen can object to. Every lady has a fearfully deep interest in the
whole character and temperament of her husband's mind and feelings.
Upon them depend, indeed, her weal or woe. Her condition may be
deplorable, and sometimes irremediable, if a wicked husband choose to
oppress her. But that is certainly a holy and a virtuous selfishness,
if selfishness it can possibly be called, which secures our own
welfare and happiness while adding to that of another, by curbing and
controlling his more violent and malignant feelings and passions, and
attuning the whole inner man to harmony and concord.

_4th. Seclusion and Meditation_.

Again, the life of woman, as has been before remarked, is much more
sedentary, more secluded, and consequently more contemplative than
that of man. Solitude and contemplation are very favorable to the
production of religious impressions and the generation of a spirit of
piety and devotion. Man is so constantly occupied amid the busy scenes
of active employment, so much engrossed with his schemes of ambition
and self-aggrandizement, so rapidly whirled forward by the eddying
current of active life, that he scarcely will take time to pause in
the hurry and bustle of existence to contemplate his Maker, and render
to him the homage that is his due. Public devotion even often breaks
in upon his regular routine of life, and frequently mars some little
pet scheme of the day. He is a Sabbath-day worshipper; a worshipper at
spare times and leisure seasons. But the solitary chamber of a woman,
is often by day and by night, the temple from which in her lone hours
she sends her silent prayers to heaven; the temple from which, in her
silent meditations, her thoughts wander forth and hold sweet communion
with the God of nature.

But, let us investigate a little more philosophically, the effects of
this secluded, meditative, contemplative life of woman. And, in the
first place, all will acknowledge that occasional solitude and
consequent meditation are extremely favorable to the cause of virtue
generally. Whilst we are running our dissipated career, under the
excitement of the passions, we rarely have time, leisure, and
reflection sufficient to determine on reform. "It is not in the
madness of intemperate enjoyment," says Dr. Brown, in one of his most
brilliant lectures, "that we see drunkenness in the goblet, or disease
in the feast. Under the actual seduction of the passion we see dimly,
if we see at all, any of the evils to which it leads." It is in the
hour of solitude and reflection, that the remorseful thought of our
errors and vices, comes across the mind; then, in the coolness and
{627} calmness of solitude, can we trace out the blighting evils that
are likely to follow on our career; then, and then alone, can we
dispassionately view, in the vista of the future, our loss of
character, of health and riches, by the course we are pursuing; then
we behold the melancholy consequences, widening out, until they
embrace our family, friends, neighborhood, and state; we then can
summon, in gloomy review before the mind's eye, our wives and
children, dearer to us than life, living in penury and misfortune, and
perhaps dependent for a scanty subsistence upon the cold hand of
charity. When the mind is capable of reflection--of sketching out this
sad picture, there may be hopes of reform. The individual is never
absolutely, hopelessly lost, who indulges in silent meditations on the
past; such an individual may even be saved at the eleventh hour.
Hence, too, there is virtue in mere intelligence, because intelligence
can always think and meditate. Hence, too, the efficacy of solitary
confinement in the gloomy walls of the prison, and the very
deleterious influence of all prison discipline not based on the
principle of solitary confinement.

Again, any scene of distress, any monuments or associations, which
remind us of the instability of the boasted works of man; anything
which forces a comparison in the mind between the transitory character
and nothingness of the things of earth, when compared with the
eternity of ages that are to follow, or with the perfections and
immutability of God; all such reflections as these are calculated to
make a deep religious impression upon the mind. What classic scholar,
for example, can stand upon the Capitol on the Capitoline Mount, in
Modern Rome, and look over the mouldering but still magnificent ruins
of the imperial city, as they lie scattered and confused over the
vallies and the seven hills, and cast a retrospective glance at the
ages which have gone by, without a deep feeling of religious awe and
of veneration towards the God of nature? When he reflects that the
poet of antiquity describes this classic ground, over which the eye of
the traveller is now wandering in pensive and bewildering gaze, as a
solitary wilderness; when Evander, and afterwards when Æneas came to
the Latian Coast; that the brier and the bramble then grew together in
wild luxuriance on the Tarpeian Hill; that the foxes had their holes
and the birds their nests on the Palatine and the Aventine. When he
looks again to the time of the poet, and beholds the proud imperial
city, the mistress of the world, enthroned in all her gorgeous
splendor and costly magnificence upon the seven hills, wielding the
sceptre of her dominion over the earth,

  "Until the o'ercanopied horizon fail'd,"

and sees upon the Tarpeian hill, the splendid temple with its golden
ornaments and its stately columns, instead of the brier and the
bramble, and beholds,

  "Pretors, proconsuls to their provinces
   Hasting, or on return, in robes of state,
   Lictors and rods, the ensigns of their power,
   Legions and cohorts, turms of horse and wings:
   Or embassies from regions far remote,
   In various habits on the Appian road,
   Or on the Emilian."

And then looks to her again--when in the awful language of the poet,

  "The Goth, the Christian, time, war, flood and fire
   Have dealt upon the seven hill'd city's pride,"

and sees that the temple upon the Tarpeian mount has been overthrown
and rifled, and the brier and the bramble have come back again, that
owl answers owl upon the Palatine, that the din of arms and the active
bustle and hum of citizens and functionaries of imperial Rome, have
ceased forever on the Appian and Emilian ways, that no stately triumph
mounts the Capitoline hill, to administer to the insatiate ambition of
the rapacious and remorseless Roman, that

  "Cypress, and ivy, weed and wall flower grown
   Matted and massed together, hillocks heap'd
   On what were chambers, arch'd crush'd, columns strown
   In fragments, choked up vaults, and frescos steep'd
   In subterranean damps,"

now meets his eye where'er it turns. Well may he exclaim with such a
prospect before him, in the language of the same poet,

  "The Niobe of nations! there she stands,
   Childless and crownless in her voiceless woes.

        *       *       *       *       *

   Alas! the lofty city! and alas!
   The trebly hundred triumphs! and the day
   When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass
   The conqueror's sword, in bearing fame away.
   Alas for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay,
   And Livy's pictured page!"

When he sees all these mutations and revolutions on a single spot of
earth, in the hour of his meditations his mind reverts to Him who
alone is immutable and unchangeable, upon whose brow, time writes no
wrinkles. "Alas, the pride of man goes down with him into the dust! it
withers when the lamp of his transient existence flickers out into the
long slumbering of the tomb." Eternal youth, eternal majesty, eternal
duration, belong only to the great, the unchangeable I AM. The
bustling transitory career of the mighty of the earth, when duly
contemplated, should but the more strongly impress on the mind the
infinity, eternity, and omnipotence of Deity. "Where now are they who
sounded the clarion of war along the plains of Thessaly, the mount of
Marathon and Samos's rocky isle. The trumpet's voice hath died upon
the breeze; the thousands which it aroused have gone to rest; the
castles which have been subdued and won, on whose walls the spear
glittered and the cannon pealed, have crumbled into dust; the ivy
lingers about the decaying turrets; the raven builds her nest in the
casement, and sends upon the ear of midnight her desolate wailings;
the owl hoots where the song was heard; and man, proud man, who once
fought and won--he who reared the structure,"

  "Sleeps where all must sleep."

There is religion, yes a deep abiding religion in such a retrospect as
this, and the mind which can trace back in its reflections the history
of man along the pathway of ages, and see how dynasties have been
overthrown, and thrones crumbled, how nations have risen, flourished
for a day, then have declined and fallen, and been numbered among the
things that are past and gone, cannot fail to turn, upon the principle
of contrast, to the God of nature, whose throne is eternal, and whose
dominion can never pass away.

Such may be the salutary effect of the reflection of man, when man
reflects. Let us now turn to woman, and see the character of her
meditations and reflections. She perhaps may not, in her solitary
musing, so much {628} delight, as man, to look to the history of
nations, and draw the mighty moral from their fluctuations and
vicissitudes. But there are scenes around her--there are events
constantly occurring in her own limited sphere, which much more
frequently, upon the principles just explained, excite her
meditations, and lead her on to religious devotion. Woman, as I before
remarked, is the tender, constant, and affectionate nurse of our race.
Hers is the heavenly office to watch the sorrows of man and mitigate
them, by her sweet, her benevolent ministrations.

                            "The very first
  Of human life must spring from woman's breast.
  Your first small words are taught you from her lips,
  Your first tears quenched by her, and your last sighs
  Too often breathed out in woman's hearing,
  When men have shrunk from the ignoble care
  Of watching the last hour of him who led them."

Now this contemplation of pain and suffering, notwithstanding all the
magnificence which pride or grandeur may spread around the couch of
sickness and death, is calculated to force upon the mind the gloomy
truth of the instability of the things of earth, and that there is
nothing but God upon whom we can rely amid all the vicissitudes of
earthly scenes. "The sight of death," says Dr. Brown, "or of the great
home of the dead, seldom fails to bring before us our common and equal
nature. In spite of all the little distinctions which a churchyard
exhibits in mimic imitations, and almost in mockery of the great
distinctions of life, the turf, the stone with its petty sculpture,
and all the columns and images of the marble monument; as we read the
inscription, or walk over the sod, we think only of what lies beneath,
_in undistinguishable equality_." Here then is the scene to which
woman in her meditations is oftener transported than man. Our last
sufferings are longer remembered by her than by man--they produce a
more mighty influence on her mind, and frequently do we see that the
death of a child, of a husband, of a brother, sister, parent, or even
friend, produces a sudden but lasting impression on woman's mind,
arrests her in her gay and thoughtless career--makes her reflect upon
the vanities of this world, and in the end is the cause of her being
gathered into the fold of the faithful and the righteous, where she
can ever after, with truth and feeling, amid all her earthly
prosperity, exclaim in the beautiful language of Gray, in his
Churchyard,

  "The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
   And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave
   Await alike the inevitable hour,
   The paths of glory lead but to the grave."

_5th. Peculiar Character of the Christian Religion_.

But one of the most important causes of the religious differences of
the sexes, remains yet to be told. _It is the character of the
christian religion, and its peculiar suitability to the whole female
nature and economy._ It may boldly, without fear of contradiction be
asserted, that never since the foundation of the world, has there been
propagated a religion so consolatory to woman in all her sorrows and
difficulties--so liberal in promises--so congenial, in fine, with all
the undefined wants and longings of her heart, as the _Religion of
Christ_. Throughout the world, in all ages and countries where this
religion has not been preached, it may be truly said, that the great
religious wants of woman have not been administered to. She has pined,
if I may use the expression, for the want of religious culture, and
has entirely failed to accomplish, in consequence of it, her sweetest
and most graceful destinies on earth.

Shall we turn for example to the boasted polytheistical religion of
Greece and Rome? how illy adapted do we find it to the wants, the
habits, the sensibilities, and I may add, the virtue and chastity of
woman. It is true, that in the innumerable host of their divinities,
they numbered some distinguished female goddesses. Minerva, Juno,
Diana, Ceres, Venus, &c. occupied very conspicuous stations in the
celestial hierarchy. But we are not to infer from this compliment to
the ladies, that the religion was one adapted to the female character.
When we come to examine it, we perceive at once its barbarous and
uncivilized origin, and see that the progress of science and
civilization in Greece and Rome, merely refined and polished it,
without adapting it to the real wants of society, or purging it of its
enormities and vices.

In the first place, Jupiter, the king of the gods, who could shake all
Olympus with his nod, was not omnipotent. He was restrained by the
fates, and in constant apprehension of combinations among other gods,
to resist or cheat him. Nor was Jupiter, with all the gods to back
him, omnipotent. On one occasion, they were all thrown into
consternation, by the formidable array of the giants, who were
attempting to pile mountain on mountain, Ossa upon Pelion, in order
that they might scale the ramparts of heaven. This great dread proved
the want of omnipotence. Again; Xenophon tells us that the
Lacedemonians used to send up their prayers early in the morning, to
be beforehand with their enemies. Sometimes, according to Seneca,
persons bribed the sexton in the temple to secure a place near the
god, so that he might the more certainly hear them. When the Tyrians
were besieged by Alexander the Great, they chained the Hercules in the
temple to prevent his desertion. Augustus Cæsar, after twice losing
his fleet by storm, determined to insult Neptune, the god of the sea,
publicly; and therefore ordered that he should not be carried in
procession with the other gods. And we are told, that after the death
of Germanicus in Rome, who was a great favorite with the people, they
were so much incensed with the gods, that they stoned and renounced
them.

In the Iliad, after the celebrated quarrel between Agamemnon and
Achilles, when the latter urges his mother Thetis, to lay his
complaints before Jupiter, she tells him that Jupiter has gone in
procession with the other gods, to pay honors to the Ethiopians, and
on his return, she will present his petition. But besides the want of
omnipotence in one or all the gods combined, the polytheistical
religion presented a multitude of gods, among whom reigned the wildest
disorders, the fiercest contentions, and the most revolting vices and
crimes. Jupiter was the king of heaven, and he ruled not like the
Jehovah of the christian, with mildness and love, but depended upon
his thunder and his might. By these terrible means and not by love for
him, his subjects were kept in awe. Listen to him in the 8th book of
the Iliad, where he forbids the gods to take any part in the contest
between the Greeks and Trojans. I give Pope's translation. Jupiter
does not speak in the language of mildness, but threatens and
denounces the most cruel {629} punishment for disobedience, merely
because his power enables him to enforce it.

  "What god but enters yon forbidden field,
   Who yields assistance or but wills to yield;
   Back to the skies with shame he shall be driven
   Gash'd with dishonest wounds, the scorn of heaven," &c.

And the gods obeyed, not from love or affection to Jupiter, but from
absolute terror, inspired by his power.

  "The Almighty spoke, nor durst the powers reply,
   A reverend horror silenced all the sky;
   Trembling they stood before the sov'reign's look," &c.

Poor Juno, the _ox-eyed Juno_, the unfortunate wife of the Olympic
thunderer, was the most unhappy of women, eternally quarrelling with
her imperial husband and complaining of his partiality to her enemies.
Minerva, too, more beloved by Jupiter than his own wife, complains of
him as raging with an evil mind, in perpetual opposition to her
inclinations. Old Vulcan, it is well known, got his lameness by being
thrown out of heaven by Jupiter in a mad fit, occasioned by Vulcan's
interference in behalf of Juno, when persecuted by her unreasonable
and irascible husband.

The gods, too, are represented as frequently engaged in actual strife
with men, and with one another. In the 20th book of the Iliad, when
Jupiter permits the gods to enter the hitherto forbidden field of
Troy, and take sides according to their inclinations, we have a
regular battle between them. Diomed wounds no less than two gods in
the engagement; Venus, who went off weeping to Jupiter, and Mars, the
great god of war. In the same engagement, we have Neptune pitted
against Apollo, the god of the sun, and Pallas or Minerva, matched
with Mars, and actually prostrating him by a huge rock, a most
unfeminine, _unlady-like_ act.

  "Thundering he falls: a mass of monstrous size,
   And seven broad acres covers, as he lies."

This wise, but most austere and forbidding old maid, appears truly
terrific in this battle of the gods, and seems an overmatch for all,
save the Olympic thunderer.

But again, the morals of the gods were of the most corrupt and
profligate character. Jupiter was the greatest rake of all the ancient
world. How many wives and maidens was he represented as seducing by
the most unfair means? and so regardless was he of his wife Juno, that
she was obliged to borrow the girdle and charms of Venus, when she
wished to captivate the thunderer. The historian tells us that the
Amphitrion of Aristophanes, was supposed in Greece, to be very
pleasing to Jupiter--that he was like all rakes, exceedingly fond of
the recital of his prowess in the arts of love and seduction. Venus,
the goddess of beauty, as we might well suppose, after hearing a
description of her ungainly hard favored husband, was no better than
the thunderer. Her levities _bred_ disturbances in heaven, and heroes
on earth.[2] In view of these circumstances, no one need wonder at the
account which St. Peter gives of the Gentiles in his time, that "they
walked in lasciviousness, lust, excess of wine, revellings,
banquetings, and abominable idolatries."

[Footnote 2: The Trojan wanderer, the hero of the Æneid, was the son
of Venus, by Anchises a mortal.]

Besides all this, the polytheistical religion was entirely inattentive
to all those rules of morality which civilize and humanize the race of
man, while they bind them together in peace and harmony like a band of
brothers. Minerva, for example, is represented in the 4th book of the
Iliad, as advising Pandarus to endeavor to bribe Apollo with the
promise of a Hecatomb to assist him in assassinating Menalaus,
contrary to the faith of a solemn treaty; and even Jupiter himself
joins with that goddess and Juno in promoting so foul a murder. When
we consider the vices and immoralities of the heavenly host, and then
think of the virtues of the first Romans, we are almost disposed to
assert with Rousseau, that virtue seemed to have been banished from
heaven's confines, to take up her residence on earth. Did human nature
in the ancient world, ever appear in a more stern and dignified
attitude, than when Lucretia was represented as worshipping Venus, and
still plunging the dagger in her bosom, because she had lost her
virtue? What a practical rebuke was here given to the lascivious queen
of beauty.

I need scarcely conclude this little episode in which I have been
indulging, by the assertion that such a religion was unsuited to the
wants of the human race, but particularly of woman. She likes to send
from her closet, or from her silent and solitary chamber her prayers
to heaven. She therefore requires an all-seeing, all-searching eye,
which can behold her in the prayerful moments of her solitude. She
likes to commune with a God who is omnipotent and able to heal and
save. Her nature shudders at the conflicts and broils of the gods of
the heathen--at their immoralities and vices. The female deities are
all gross, lewd, masculine conceptions, unworthy of the delicacy,
chastity, modesty and grace of the virtuous female. The gods were all
unworthy of her confidence and entire _trustingness_. Where is the
virtuous woman of the modern world, who, in the hour of affliction and
trial, would unbosom herself before so terrible, so wicked, and so
licentious a being as the Jupiter of the ancients? Or what female
could bear to contemplate the amours of Venus, or to imitate the acts,
and the monstrous immorality of the goddess of wisdom. Well then might
the worshippers of such beings be described as "dead in trespasses and
sins," and well might St. John, in view of such a religion, exclaim
"the whole world lieth in wickedness."

If we turn from the Polytheistic religion of the ancient world, to the
Monotheistic religion of the Mohammedan, we shall find the whole of
this system more gloomy, more revolting, and more repugnant to woman's
feelings, than even the Polytheistical. The fiery warlike character of
the prophet, the propagation of the religion by fire and sword--the
total degradation of the female character--the seraglio and the
attendant eunuchs, and the low and sensual offices of the black-eyed
Houris in Mohammed's paradise, are all too revolting to the women of
christian countries, to be even contemplated with composure for a
moment. We are not to wonder at the implacable hostility of christian
females all over the world towards the moslem. Women have always
attended in considerable numbers the armies of Europe, when it was
threatened with invasion by the devastating armies of the Turks.
D'Israeli in his very interesting collection of the curiosities of
literature, has a chapter on "events, which have not happened," and
gives us some speculations on the fate of Europe, if the Saracens
under Abderam had beaten {630} Charles Martel at Tours. What woman now
moving with freedom and grace in the social circles of christendom,
but shudders at the bare idea of such a result.

Let us now turn to the _religion of Christ_, and contemplate its
character for a moment. And here shall we find a religion in every
respect suited to the character of woman. It has been truly and
emphatically pronounced to be a _religion of love_. The very scheme of
salvation was conceived by the Almighty in a spirit of love. God is
represented as so loving the world, that he gave his only begotten Son
to save it. And when that Son came into the flesh, and was asked by
the Pharisees for the most important commandments of the law, Christ
answered, "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, with
all thy soul, with all thy mind; and the second is like unto it. Thou
shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. On these two commandments hang all
the law and the prophets." Now I have already shown in my first
number, that woman loves more tenderly, more devotedly, and constantly
than man. This religion of Christ, then, above every other, is fitted
for that deep abiding love which woman feels so much oftener than man.
It is eminently and peculiarly adapted to that being whose whole
history has been pronounced to be a history of the affections. "There
is nothing surely on earth (says Mrs. Butler,) that can satisfy and
utterly fulfil the capacity for loving, which exist in every woman's
nature. Even when her situation in life is such as to call forth and
constantly keep in exercise the best affections of her heart, as a
wife and a mother; it still seems to me as if more would be wanting to
fill the measure of yearning tenderness, which like an eternal
fountain gushes up in every woman's heart; therefore, I think it is,
that we turn, in the plenitude of our affections, to that belief which
is a religion of love, where the broadest channel is open to receive
the devotedness, the clinging, the confiding trustfulness, which are
idolatry when spent upon creatures like ourselves, but becomes a holy
worship when offered to heaven."[3]

[Footnote 3: In an Epistle supposed to be written by the famous Abbé
Rencé, of la Trappe, this alliance between love and religion is well
described, though rather too much in the peculiar style of a
thoughtless Frenchman, "Je n'avois plus d'amante (says the Abbé,) il
me fallùt un dieu."]

But again--was there ever a being so congenial, so suitable to the
character of woman, as the Saviour of the world. He condescended to be
born of woman. Mary was his mother; and while executing the high
behests of his father on earth, he treated his mother with the most
affectionate and filial tenderness. And then his character was all
mildness and meekness. He who could come forth in all the might of his
father,

                    "Into terror chang'd,
  With countenance too severe to be beheld;
  And full of wrath,"

hurl the fearful host of fallen and rebellious angels into the
bottomless pit, and chain them there through the endless ages of
eternity--could, whilst in this world, bear the scoffings, the
revilings, the buffetings of sinful man, could beg his father to
forgive his persecutors, because they knew not what they did. His
dominion in this world was not based upon violence, devastation and
bloodshed. In his glorious career, he made no widows and orphans.
Wherever he moved, he carried consolation and healing to the lowly and
the humble. He restored the sick, and made the lame to walk, the blind
to see, and the dead to come forth from their sepulchres. His kingdom
was one of peace, and harmony, and forbearance. He commanded his
disciples to love one another, and to serve his father in spirit and
in truth. He did not, like Mohammed, exclude woman from an equal
participation in all the promises of the gospel; and he declared that
Mary and Martha had chosen that good part which should not be taken
from them. Woman ministered to him while on earth; she was with him at
the cross; she was with him at his grave:

  "Not she with trait'rous kiss her Saviour stung--
   Not she denied him with unholy tongue;
   She, while apostles shrank, could danger brave--
   Last at his cross, and earliest at his grave."

The religion of the cross has been very truly pronounced to be a
species of legislation in behalf of the rights of woman. The
promulgation of the new gospel elevated her at once to that station
which she deserves, and which adds so much to the refinement,
happiness and prosperity of the world. Compare the woman of the modern
with her of the ancient world; compare the woman of christendom with
her of the heathen, and then will you behold the mighty agency of the
religion of Christ in the amelioration of her destiny. Well then may
woman cleave to this religion, as the ark of her safety and
dependence. Well may she worship the Saviour of the world, for he was
the true friend of woman--the husband to the widow, and father to the
fatherless.

Woman is most deeply interested in the success of every scheme which
curbs the passions and enforces a true morality. She is the weaker
portion of the human family. When wickedness reigns in the land, and
might is recognized as constituting right, she is always the great
sufferer. Behold her among barbarians--among nations and people
engaged in deadly strife, and how miserable do you always find her
condition. Now the new gospel, in addition to the best religion which
has ever been given to the world, contains likewise the very best
system of morality. I have always thought that it was one of the most
beautifully characterising traits of the christian religion, that it
has ever been found better and better adapted to our condition, as the
human race advances in civilization, knowledge and morality; and in
this respect, no religion was ever found like it. The sermon of Christ
on the mount, contains a system of morality which will be more and
more appreciated as long as the world stands.

_6th. Nervous System_.

In giving an account of the causes of religious differences between
the sexes, I have not adverted to the effects produced by
physiological differences of the nervous systems of the sexes. The
whole frame and nervous system of woman, is said to be much more
delicate and sensitive than that of man. Hence an additional tendency
to the reception of quick and sudden impressions of all kinds. Hence
too, the great proneness of woman to irritation and to hysteric
affections,[4] {631} and her liability to great and frequently
overpowering excitement, in those religious congregations where
enthusiasm is propagated by contagion. I have frequently seen
indiscriminate multitudes assembled together for worship, when every
soul was concentrated, and every mind was mingled in the same thought;
when all hearts were blended in song--"The poor man by the side of the
rich, without being jealous, had forgotten his miseries--the rich man
had learned his indigence." All seemed to have obtained intelligence
of their bright celestial destiny; all seemed prepared for it,
rejoicing together, and all seemed advancing towards it. On these
occasions, I have always witnessed more feeling, more earnestness, and
more enthusiasm among the women than the men; and not unfrequently
have I seen them cry aloud, and continue in a state of violent
agitation for many minutes. The greater nervous irritability of the
female then, must certainly be ranked among the causes of her
peculiarly religious temperament. But I will not dwell longer on the
causes of the religious differences between the sexes. It is
sufficient to know that woman is more religious every where than man,
and that the causes assigned for this difference, if not the only
ones, are certainly the most important and most powerful in their
operation. I will conclude my remarks on this deeply interesting
subject, by a brief consideration of some of the effects of religion
on the character of woman.

[Footnote 4: Babington tells us, that in orphan asylums, hospitals and
convents, the effect of contagion is so great, that the nervous
disorder of one female easily and quickly becomes the disorder of all.
He tells us, upon the authority of a medical work, on which he places
the most implicit reliance, of a large convent in France, where the
example of one female who imitated the mewing of a cat, set the whole
convent to mewing, so as to make every day a complete cat concert. And
upon the authority of Carden, he tells of a nun in a German convent,
who commenced biting her companions like a mad dog. The contagion
spread from one to the other, until all in the nunnery were affected
with this rabid humor, which spread from convent to convent until it
reached Rome. These cases, however, if they actually occurred, were of
a very extraordinary character, and could only happen under such
circumstances as generally attend on the secluded, contemplative and
eccentric life of a convent, which nature never intended to be the
life of a rational, active, social being.]

_Effects of Religion on Woman_.

Religion, I mean the religion of the heart and of the feelings, such
as woman generally possesses, has undoubtedly a tendency to heighten
and improve all those qualities and attributes which we consider as
most essential to the female character. All the great duties of life,
those of wife, mother, friend, &c. she performs with a double relish,
and under the influence of a double motive. Religion furnishes a new
and powerful impulse to virtue. Virtue, it is true, has its own
charms, and may be said, by the happiness which it affords, to
constitute its own reward; but you have never so well fortified it and
guarded it against dangerous assault, as when you have thrown over it
the sacred panoply of the christian religion. Most of the religions of
the world have chimed in with the prevailing tendencies of the corrupt
portions of our nature, and have flattered and ministered to some of
the worst and most malignant passions of the human heart. Not so with
the christian religion; it has exalted the humble and meek in spirit,
and pulled down the proud and wicked: it has waged war on vice and the
indulgence of evil passions of every description, and has proclaimed
the great law on which the whole code of morality hangs, that
"whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to
them."

The religious female then, in addition to all the ordinary motives
which can incite to virtue, has the additional one of wishing to
please her God and of providing for her happiness hereafter. Religion
softens and disciplines the feelings, it quickens and heightens the
tender sensibilities, and increases all the sympathies of our nature.
It throws, in fine, a drapery of grace, of amiableness and loveliness
over the whole female character. Woman is never so lovely as in the
quiet unobtrusive discharge of her religious duties. "Men," says Dr.
Cogan, "contemplate a female atheist with more disgust and horror,
than if she possessed the hardest features embossed with carbuncles."
Even those who do not believe in the truth of christianity, turn
frequently with disgust from unbelieving women; they know too well the
value of religion and piety in the mother and the wife; they know full
well that the religious woman is generally the one who loves most
tenderly, most engrossingly, and most constantly. There is a
mysterious connection between even human love and religion. Rousseau
has long ago remarked upon the similarity of the languages of the
two.[5] How soon does a man in love, convert his mistress into an
_angel_; he is ready to make every _sacrifice_ for her; he kneels at
her _shrine_; he _worships_, he _adores_ her; 'tis _heaven_ where she
is, _torment_ where she is not.

[Footnote 5: He says that "the enthusiasm of devotion borrows the
language of love; the enthusiasm of love borrows the language of
devotion."]

I have already spoken of some of the effects of human love on man; it
is through the medium of the same powerful, mysterious agent, that
woman can frequently do so much for the cause of religion. There are
few men who can be deeply devoted to a pious female without a deep
sense of the beauty, the loveliness, and the holiness of true
religion. I once knew a being who loved, and loved devotedly a pious
lady. I have seen him gaze on her, as she moved before him in all the
loveliness of modesty and grace. Her looks, her words, her actions,
were all the subject of his intensest thoughts. I do believe he had
wrought them into a science, which he did most dearly love to study.

    "She could bend him to her ev'ry will,
  His soul's emotions all were in her power."

This being was not an unbeliever, but yet he was indifferent towards
religion. As soon, however, as he had felt the sweet influence of
human love, his mind assumed decidedly a religious cast; his thoughts
were more frequently turned on high. He declared, in the plenitude of
his affections, that he felt an indescribable pleasure in kneeling
beside the object of his affections at the altar, and mingling his
prayers with hers. He felt a deeper veneration and love for the God of
nature, because that God was loved by _her_, whose pure love, in his
mind at least, could sanctify and hallow every object which it
embraced. Reader! you who have wandered into distant climes, have you
not sometimes at sunset hour, when the great orb of day was pouring
his last flood of dimmed light over a world fast sinking into rest,
when every breeze had died away and every noise was hushed, reflected,
with feelings which no language could adequately describe, that the
same great luminary might be shedding his light on the dear friends of
your bosom, and that she whom you most tenderly loved, {632} might
then, perhaps far away, be gazing on the same object? With feelings
like these, would the being just described direct his prayers and
thoughts to heaven. It almost seemed to him that they met _hers_
there, and held communion together.

And yet, be not surprised, he never told his tale of love to her! She
might have known it, for acts and looks are more eloquent than words.
But the impression produced on this individual by the absorbing
affection which he felt for one pious woman, remained with him; he
declares that the bare remembrance of her who seems to him even now a
vision of loveliness and piety on earth, has made him a better and a
holier man. He can truly and feelingly declare in those exquisite
lines of Petrarch's, whose beauty no translation can express,

  "Gentil mia donna, io veggio
   Nel mover de' vostri occhi un dolce lume
   Che mi mostra la via che al ciel conduce."

Yes, and there are thousands besides who, like him, have been indebted
to pious females for that "sweet light" which illumines the path to
heaven.

I have already said that the female communicants in our country, form
from two-thirds to three-fourths of the whole church. If you will
examine into this small comparative number of male communicants, you
will find that one-half, or perhaps three-fourths have been brought
into the church either directly or indirectly by female influence. But
we must remember that this great, this salutary influence of woman, is
exercised through the medium of her example, and of the sweet
propriety and purity of her demeanor before God and man. She need not
preach her own goodness, like the Pharisee; she need not obtrude her
sentiments, with the enthusiasm of the fanatic, on those around her.
It is not her province to go upon the highway and compel all to come
in to the feast. She is not the being to force you by denunciation and
terror, to enter the church; all this is offensive, but particularly
so in a modest female.[6]

[Footnote 6: St. Peter speaks in the following terms, to christian
ladies whose husbands were not yet converted to the new faith:
"Likewise ye wives be in subjection to your husbands, that if any obey
not the word, they also without the word, may be won by the
conversation of the wives, while they behold your _chaste conversation
coupled with fear_." This recommendation of the apostle, marks out the
true province of woman in matters of religion.]

Under the present system of education it is rarely the case that woman
can discuss with grace, and elegance, and truth, the doctrinal points
of religion. "Judge not that ye be not judged," is a text which every
woman should bear constantly in mind. A female persecutor is the most
odious of her sex. I have often thought that the bigoted,
bloody-minded Mary, queen of England, was the most unlovely woman
mentioned in the page of English history; and we can scarcely blame
her equally bigoted husband, in withholding all affection and love
from a woman who resembled him so closely. I do not believe that even
the bigoted husband can love a ferocious, blood-thirsty, bigoted wife.

Mrs. Sandford blames those enthusiastic females "who wander about from
house to house, retailing the spiritual errors of the day, feeling the
religious pulse, dispensing prescriptions, and giving notoriety, at
least, to every new nostrum which would impose on the credulity of
weak and wayward christians; going about with their little casket of
specifics, they excite and foster the diseases they affect to cure."
Such enthusiasm as this, she well observes, "bears not the rose of
Sharon, but the apple of discord: not clusters of the celestial vine,
but spurious berries, which have the form, but not the sweetness of
the genuine fruit." There is a something in the quiet, meek, gentle,
and unobtrusive aspect and demeanor of the truly pious woman, which,
of itself, produces a mighty influence on the other sex. In the
collection of Lely's famous Windsor Beauties, there is one which
strikes the eye of the beholder, and rivets it in steadfast and
extatic gaze, it is the picture of Mrs. Nott. In Mrs. Jameson's
description of those Beauties, I have been more struck with Mrs. Nott,
although her tale is untold, than with any in the collection, not
excepting even the beautiful, the lovely Miss Hamilton. This fair
creature is represented with her book, and her flowers, and her
_village church_, in the back ground. These are the beautiful and
graceful appendages of piety and virtue. "As for the picture," says
Mrs. J. "it is some satisfaction to know, that slander has never
breathed upon those features to sully them to our fancy; that sorrow,
which comes to all, can never come there." Gazing on such a lovely, I
had like to have said _holy_ picture, well might she exclaim, "Is
there no power in conjuration to make those ruby lips unclose and
reveal all we long to know? Are they forever silent? The soul that
once inhabited there, that looked through those mild eyes, the heart
that beat beneath that modest vest; are they fled and cold? And of all
the thoughts, the feelings, the hopes, the joys, the fears, 'the hoard
of unsunn'd griefs' that once had their dwelling there; is this--this
surface--where beauty yet lives, 'clothed in the rainbow tints of
heaven,' but mute, cold, impassive--all that remains." And such will
ever be the curiosity which a meek, beautiful, and pious female, will
excite in the bosom of sensibility and affection.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LIONEL GRANBY.

CHAP. IV.

  She like a solitary rose that springs
  In the first warmth of summer days, and flings
  A perfume the more sweet because alone
  Just bursting into beauty, with a zone--
  Half girl's--half woman's.--_Marcian Colonna_.


The gentle ease, and simple tranquillity which reigned at Chalgrave,
found me its most obedient vassal. I lounged in the library the whole
day, devouring with a morbid appetite, romance, poetry, and light
fantasy. I shunned the gay circle of its inmates, not through
misanthropy or boyish modesty, but from an utter contempt of the form
and spirit of social intercourse. I communed alone with myself, and in
the wanton dreams which a sickly fancy conjured before me, I was
alternately the victim of caprice, restlessness, and disquietude.
Though secluded I was not solitary--though a hermit I was not a
misanthrope. Arthur Ludwell was a little nucleus, about whom the
affections and friendships of the whole household gathered themselves.
His occasional visits to the library--his frank and open address, and
his serious and manly sense, all conspired to teach me the value of
his usefulness, and the degradation of my own worthlessness. He could
laugh at my sentimental reveries, yet he had a deep and {633}
chastened taste for poetry; and though he was in the full tide of
elastic youth, he could read me a homily on the errors of an ill
regulated mind, with all the grave solemnity of referend age. His
expostulations--the remonstrances of my mother, and the broad hints
about bad breeding which the old dining-room servant gave me, could
not seduce me from my much loved retreat. I adhered to its
fascinations even as the ivy to the falling tower, and was simple
enough to believe that wisdom was gained by the bopeep game between
reason, fancy and folly.

One morning while I was engaged in my usual speculations, the door of
the library was suddenly opened, and Lucy entered, exclaiming! "Your
cousin Isa has arrived; shut your books! and do, my dear Lionel,
arrange your disordered dress. Look at your dishevelled hair. 'Twill
curl in graceful ringlets! and now do take it away from your pale and
melancholy brow." Twining her fingers in my hair, "I declare," cried
she, "I will not leave you till you come into the parlor. Isa is a
lovely girl, and is now receiving the affectionate salutations of the
whole family. Do, for my sake! for our mother's! and for the character
of the name you bear, grant my request." I could not hesitate, when
she impressed her entreaty with a kiss; and promising that I would
appear before my cousin, I soon commenced the unusual labors of my
toilette. I felt a wish, from some unaccountable emotion, to impress
my cousin with my appearance, and went into my toilette as a warrior
into an armory. Scipio's countenance was lit up with joy, when I
summoned his assistance; and with much deference he ventured to hope
that I would now let the old books rest--that I would sometimes sail
in our pleasure boat--that I would look at the Janus colts--that I
would let him go with me to our old walks, and that we would be boys
again.

So soon as I had descended into the parlor, my mother advancing
towards me, led me to a recess in the dormant window; and with much
solemnity introduced me in due form to my cousin Isa Gordon! My fair
relative was much abashed at the gravity of my introduction, and
something like fear checked the furtive glance which was beaming over
her countenance. For my own part I was confused, alarmed, and
agitated, and trembled beneath that silent eloquence, and impassioned
sympathy, which in making woman lovely, ever makes man a fool. To me
the situation was painful and singular, for I had never before quailed
under the smiles or frowns of female society. I had gained their
contempt by apathy; and studiously avoiding the little attentions
demanded by the honor of gallantry, I stood among them a heartless
being, whose company was tolerated only because his satire was
dangerous.

"I am truly happy to see you at Chalgrave," were the first words which
were stammered through my confusion!

She blushed more deeply when I had spoken, and was hesitating a reply,
when Lucy advancing relieved her from her embarrassment. At the call
of my mother they moved across the room, and I was left gazing in mute
rapture, at the grace and sylph-like gentleness, which characterized
the footsteps of my cousin.

This was Isa Gordon! that morning star which still shines on with
purity and brightness over the dark horizon of memory, and which even
now pours its bold and mellow light over the dreary waste of my
affections. Though not of tall stature, her form was one of exquisite
grace and symmetry, and her beauty mingled itself with the eye and
memory of the beholder. Her golden locks relieved a blushing cheek,
where laughing summer had set its seal, while her countenance
expressed a sensibility, intelligence, sweetness of temper and
innocence which disarmed flattery, and kindled affection. She was
grave more from gentle thoughtfulness than melancholy; and the low,
rich and soft music of her voice, stole upon the heart like the
swelling cadence of the Æolian harp. To firmness she united delicacy
of character, and possessing softness without weakness, humility
without arrogance, and beauty without affectation, her life became a
rare and happy combination of dignity, elevation and gentleness, with
the virtues which ennoble man, and the winning graces which endear
woman. She was in all the pride and power of conquering seventeen, yet
still no girlishness weakened the unobtrusive dignity of her
character. Romance might have decked her with all the gorgeous hues of
its fond imaginings. Poetry might have lingered around the silent
purity of her life, but reason alone could truly love--and wisdom
adore her.

On that day I felt a new passion adding itself to my dreamy solitude;
and when I returned to my tranquil room, I found myself the victim of
wild and impassioned love, betraying every symptom of its curious and
wayward power. I was alternately humble and arrogant--stubborn and
infirm--now a gallant cavalier, winning woman's heart by martial
prowess--now a finished coxcomb with a plentiful store of that
harmless folly which is frittered away from common sense, and now a
rhyme stricken poet, drawing inspiration from my own distempered
vanity, and struggling for metre in the odds and ends of language. I
loved with a holy and fervent ardor; yet the purity which I fondly
believed was the characteristic of my passion, was stained into
grossness by individual pride. Self love made me a little deity, and
woman's regard was an offering demanded by my insatiate egotism. I do
not know that I erred more than most young lovers, in thus reasoning
from the cause to the effect, and in believing that the existence of
love arises solely from our own latent merits and fascinations.
Kindness makes us arrogant, while pride deduces from a blush or a
smile, positive evidence of woman's unhesitating love. If she reason
with the folly of our passion, she is cold--if she shew the least
sunshine of tenderness, she is indelicate, and if she exercise the
common prudence of a reasoning being, she is a coquette. Man must have
all the constancy of her love, all the devotion of her guileless
heart, and he alone must mould its delicate texture to the wanton
caprice of his own vanity. He grants her all that love which he can
spare from the faction and turmoil of the world, and demands in return
her esteem for his errors, and her adoration for his infirmities. We
treat them as fools, when we breathe our false and treacherous love,
and thus cheat ourselves into a belief of our own purity and truth. A
woman of dignity will smile at the fantastic tricks which duplicity
enacts before her; and if she truly love she will crush our pride by
coldness, and blind the searching eye of our vanity by indifference.
She risks her total happiness--she nobly throws all her treasured
hopes into the scale of marriage, {634} and when once resolved, she
hesitates no longer over the trembling sacrifice of her implicit
confidence. Man calls the considerations of her judgment
insincerity--and the justifiable warfare of defence--coquetry. He
loves from pride; while prudence teaches her to inspire him with that
true passion, which takes its brightness like the diamond, only from
the attrition of its own fragments.

Excited by the influence of my new passion, I became a being of
different habits, and boldly entered into the spirit of that social
circle whose gaiety I had shunned. The rays of love had beamed athwart
the darkness of my solitude, and I basked in their brilliancy till
seclusion lost its philosophy and study its excitement. I was happy
only in the company of Isa Gordon, and revelled like a martyr, in the
funereal pyre, which consumed my tranquillity. With the quick
penetration of her sex she perceived my love, and though it hourly
disported its vagaries before her, it failed to move either her
serenity of temper, or unbend her dignity of character. In her
intercourse with me she was courteous, kind and polite, and I vainly
labored to find some of those thousand signs of reciprocal attachment
with which egotism flatters pride, and with which vanity sustains
folly. I thought she was cold and heartless, and have often gazed on
her beauty with that chilled rapture which would dwell on the rainbow
that lends its glittering canopy to the brow of the glacier.

Time wore away on downy feet, and the period was rapidly approaching
when Isa was to leave Chalgrave, and I was to enter college. I dared
not breathe my love; for though blinded by excess of passion, I had
enough of reason to know that I should be rejected; but could she
refuse when I plainly declared my sentiments? My vanity whispered her
acceptance, and I believed that her indifference proceeded not from
dislike but from my silence on that necessary and important
declaration which the pride and pretended ignorance of every woman
imperiously demands.

"You are singularly romantic, Lionel!" said she, as I was earnestly
employed in repeating some wild stanzas which I had inscribed to the
evening star! "What a curious conceit to make it the bridal torch of
the moon, and why people it with the genius of light. Many a poet has
sighed away his sense in searching for metaphors to exalt it--yet it
still shines on, careless of the poor folly which labors to adorn it."

"There is destiny in it, Isa! and even now as it arrests your gaze,
does it not tell thee of futurity? and does it not give a dreamy
melancholy--an incoherent imagining to thy young, thy cold, thy
uncorrupted heart?"

"My heart cold!" replied she, smiling, "What a happy poet! In one
moment basking in the light of the evening star, and in the next
ungenerously censuring a heart of which you know nothing."

"I do know it! I know that you have chilled its better feelings by the
dictates of reason, and from long obedience to stern prudence, you
cannot, dare not love! You have seen the sincerity of my passion, and
you have trampled on the purity of that love which adores you! Hear
me, dear Isa," I continued, seizing her hand and arresting her
departure, "hear my unworthy love. I am a wretched, desolate being,
and live alone."

"Lionel!" said she, suddenly interrupting me, "I do not love you! You
have noble qualities, and a genius which promises the highest
distinctions of fame. Forget your idle passion, and be assured that I
shall ever retain for you the most affectionate friendship. Enter into
the busy throng of the world, and you will quickly gain that chastened
wisdom which can laugh to scorn all your boyish dreams of romance, and
in the race of ambition you must and will forget your fancied sorrows.
Is it not true that

  'Love seldom haunts the breast where learning lies
   And Venus sets--ere Mercury can rise.'"

"I did not reckon on insult," I replied with much temper, "nor did I
wish you to read me a homily on the extravagance of that passion which
you alone have caused. You may scorn, yet I can love."

Lucy, accompanied by Arthur Ludwell, appeared at this moment, and
relieved me from a scene of distress, confusion, and embarrassment.
They returned with Isa to the parlor; and I, in a state of tempestuous
feeling and subdued pride, sauntered to the shores of the Chesapeake.
A _whip-poor-will_ seated on the leafless branch of a ruined oak, was
carolling his funereal notes to the responsive echoes of the forest.
The moon was rising far in the East, and the broad sea before me had
already flushed its rippled surface in her mellow light. Here and
there in the fretted horizon, might be dimly discovered the diminished
sail, or the frail bark of the silent fisherman. All nature was
slumbering in deathlike solitude, while I alone was the rude string
whose vibrations jarred into discord the peaceful scene around me. In
the bitterness of wounded pride I solemnly resolved to conquer my
unrequited passion. I returned to Chalgrave, proud, stubborn and
unconquerable. I looked up to its dreary grandeur and my eye caught
the light form of Isa flitting athwart a window. My obstinacy vanished
like the mist of the morning, and I was again the creature of love,
hope, and imagination.

On the succeeding day she quitted Chalgrave. Her parting interview was
simple and affecting. A kiss for my mother--a tear for Lucy, and a
smile for me, were the little legacies her affections bequeathed. With
strained eye and intense interest, I watched the chariot which bore
her away, and when it had sunk into the forest, I turned off to
meditate on her virtues and dream on her beauty. My old nurse gently
touching me, placed in my hand a little packet which she said Miss Isa
had left for me. I tore off the envelope, and a golden locket fell at
my feet, on which was inscribed in faint though legible lines, "_Dinna
forget_." That momento is now on my heart--a holy relic of the wreck
of my happiness.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO H. W. M.


  When the cup is pledged, and the bright wine flowing,
    At the festal board, in the halls of light;
  And gentle eyes, like stars are glowing,
    In the cloudless sky of a summer's night:
  Oh! breathe but my name o'er the wine, for yet
  I will dare to believe that all will not forget.

  When the moon looks out on the leafy bowers,
    Where the gladsome daughters of beauty are wreathing
  The brightest and fairest of all the flowers,
    To crown their altars with incense breathing,
  Oh, name one flower for the absent one,
  Who forgotten by thee is remembered by none. {635}

  In that home, to thee brightest and best upon earth,
    Where the spirits thou lovest are yearning to greet thee,
  When round the light of the household hearth,
    The smiles and the tears of affection greet thee,
  Mid the beam of the smile and the glow of the tear,
  Shall a thought ever whisper "I wish he were here?"

  For if life were changed, and its beamings of gladness,
    Were shrouded in gloom by the veil of sorrow,
  And the pale cold shade of unaltered sadness,
    Found no ray of hope in the coming morrow;
  Each pang could but render more precious to me,
  The friendship of M----, the beauty of B.

MORNA.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES

Written on being accused of coldness of character and manners by some
friends--1830.


  They call me cold--they know me not, nor can they understand
  The warmth of my affections, by the breeze of _kindness_ fanned;
  My feelings may not show themselves in countenance or voice,
  But my _heart_ can weep with those who weep--with those who sing,
        rejoice!
  My best affections lie concealed--I bring them not to light,
  For I know that those with whom I dwell can never read them right;
  But their fountain, tho' it calmly flow, is warm and full and deep,
  And the stream of love within my breast, tho' _silent_, does not
        _sleep_.
  To all the dearest ties of life I cling most tenderly;
  And the few whose unbought love is mine, compose the world to me:
  It is not those who feel the most their feelings best express,
  Nor those the most sincerely fond, who with the _tongue_ can bless--
  The paltry counterfeit may shine with radiancy as bright
  As the costly gem which monarchs wear--may look as pure and white;
  The artificial rose may glow with a color full as fair
  As the lovely flower which nature rears in sunshine and in air;
  'Tis time, and time alone, can show the real gem and flower,
  And time will oft on those we love, exert its magic power;
  It may change the beaming smiles to frowns, kind greetings to
        disdain,
  And cause the _seeming_ friend to scorn our poverty and pain.
  Oh! it is not thus with me, I know, the tide of feeling flows;
  Affection may not speak in looks, but in my bosom glows,
  With a warmth which time can never chill, scarce injuries suppress,
  And my heart responds to every tone of the voice of tenderness.

E. A. S.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ON THE DEAF, DUMB, AND BLIND GIRL OF THE ASYLUM AT HARTFORD,
CONNECTICUT.


  Yet deem not, though so dark her path,
    Heaven strew'd no comforts o'er her lot,
  Or in its bitter cup of wrath
    The healing drop of balm forgot.

  Oh no!--with meek, contented mind,
    The needle's humble task to ply,
  At the full board her place to find,
    Or close in sleep the placid eye.

  With order's unobtrusive charm
    Her simple wardrobe to dispose,
  To press of guiding care the arm,
    And rove where Autumn's bounty flows,

  With Touch so exquisitely true,
    That vision stands astonish'd by,
  To recognize with ardor due
    Some friend or benefactor nigh,

  Her hand mid childhood's curls to place,
    From fragrant buds the breath to steal,
  Of stranger-guest the brow to trace,
    Are pleasures left for her to feel.

  And often o'er her hour of thought,
    Will burst a laugh of wildest glee,
  As if the living forms she caught
    On wit's fantastic drapery,

  As if at length, relenting skies
    In pity to her doom severe,
  Had bade a mimic morning rise,
    The chaos of the soul to cheer.

  But who, with energy divine,
    May tread that undiscover'd maze,
  Where Nature, in her curtain'd shrine,
    The strange and new-born Thought arrays?

  Where quick perception shrinks to find
    On eye and ear the envious seal,
  And wild ideas throng the mind,
    Which palsied speech may ne'er reveal;

  Where instinct, like a robber bold,
    Steals sever'd links from Reason's chain,
  And leaping o'er her barrier cold
    Proclaims the proud precaution vain:

  Say, who shall with magician's wand
    That elemental mass compose,
  Where young affections pure and fond
    Sleep like the germ mid wintry snows?

  Who, in that undecipher'd scroll
    The mystic characters may see,
  Save Him who reads the secret soul,
    And holds of life and death the key?

  Then, on thy midnight journey roam,
    Poor wandering child of rayless gloom,
  And to thy last and narrow home
    Drop gently from this living tomb. {636}

  Yes, uninterpreted and drear,
    Toil onward with benighted mind,
  Still kneel at prayers thou canst not hear,
    And grope for truth thou may'st not find.

  No scroll of friendship or of love,
    Must breathe its language o'er thy heart,
  Nor that Blest Book which guides above,
    Its message to thy soul impart.

  But Thou who didst on Calvary die,
    Flows not thy mercy wide and free?
  Thou, who didst rend of _death_ the tie,
    Is _Nature's_ seal too strong for thee?

  And Thou, oh Spirit pure, whose rest
    Is with the lowly, contrite train,
  Illume the temple of her breast,
    And cleanse of latent ill the stain.

  That she whose pilgrimage below
    Was night that never hoped a morn,
  That undeclining day may know
    Which of eternity is born.

  The great transition who can tell?
    When from the ear its seal shall part
  Where countless lyres seraphic swell,
    And holy transport thrills the heart.

  When the chain'd tongue, which ne'er might pour
    The broken melodies of time,
  Shall to the highest numbers soar,
    Of everlasting praise sublime,

  When those blind orbs which ne'er might trace
    The features of their kindred clay,
  Shall scan of Deity the face,
    And glow with rapture's deathless ray.

L. H. S.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

AN ELEGY

Sacred to the memory of the infant children of S. M. and C. W. S. of
Campbell county, Va.

By Frederic Speece.


  O, they were rose-buds, fresh and bright,
  Fair flow'rets breathing of delight;
  Young cherubs from a happier sphere,
  Too gently sweet to linger here.

  The rose-buds withered ere their bloom,
  The flow'rets strewed an early tomb,
  The gentle cherubs tasted pain,
  Then sought their native skies again.

  Infants are bright immortal things
    Though robed in feeble, dying clay:
  Death but unfolds their silken wings,
    And speeds their joyful flight away;

  Beyond these cold, sublunar skies,
    They seek a home among the blest;
  On strong unwearied pinions rise,
    Cleave the blue vault and are at rest.

  What though no marble may attest
    Where slumber lone their cold remains,
  Their little cares are hushed to rest,
    And terminated all their pains.

  Nor Fame may deign a feeble blast,
    To tell the world that _they have been_;
  Nor snatch the record of the past
    From the dark grave that locks it in.

  Barren the theme--the legend trite
    Of joys or griefs it could reveal--
  The interchange of shade and light
    That all _have_ felt and all _must_ feel.

  Though grief has lost its keener edge,
    Remembrance lingers where they lie,
  To muse on ev'ry precious pledge
    The loved ones left beneath the sky.

  And ere oblivion's ebon wing
    Sweep ev'ry vestige from the spot,
  Affection shall its off'rings bring,
    Nor leave them to be quite forgot.

  Each lovely flow'r and drooping bell--
    Bright daughters of the op'ning year,--
  Those beauteous things they loved so well
    Shall weep their annual tribute here.

  Through dreary Winter's storm and cold,
    These sleep from all his terrors free--
  Again their blooming sweets unfold,
    Emblem of all that they shall be.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SONNET.

BY ALEX. LACEY BEARD.


    Sunset is past,--and now while all is still,
  And softly o'er the plain the moonbeams fall,
  I'll hold communion with myself and call
    From mem'ry's caverns, feelings deep, that fill
    My soul with gladness.... Now I feel the thrill
  Of past delights;--I stand in that old hall,
  My friends surround me,--yes, I see them all:--
    My heart grows faint, my eyes with tear-drops fill.

  And now they vanish, from my sight they go.
    Farewell ye loved ones, we shall meet again
    As oft we've met, at the dim twilight's wane;--
  In dreams and visions which shall brightly show
  Your sunny faces, and shall bring the glow
    Of by-gone joys, back to my soul again.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MARY.


  Mary, amid the cares--the woes
    Crowding around my earthly path,
  (Sad path, alas! where grows
  Not ev'n one lonely rose,)
    My soul at least a solace hath
  In dreams of thee, and therein knows
  An Eden of sweet repose.

  And thus thy memory is to me
    Like some enchanted, far-off isle,
  In some tumultuous sea--
  Some lake beset as lake can be
    With storms--but where, meanwhile,
  Serenest skies continually
    Just o'er that one bright island smile.

E. A. P.


{637}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE VISIONARY--A TALE.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

  Stay for me there! I will not fail
  To meet thee in that hollow vale.
[_Exequy on the death of his wife, by Henry King, Bishop of
Chichester_.


Ill-fated and mysterious man! Bewildered in the brilliancy of thine
own imagination, and fallen in the flames of thine own youth! Again in
fancy I behold thee! Once more thy form hath risen before me!--not--oh
not as thou art--in the cold valley and shadow--but as thou _shouldst
be_--squandering away a life of magnificent meditation in that city of
dim visions, thine own Venice--which is a star-beloved elysium of the
sea, and the wide windows of whose Palladian palaces look down with a
deep and bitter meaning upon the secrets of her silent waters. Yes! I
repeat it--as thou _shouldst be_. There are surely other worlds than
this--other thoughts than the thoughts of the multitude--other
speculations than the speculations of the sophist. Who then shall call
thy conduct into question? Who blame thee for thy visionary hours, or
denounce those occupations as a wasting away of life, which were but
the overflowings of thine everlasting energies?

It was at Venice, beneath the covered archway there called the _Ponte
di Sospiri_, that I met for the third or fourth time the person of
whom I speak. It is with a confused recollection that I bring to mind
the circumstances of that meeting. Yet I remember--ah! how should I
forget?--the deep midnight, the Bridge of Sighs, the beauty of woman,
and the demon of romance, who stalked up and down the narrow canal.

It was a night of unusual gloom. The great clock of the piazza had
sounded the fifth hour of the Italian evening. The square of the
Campanile lay silent and deserted, and the lights in the old Ducal
Palace were dying fast away. I was returning home from the Piazetta,
by way of the Grand Canal. But as my gondola arrived opposite the
mouth of the canal San Marco, a female voice from its recesses broke
suddenly upon the night, in one wild, hysterical, and long continued
shriek. Startled at the sound, I sprang upon my feet: while the
gondolier, letting slip his single oar, lost it in the pitchy darkness
beyond a chance of recovery, and we were, consequently, left to the
guidance of the current which here sets from the greater into the
smaller channel. Like some huge and sable-feathered Condor, we were
slowly drifting down towards the Bridge of Sighs, when a thousand
flambeaus flashing from the windows, and down the stair-cases of the
Ducal Palace, turned all at once that deep gloom to a livid and
supernatural day.

A child, slipping from the arms of its own mother, had fallen from an
upper window of the lofty structure into the deep and dim canal. The
quiet waters had closed placidly over their victim; and, although my
own gondola was the only one in sight, many a stout swimmer, already
in the stream, was seeking in vain upon the surface, the treasure
which was to be found, alas! only within the abyss. Upon the broad,
black marble flagstones, at the entrance of the palace, and a few
steps above the water stood a figure which none who then saw can have
ever since forgotten. It was the Marchesa Aphrodite--the adoration of
all Venice--the gayest of the gay--the most lovely where all were
beautiful--but still the young wife of the old and intriguing
Mentoni--and the mother of that fair child, her first and only one,
who now deep beneath the murky water, was thinking in bitterness of
heart upon her sweet caresses, and exhausting its little life in
struggles to call upon her name.

She stood alone. Her small, bare, and silvery feet gleamed in the
black mirror of marble beneath her. Her hair, not as yet more than
half loosened for the night from its ball-room array, clustered amid a
shower of diamonds, round and round her classical head, in curls like
the young hyacinth. A snowy white and gauze-like drapery seemed to be
nearly the sole covering to her delicate form--but the midsummer and
midnight air was hot, sullen, and still, and no motion--no shadow of
motion in that statue-like form itself, stirred even the folds of that
raiment of very vapor which hung around it as the heavy marble hangs
around the Niobe. Yet--strange to say!--her large lustrous eyes were
not turned downwards upon that grave wherein her brightest hope lay
buried--but riveted in a widely different direction! The prison of the
Old Republic is, I think, the stateliest building in all Venice--but
how could that lady gaze so fixedly upon it, when beneath her lay
stifling her only child? Yon dark gloomy niche too yawns right
opposite her chamber window--what, then, _could_ there be in its
shadows--in its architecture--in its ivy-wreathed and solemn cornices
that the Marchesa di Mentoni had not wondered at a thousand times
before? Nonsense! Who does not remember that, at such a time as this,
the eye, like a shattered mirror, multiplies the images of its sorrow,
and sees in innumerable far off places, the woe which is close at
hand.

Many steps above the Marchesa, and within the arch of the Water-Gate,
stood in full dress, the Satyr-like figure of Mentoni himself. He was
occasionally occupied in thrumming a guitar, and seemed _ennuied_ to
the very death, as at intervals he gave directions for the recovery of
his child. Stupified and aghast, I had myself no power to move from
the upright position I had assumed upon first hearing the shriek, and
must have presented to the eyes of the agitated group, a spectral and
ominous appearance, as, with pale countenance and rigid limbs, I
floated down among them in that funereal gondola.

All efforts proved in vain. Many of the most energetic in the search
were relaxing their exertions, and yielding to a gloomy sorrow. There
seemed but little hope for the child--but now, from the interior of
that dark niche which has been already mentioned as forming a part of
the Old Republican Prison, and as fronting the lattice of the
Marchesa, a figure, muffled in a cloak stepped out within reach of the
light, and pausing a moment upon the verge of the giddy descent,
plunged headlong into the canal. As, in an instant afterwards, he
stood with the still living and breathing child within his grasp upon
the marble flagstones by the side of the Marchesa, his cloak heavy
with the drenching water became unfastened, and, falling in folds
about his feet, discovered to the wonder-stricken spectators, the
graceful person of a very young man, with the sound of whose name the
greater part of Europe was then ringing.

No word spoke the deliverer. But the Marchesa! {638} She will now
receive her child--she will press it to her heart--she will cling to
its little form, and smother it with her caresses. Alas! _another's_
arms have taken it from the stranger--_another's_ arms have taken it
away, and borne it afar off, unnoticed, into the palace! And the
Marchesa! Her lip--her beautiful lip trembles: tears are gathering in
her eyes--those eyes which, like Pliny's own Acanthus, are "soft and
almost liquid." Yes! tears are gathering in those eyes--and see! the
entire woman thrills throughout the soul, and the statue has started
into life! The pallor of the marble countenance, the swelling of the
marble bosom, the very purity of the marble feet, we behold suddenly
flushed over with a tide of ungovernable crimson; and a slight shudder
quivers about her delicate frame, as a gentle air at Napoli about the
rich silver lilies in the grass. Why _should_ that lady blush? To this
demand there is no answer--except that, having left in the eager haste
and terror of a mother's heart, the privacy of her own _boudoir_, she
has neglected to enthral her tiny feet in their slippers; and utterly
forgotten to throw over her Venitian shoulders that drapery which is
their due. What other possible reason could there have been for her so
blushing?--for the glance of those wild appealing eyes?--for the
unusual tumult of that throbbing bosom?--for the convulsive pressure
of that trembling hand?--that hand which fell, as Mentoni turned into
the palace, accidentally, upon the hand of the stranger. What reason
could there have been for the low--the singularly low tone of those
unmeaning words which the lady uttered hurriedly in bidding him adieu?
"Thou hast conquered"--she said, or the murmurs of the water deceived
me--"thou hast conquered--one hour after sunrise--we shall meet--so
let it be."

       *       *       *       *       *

The tumult had subsided, the lights had died away within the palace,
and the stranger, whom I now recognized, stood alone upon the flags.
He shook with inconceivable agitation, and his eye glanced around in
search of a gondola. I could not do less than offer him the service of
my own, and he accepted the civility. Having obtained an oar at the
Water-Gate, we proceeded together to his residence, while he rapidly
recovered his self-possession, and spoke of our former slight
acquaintance in terms of great apparent cordiality.

There are some subjects upon which I take pleasure in being minute.
The person of the stranger--let me call him by this title, who to all
the world was still a stranger--the person of the stranger is one of
these subjects. In height he might have been below rather than above
the medium size: although there were moments of intense passion when
his frame actually _expanded_ and belied the assertion. The light,
almost _slender_ symmetry of his figure, promised more of that ready
activity which he evinced at the Bridge of Sighs, than of that
Herculean strength which he has been known to wield without an effort,
upon occasions of more dangerous emergency. With the mouth and chin of
a deity--a nose like those delicate creations of the mind to be found
only in the medallions of the Hebrew--singular, wild, full, liquid
eyes, whose shadows varied from pure hazel to intense and brilliant
jet, and a profusion of glossy, black hair, from which a forehead
rather low than otherwise, gleamed forth at intervals all light and
ivory--his were features than which I have seen none more classically
regular, except, perhaps, the marble ones of the Emperor Commodus. Yet
his countenance was, nevertheless, one of those which all men have
seen at some period of their lives, and have never afterwards seen
again. It had no peculiar--I wish to be perfectly understood--it had
no _settled predominant expression_ to be fastened upon the memory; a
countenance seen and instantly forgotten--but forgotten with a vague
and never-ceasing desire of recalling it to mind. Not that the spirit
of each rapid passion failed at any time, to throw its own distinct
image upon the mirror of that face--but that the mirror, mirror-like,
retained no vestige of the passion, when the passion had departed.

Upon leaving him on the night of our adventure, he solicited me, in
what I thought an urgent manner, to call upon him very early the next
morning. Shortly after sunrise, I found myself accordingly at his
Palazzo, one of those huge piles of gloomy, yet fantastic grandeur,
which tower above the waters of the Grand Canal in the vicinity of the
Rialto. I was shown up a broad winding staircase of mosaics, into an
apartment whose unparalleled splendor burst through the opening door
with an actual glare, making me sick and dizzy with luxuriousness.

I knew my acquaintance to be wealthy. Report had spoken of his
possessions in terms which I had even ventured to call terms of
ridiculous exaggeration. But as I gazed about me, I could not bring
myself to believe that the wealth of any subject in Europe could have
supplied the far more than imperial magnificence which burned and
blazed around.

Although, as I say, the sun had arisen, yet the room was still
brilliantly lighted up. I judged from this circumstance, as well as
from an air of exhaustion in the countenance of my friend, that he had
not retired to bed during the whole of the preceding night. In the
architecture and embellishments of the chamber, the evident design had
been to dazzle and astound. Little attention had been paid to the
_decora_ of what is technically called _keeping_, or to the
proprieties of nationality. The eye wandered from object to object,
and rested upon none--neither the _grotesques_ of the Greek
painters--nor the sculptures of the best Italian days--nor the huge
carvings of untutored Egypt. Rich draperies in every part of the room
trembled to the vibrations of low, melancholy music, whose unseen
origin, undoubtedly lay in the recesses of the crimson trelliss work
which tapestried the ceiling. The senses were oppressed by mingled and
conflicting perfumes, reeking up from strange Arabesque censers, which
seemed actually endued with a monstrous vitality, as their
particolored fires writhed up and down, and around about their
extravagant proportions. The rays of the newly risen sun poured in
upon the whole, through windows formed each of a single pane of
crimson-tinted glass. Glancing to and fro, in a thousand reflections,
from curtains which rolled from their cornices like cataracts of
molten silver, the beams of natural glory mingled at length fitfully
with the artificial light, and lay weltering in subdued masses upon a
carpet of rich, liquid looking cloth of Chili gold. Here then had the
hand of genius been at work. A chaos--a wilderness of beauty lay
before me. A sense of dreamy and incoherent {639} grandeur took
possession of my soul, and I remained within the door-way speechless.

Ha! ha! ha!--ha! ha! ha!--laughed the proprietor, motioning me to a
seat, and throwing himself back at full length upon an ottoman. "I
see," said he, perceiving that I could not immediately reconcile
myself to the _bienseance_ of so singular a welcome--"I see you are
astonished at my apartment--at my statues--my pictures--my originality
of conception in architecture and upholstery--absolutely drunk, eh?
with my magnificence. But pardon me, my dear sir, (here his tone of
voice dropped to the very spirit of cordiality) pardon me, my dear
sir, for my uncharitable laughter. You appeared so _utterly_
astonished. Besides, some things are so completely ludicrous that a
man must laugh or die. To die laughing must be the most glorious of
all glorious deaths! Sir Thomas More--a very fine man was Sir Thomas
More--Sir Thomas More died laughing, you remember. Also there is a
long list of characters who came to the same magnificent end, in the
_Absurdities_ of Ravisius Textor. Do you know, however,"--continued he
musingly--"that at Sparta (which is now Palæochori), at Sparta, I say,
to the west of the citadel, among a chaos of scarcely visible ruins,
is a kind of _socle_ upon which are still legible the letters [Greek:
LASM]. They are undoubtedly part of [Greek: GELASMA]. Now at Sparta
were a thousand temples and shrines to a thousand different
divinities. How exceedingly strange that the altar of Laughter should
have survived all the others! But in the present instance"--he
resumed, with a singular alteration of voice and manner--"in the
present instance I have no right to be merry at your expense. You
might well have been amazed. Europe cannot produce anything so fine as
this, my little regal cabinet. My other apartments are by no means of
the same order--mere _ultras_ of fashionable insipidity. This is
better than fashion--is it not? Yet this has but to be seen to become
the rage--that is with those who could afford it at the cost of their
entire patrimony. I have guarded, however, against any such
profanation. With one exception you are the only human being besides
myself, who has been admitted within the mysteries of these imperial
precincts."

I bowed in acknowledgement: for the overpowering sense of splendor and
perfume, and music, together with the unexpected eccentricity of his
address and manner, prevented me from expressing in words my
appreciation of what I might have construed into a compliment.

"Here"--he resumed, arising and leaning on my arm as he sauntered
around the apartment--"here are paintings from the Greeks to Cimabue,
and from Cimabue to the present hour. Many are chosen, as you see,
with little deference to the opinions of Virtû. They are all, however,
fitting tapestry for a chamber such as this. Here too, are some _chéf
d'oeuvres_ of the unknown great--and here unfinished designs by men,
celebrated in their day, whose very names the perspicacity of the
academies has left to silence and to me. What think you"--said he,
turning abruptly as he spoke--"what think you of this Madonna della
Pietà?"

"It is Guido's own!" I said, with all the enthusiasm of my nature, for
I had been poring intently over its surpassing loveliness. "It is
Guido's own!--how _could_ you have obtained it?--she is undoubtedly in
painting what the Venus is in sculpture."

"Ha!" said he, thoughtfully, "the Venus?--the beautiful Venus--the
Venus of the Medicis?--she of the gilded hair?--the work of Cleomenes,
the son of the Athenian? Part of the left arm (here his voice dropped
so as to be heard with difficulty,) and all the right are
restorations, and in the coquetry of that right arm lies, I think, the
quintessence of all affectation. The Apollo too!--is a copy--there can
be no doubt of it--blind fool that I am, who cannot behold the boasted
inspiration of the Apollo! I cannot help--pity me!--I cannot help
preferring the Antinous. Was it not Socrates who said that the
statuary _found his statue in the block of marble_? Then Michæl Angelo
was by no means original in his couplet--

  'Non ha l'ottimo artista alcun concetto
   Chè un marmo solo in se non circunscriva.'"

       *       *       *       *       *

It has been, or should be remarked, that, in the manner of the true
gentlemen, we are always aware of a difference from the bearing of the
vulgar, without being at once precisely able to determine in what such
difference consists. Allowing the remark to have applied in its full
force to the outward demeanor of my acquaintance, I felt it, on that
eventful morning, still more fully applicable to his moral temperament
and character. Nor can I better define that peculiarity of spirit
which seemed to place him so essentially apart from all other human
beings, than by calling it a _habit_ of intense and continual thought,
pervading even his most trivial actions--intruding upon his moments of
dalliance--and interweaving itself with his very flashes of
merriment--like adders which writhe from out the eyes of the grinning
masks in the cornices around the temples of Persepolis.

I could not help, however, repeatedly observing, through the mingled
tone of levity and solemnity with which he rapidly descanted upon
matters of little importance, a certain air of trepidation--a degree
of nervous _intensity_ in action and in speech--an unquiet
excitability of manner, which appeared to me at all times
unaccountable, and, upon some occasions, even filled me with alarm.
Frequently, too, pausing in the middle of a sentence whose
commencement he had apparently forgotten, he seemed to be listening in
the deepest attention, as if either in momentary expectation of a
visiter, or to sounds which must have had existence in his imagination
alone.

It was during one of these reveries, or pauses of apparent
abstraction, that, in turning over a page of the poet and scholar
Politian's beautiful tragedy "The Orfeo," (the first native Italian
tragedy) which lay near me upon an ottoman, I discovered a passage
underlined in pencil. It was a passage towards the end of the third
act--a passage of the most heart-stirring excitement--a passage which,
although tainted with impurity, no man shall read without a thrill of
novel emotion--no woman without a sigh. The whole page was blotted
with fresh tears, and, upon the opposite interleaf, were the following
lines, written in a hand so very different from the peculiar
characters of my acquaintance, that I had some difficulty in
recognizing it as his own.

  Thou wast that all to me, love,
    For which my soul did pine--
  A green isle in the sea, love, {640}
    A fountain and a shrine,
  All wreathed around about with flowers;
    And the flowers--they all were mine.

  But the dream--it could not last;
    And the star of Hope did rise
  But to be overcast.
    A voice from out the Future cries
  "Onward!"--while o'er the Past
    (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies,
  Mute, motionless, aghast!

  For alas!--alas!--with me
    Ambition--all--is o'er.
  "No more--no more--no more,"
  (Such language holds the solemn sea
    To the sands upon the shore,)
  Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
    Or the stricken eagle soar!

  And all my hours are trances;
    And all my nightly dreams
  Are where thy dark eye glances,
    And where thy footstep gleams,
  In what ethereal dances,
    By what Italian streams.

  Alas! for that accursed time
    They bore thee o'er the billow,
  From Love to titled age and crime,
    And an unholy pillow--
  From me, and from our misty clime,
    Where weeps the silver willow!

That these lines were written in English--a language with which I had
not believed their author acquainted--afforded me little matter for
surprise. I was too well aware of the extent of his acquirements, and
of the singular pleasure he took in concealing them from observation,
to be astonished at any similar discovery; but the place of date, I
must confess, occasioned me no little amazement. It had been
originally written _London_, and afterwards carefully overscored--but
not, however, so effectually, as to conceal the word from a
scrutinizing eye. I say this occasioned me no little amazement; for I
well remember that, in a former conversation with my friend, I
particularly inquired if he had at any time met in London the Marchesa
di Mentoni, (who for some years previous to her marriage had resided
in that city,) when his answer, if I mistake not, gave me to
understand that he had never visited the metropolis of Great Britain.
I might as well here mention, that I have more than once heard,
(without of coarse giving credit to a report involving so many
improbabilities,) that the person of whom I speak was not only by
birth, but in education an _Englishman_.

       *       *       *       *       *

"There is one painting," said he, without being aware of my notice of
the tragedy--"there is still one painting which you have not seen."
And throwing aside a drapery, he discovered a full length portrait of
the Marchesa Aphrodite.

Human art could have done no more in the delineation of her superhuman
beauty. The same ethereal figure which stood before me the preceding
night upon the steps of the Ducal Palace, stood before me once again.
But in the expression of the countenance, which was beaming all over
with smiles, there still lurked (incomprehensible anomaly!) that
fitful stain of melancholy which will ever be found inseparable from
the perfection of the beautiful. Her right arm lay folded over her
bosom. With her left she pointed downwards to a curiously fashioned
vase. One small, fairy foot, alone visible, barely touched the
earth--and, scarcely discernible in the brilliant atmosphere which
seemed to encircle and enshrine her loveliness, floated a pair of the
most delicately imagined wings. My glance fell from the painting to
the figure of my friend, and the vigorous words of Chapman's _Bussy
D'Ambois_ quivered instinctively upon my lips--

                             "He is up
  There like a Roman statue! He will stand
  Till Death hath made him marble!"

"Come!" he said at length, turning towards a table of richly enamelled
and massive silver, upon which were a few goblets fantastically
stained, together with two large Etruscan vases, fashioned in the same
extraordinary model as that in the foreground of the portrait, and
filled with what I supposed to be Vin de Barâc. "Come!" he said
abruptly, "let us drink! It is early--but let us drink! It is _indeed_
early," he continued thoughtfully as a cherub with a heavy golden
hammer, made the apartment ring with the first hour after sunrise--"It
is _indeed_ early, but what matters it? let us drink! Let us pour out
an offering to the solemn sun, which these gaudy lamps and censers are
so eager to subdue!" And, having made me pledge him in a bumper, he
swallowed in rapid succession several goblets of the wine.

"To dream," he continued, resuming the tone of his desultory
conversation, as he held up to the rich light of a censer one of the
magnificent vases--"to dream has been the business of my life. I have
therefore framed for myself, as you see, a bower of dreams. In the
heart of Venice could I have erected a better? You behold around you,
it is true, a medley of architectural embellishments. The chastity of
Ionia is offended by antediluvian devices, and the sphynxes of Egypt
are stretching upon carpets of gold. Yet the effect is incongruous to
the timid alone. Proprieties of place, and especially of time, are the
bugbears which terrify mankind from the contemplation of the
magnificent. _Once_ I was myself _a decorist_: but that sublimation of
folly has palled upon my soul. All this is now the fitter for my
purpose. Like these Arabesque censers, my spirit is writhing in fire,
and the delirium of this scene is fashioning me for the wilder visions
of that land of real dreams whither I am now rapidly departing." Thus
saying, he confessed the power of the wine, and threw himself at full
length upon an ottoman.

A quick step was now heard upon the staircase, and a loud knock at the
door rapidly succeeded. I was hastening to anticipate a second
disturbance, when a page of Mentoni's household burst into the room,
and faltered out, in a voice chokeing with emotion, the incoherent
words, "My mistress!--my mistress!--poisoned!--poisoned! Oh
beautiful--oh beautiful Aphrodite!"

Bewildered, I flew to the ottoman, and endeavored to arouse the
sleeper to a sense of the startling intelligence. But his limbs were
rigid--his lips were livid--his lately beaming eyes were riveted in
_death_. I staggered back towards the table--my hand fell upon a
cracked and blackened goblet--and a consciousness of the entire and
terrible truth flashed suddenly over my soul.


{641}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

PETER'S MOUNTAIN.

An extract from the unpublished Journal of a Tourist.


The third and last mountain over which the traveller passes, as he
proceeds from Fincastle to the Sweet Springs, is Peter's
Mountain--here called the Sweet Spring Mountain. This is, on several
accounts, one of the most remarkable mountains in Virginia. It is
remarkable, in the first place, for the appearance of regularity which
it presents to the eye of the traveller, when viewed from the west. It
extends sixty or seventy miles, between Jackson river on the north,
and New river on the south, apparently in a straight line, and of
nearly a uniform elevation. But this is not its whole extent. The
mountain north of Jackson river, and that south of New river, are
evidently continuations of the same mountain, and exhibit the same
unbroken and regular appearance. While on the east there are numerous
spurs extending from it in every direction, there is nothing of the
kind observable on the west. Were it not for the magnitude of this
mountain, its elevation, and its peculiar structure, we might readily
have imagined it to be, like the Chinese wall, the work of man,
constructed by the line and the plummet, in a former age, as a bulwark
of defence, by some hardier race than ours; but these point us to the
heavens for its great original.

As we looked back upon it from the valley on its west, our thoughts
reverted to the period, when the red men of the forest took up the
line of march, and relinquished the east to the peaceable possession
of their treacherous invaders. Here, it was natural to suppose, they
halted, and pitched their tents, and constructed their villages, and
began again to feel as though they were "monarchs of all they
surveyed." As they looked upon the mountain behind them, feelings of
security would be restored, and they would consider this mountain as a
barrier, reared by the Great Spirit for their protection.

"It is true, the white men made them wings--they flapped the winds,
and passed over the wide waters, and up the big rivers. They gathered
on the plains--they cleared the land, and made it theirs. But their
wings were made for the waters, and not for the rugged mountains--and
their feet are tender--they cannot encounter the flinty rock. Here,
then, shall the waves of pride and oppression be stayed. Here may our
wives and our children once more sit them down secure from foes, and
build their fires, and gather their nuts, while we chase the deer and
the buffalo in the far off west." Such we may suppose to have been the
reflections of some savage chieftain, _nescius auræ fallacis_, as he
looked upon the lofty, and seemingly interminable mountain bulwark
before him. But, if such they were, they proved deceptive. A few
revolving years passed away, and the white man was again on his
borders. His track was seen on the mountain, and the stroke of his
axe, and the shrill sound of his rifle were heard in the hollows. A
few years more, and the Indian again disappeared, and the white man
stood in his place--and the green grass grew, and the corn-blade
rustled, and the farm house was seen, where once stood the rude
villages, in which the chieftains had told the tale of the white man's
fraud, and of their own and their father's wrong, and their own and
their father's valor.

The circumstance which, more than any other, renders this mountain
remarkable, is its intersection with that chain of mountains known as
the Alleghany, which divides the waters that flow east into the
Atlantic, from those which flow west into the Ohio and Mississippi. At
about an equal distance between the Sweet Springs and Peterton, or the
Grey Sulphur, the Alleghany dips under this mountain, and emerges
again on its eastern side. The principal branches of the James river,
head on the west of Peter's Mountain, but east of the Alleghany; while
New river, the principal branch of the Great Kanawha, arises far to
the east of Peter's Mountain, though west of the Alleghany. The waters
of the Warm, Hot and Sweet Springs pass off to the ocean through the
James river; while those of the White, Salt, Red and Grey Sulphur
communicate with the Ohio, through the Kanawha.

This mountain, though uniform in its outline, is sufficiently
variegated in other respects. In some places it sustains heavy
forests, and is arable nearly to its summit; while in other places it
is nearly denuded, sustaining only a stinted shrubbery. In some
places, the large masses of sandstone which project near its summit,
exhibit the most grotesque and romantic appearance. In the
neighborhood of the Hot and Warm Springs, there are several very
picturesque views. There is one in particular, which seen at the
distance of three, four or five miles, has the appearance of a village
in ruins, with some of its public edifices standing, and numerous
villas or country mansions in a dilapidated state, scattered around
it. In the skirts of this rocky village, is what appears to be an
extensive burying-ground, with its vaults and tomb-stones, protecting
the dust of the dead from the unhallowed tread of the living. In other
places, the projections are less extensive, and resemble fortified
outposts. As one gazes on such scenes, the mind is involuntarily led
back to former ages, and the spectator is apt to fancy that he views
one of the castles or fortified places, in which were transacted the
tragical events of which he had heard or read in the records of a
feudal age.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE DUEL.


"McCarthy is no more!" said George, as I rushed out on learning his
arrival from the scene of conflict. "Raymond reserved his fire; then
deliberately taking aim, sent his ball through the heart of our
gallant friend, who stood firm and undaunted to receive his fire."

"Good God!" I exclaimed, "was there no man present whose humanity
prompted him to interpose for the prevention of so murderous a deed?"

"The attempt was made," said George, "but unavailingly. Raymond was
the challenged party, and with a savage sternness of purpose insisted
on his right, according to the rules which were agreed upon to govern
the conflict."

"He is a hardened villain," cried I, "stained with the blood of four
victims; and palsied be the hand that {642} has robbed society of so
pure and generous a spirit as McCarthy's."

Struck with horror at the occurrence, and overwhelmed with sorrow at
the loss of so worthy a friend, needing consolation myself rather than
capable of affording any, I hurried nevertheless to the house of the
deceased, to share, if not to alleviate the sufferings of his bereaved
mother and sister. Never, never shall I forget the scene which there
awaited me. The lifeless body of McCarthy, weltering in his own blood,
lay extended on a large folding table. The ball had entered the right
side, and with fatal energy had passed through the body, leaving a
corresponding wound on the left. The mother and sister, with
disordered hair and the wild expression of maniacs, stood at either
side of the corpse, applying their mouths to the wounds from which the
blood was still oozing; nor could anything short of absolute violence
withdraw them from the body. They wept not--they spoke not; but in all
the wild impassioned energy of despair, kept their mouths still
applied to the gaping wounds of the son and brother.

The deceased was a young gentleman, who inherited a handsome estate in
the south of Ireland. He had but the year before become of age, and
returned from Trinity College, where his vigorous understanding and
zeal in the pursuit of literature had won for him the first honors of
that venerable institution. Frank, generous and beneficent, he seemed
intent on applying the energies of his active mind and the resources
of an ample fortune, to the moral and physical improvement of his
tenantry and dependants. A year of unexampled scarcity, gave him an
early opportunity of developing those generous purposes of his pure
and elevated mind. To the lower classes of his tenantry he remitted a
part of their rents, and to the surrounding poor he distributed
provisions, exacting from them in return, only increased attention to
cleanliness and neatness in their persons and dwellings. He had
besides a large tract of unreclaimed peat land, on which, at proper
intervals, he erected comfortable stone dwellings, and let portions of
this land to the industrious poor, requiring no rent from them except
the application to the soil which they were to cultivate for their own
benefit, of some bushels of lime, easily procured from the contiguous
quarries. Thus, in a very short period, he effected a perceptible
change in the condition of his tenantry, while he was in fact
developing new resources for the indulgence of further beneficence.
His tenantry already looked to him as a friend and protector; they
submitted their difficulties to his arbitration, and applied to him
for redress for their grievances, when oppressed or maltreated by any
of the petty gentry of the vicinage. In addition to this generous
devotion to their interests, McCarthy possessed advantages, which are
no where more fully appreciated than among the imaginative and half
chivalrous Irish peasantry. With a Moorish head, and face of the
finest cast, often met with among the Milesian gentry of Ireland, he
had a form developed in muscular and beautiful proportions, much above
the common stature, resembling his ancestors in that particular, who
from their large and muscular frames, obtained familiarly the
appellation of _McCarthy Mores_. The cordial frankness of his manners
too, assured the peasants who approached him, that his was no affected
interest in their welfare and happiness. Thus endowed with every
quality of mind, heart and person that could win esteem and
confidence, was it to be wondered at that he should have become,
almost at once, the idol of a warm-hearted and grateful people? Alas!
they had too many opportunities of contrasting his kindness and
generosity, with the indifference, if not harshness of neighboring
landlords; or with the odious oppressions of mercenary agents to whom
they confided their estates. To this latter class Raymond belonged; he
was one of that wretched faction that so long kept Ireland in
degradation. A Palatine by extraction--a member of the Orange
Club--distinguished for his zeal in the unholy objects of that
mischievous and once powerful association--without fortune and without
education, save a limited knowledge of accounts, he possessed cunning
and contrivance enough to win his way to the agency of a large estate,
belonging to an absentee nobleman, who appeared once in three years
among his tenantry, only to exasperate their feelings by walking at
the head of an Orange procession. Raymond had a pecuniary claim
against one of the humblest of McCarthy's tenantry, and in the hour of
his greatest need, was enforcing it with the spirit of a Shylock.
McCarthy remonstrated--offered to insure the payment, if he would
extend the time until the ripening crop should enable the poor man to
meet the demand. Raymond insultingly refused--charged McCarthy with
rendering the tenantry of the surrounding country insubordinate to
their landlords, and creating discontent among his neighbor's
tenantry, by ill-timed indulgence to his own; and intimated in
McCarthy a purpose inconsistent with loyalty to his sovereign.
Unhappily, instead of inflicting on the miscreant the punishment which
his strong arm could so easily have enforced, yielding to a barbarous
usage which his better judgment must have condemned, McCarthy sent him
a hostile message on the following morning. Proud of meeting such an
antagonist--conscious of his unerring dexterity in the use of a weapon
which on three former occasions had been fatally true in his
hands--and anxious to remove a neighbor whose virtues and whose energy
were a painful rebuke, and promised to be a troublesome check on his
own views--Raymond gladly accepted the challenge, and dictated through
his friend, as vindictive as himself, the terms of the combat. The
result is known; and long shall the impressions made by that result,
leave their traces in the breasts of the inhabitants of Kenmare.
Amidst the general sorrow for what was regarded as a public
bereavement, there was one heart on which it fell with a blight that
withered every joy, and dried up at its very source the fountain of
every hope. The mother and the daughter were privileged in their
wailings; but there was one, who had received from him only the first
evidences of newly kindled love, but who, silent and unobserved, had
reposed on that evidence, slight though it was, all that she hoped for
of earthly felicity. It was Ellen--to whom an expression of tenderness
which her love made her interpret aright, and a hurried earnestness of
manner in his last adieu, had whispered that the heart in which she
had unconsciously garnered up her happiness, reciprocated a feeling
which she strove to conceal even from herself. Daily intercourse with
both, too plainly told me that the world contained but {643} one being
capable of interesting Ellen. I saw the wasting of a flame, which I
feared would consume her; and believing her every way worthy of my
noble-hearted friend, I sought to fix his attention on the charms of
her person, and the elegance and purity of her mind, without wounding
his delicacy by an intimation that I believed he had any hold on her
affections. At first his mind was so occupied with schemes for
ameliorating the condition of his tenantry, that they seemed to render
him indifferent to all besides. The natural enjoyments of his age and
station seemed to be shut out by these thoughts; and it was only when
the approach of the fatal rencontre with Raymond caused him to look
more closely into the recesses of his own breast, that McCarthy felt
that Ellen was not to him an object of indifference. He sought her
presence the evening before his fall. There was in his manner that
which told the watchful eye of a lover that her love was returned. Yet
he breathed no word of love--he sought no pledge of affection, lest
the event of the morrow should pierce too deeply a heart which he now
felt he would not wound for the world. Leaving to other friends the
task of consoling, if possible, the distracted relatives of the
deceased, I sought the home of Ellen. I found her alone; she started
wildly on seeing me.

"Is it true?" she exclaimed; "is he dead? Say, is McCarthy dead?"

"It is too true, Ellen," said I; "our friend--our generous,
noble-hearted friend, has fallen by the hands of a privileged
assassin."

"_Friend!_" said Ellen impetuously, "he was to me--" and checking
herself in the expression which to me was not necessary to convey what
she meant, she sunk back, relaxed and colorless, into her chair; her
bosom heaved as if contending with a tide of emotions--she sobbed
hysterically, and at last found temporary relief in a flood of tears.

Poor Ellen, alas! the relief was but temporary. The wild tide of
passionate sorrow, it is true, subsided soon; but it had left deep
furrows in the broken heart of Ellen, which time could not efface. Her
spirits sunk daily; her beautifully rounded figure became lank and
attenuated; her eye lost its lustre, and she shrunk instinctively from
the gaze of all, as if anxious to hide the secret of that grief which
was consuming her. Her physicians recommended change of air and scene;
they were tried--but no scene had a charm, no air had a balm for poor
Ellen.

Twelve months rolled by, and a gloomy pageant was seen passing through
the streets of Kenmare; that pageant was conducting to the family
vault, the lifeless remains of Ellen Mahony.

The fatal ball which drank the life's blood of the generous McCarthy,
broke also the heart of Ellen. Nor were they the only victims
immolated on the altar of a false honor. The mother of McCarthy sunk
prematurely into the grave; and his lovely sister continued to
manifest for many years, by occasional fits of melancholy madness, the
severe shock which her heart and understanding had received from the
premature fall of an idolized brother.

The pursuit of professional knowledge called me far away from the
scene of these occurrences. The fate of McCarthy and Ellen presented
itself less frequently to my mind, occluded by new scenes and
avocations. In 1818, six years after the fatal catastrophe, I returned
to visit, for the last time, my relatives in Kenmare. Mary, the lovely
sister of my murdered friend, bereft of every nearer relative, was
residing with her uncle, a distinguished officer of the Irish Brigade,
who with a constitution broken down by the fatigues of an eventful
life, had retired to a small estate near the lakes of Killarney. I
owed it to the memory of my deceased friend, to visit the last
surviving object of his affection. The day was full of freshness and
beauty, and the country through which I must travel to reach the seat
of Colonel McCarthy, is not surpassed by any in the world, in the wild
grandeur of its scenery. The road from Kenmare winds along a chain of
lakes, now narrowing into deep channels, hurrying precipitously their
angry and foaming waters into reservoirs below--now expanding into
broad and silvery inland seas, studded with verdant islands, blooming
with Arbutus and Lauristina. From the unruffled surface of these
lakes, you behold reflected, as from an expanded mirror, the images of
the over-hanging mountains, wooded to their tops, and varying in the
hues of the dense foliage that covers them with every varying stratum
of soil, from their bases to their summits. The high and threatening
Turk Mountain yields its reluctant base to the winding road. The
beautiful Peninsula of Mucrus is seen in full view. Its venerable
Abbey, still exhibiting traces of its former grandeur, containing
within its sombre walls the slumbering remains of many a gallant
knight and gentle maiden, of the humble and the great, in
indiscriminate oblivion. The proud mansion of the Herberts, still in
fine keeping--the long vistas opening in every direction on some
cultivated villa or rich demesne; the town of Killarney, with its
spires and undulating lines of white buildings; the mansions of the
Kenmares, the Cronins, and O'Connells,--all seen in distant
perspective, afford a coup d'oeil unsurpassed in beauty and natural
munificence by any in the world. As I revisited these scenes which my
boyhood loved to trace, there stole upon my heart a melancholy joy; it
was indeed "pleasant but mournful to the soul." The friends with whom
I had enjoyed these scenes were gone, or hurried far apart by the
varying engagements of busy life. To one of those friends this journey
was devoted, and his virtues and his fate rose before me in vivid
colors. The tear rose unbidden to my eye, and dimmed for awhile the
bright scene before me. Thus attuned to melancholy, I approached about
ten o'clock the residence of Colonel McCarthy. The modest but tasteful
dwelling was situated on a small eminence in the centre of a basin,
formed by a hill in the rear, and two projecting wings, open and
expanding to the south and southeast, having in full view before it
the ancient castles of Dunloe and Desmond--the beautiful lower lake
and its crowning ornament, the island of Innisfallen--Ross, the
majestic castle of the O'Donoghues--and to the right the bold Mountain
of Tornies, with its foaming cataract, appearing to the distant eye
like the giant guardian of the place, with his silvery beard flowing
on his venerable breast. The grounds were tastefully laid out, and the
regularity and order that was observable in all the decorations of the
place, gave evidence of a superintending mind trained to discipline;
while the surrounding {644} scenery bespoke it an appropriate refuge
for the warrior worn with toil and years.

As I approached, I beheld a female form sitting on a little eminence
to the right of the house, which was decorated with a cluster of white
pines. I could not mistake the light and graceful form of the
beautiful Mary. It was she, much as I had beheld her six years before.
Her large blue eye had the same wildness of expression which was
observable in it after the death of her brother; her figure was if
anything more beautiful, set off by a dress which she had selected in
the wild imaginings of her sorrow, to fit her in a special manner for
communion with the spirits of her mother and brother; her hair was
loose, but carefully combed, flowing gracefully on her shoulders; her
bust was incased in a plain white spencer, most studiously fitted to
her person; and she wore hanging in loose folds around her, a pure and
virgin white drapery, that was rivalled by the pellucid whiteness of
her uncovered neck, hand and arm. This dress, as I afterwards learned,
she always wore when the mind gave way before periodical melancholy;
and its approach was too truly announced by the cautious vigilance
with which she was observed to hide from her friends the preparations
for her strange attire. As I approached, I saw too plainly that Mary
had no thought for any object before her.

"Mary," said I, "do you not know me? do you not know E----, the friend
of your brother?"

"Oh yes," said she, keeping her eye steadily fixed as on some object
towards the lake. "Yes, yes," said she in a hurried manner. Then
placing her soft hand gently in my arm, she said, "Go, good spirit,
go; I want my mother and Sandy. See, they are coming; Mary will yet
have a mother and brother."

I spoke, I reasoned, I entreated her to come with me into the presence
of her uncle.

She replied with a hysterical laugh, and said, "He too is gone with
them."

I turned towards the house, and all there seemed silent and full of
sorrow. The Colonel's servant, with eyes swollen from weeping, replied
to my inquiries about his master, that he had that morning expired,
having for some days suffered intensely from the effects of his old
wounds.

"And who," said I, "remains to give consolation to the poor and
forlorn Mary?"

"Ah," said John, "Miss Mary is always light when any sorrow comes on
the family. The Dunloe family are coming here to take Miss Mary home
with them."

"God grant," said I, "she may be soothed by their kindness. Has she no
attendant, John?"

"Yes sir, but my poor master said it was best not to trouble her when
she is in her strange way."

I wound my way back slowly and mournfully from this house of sorrow. I
have since passed from scene to scene; I have witnessed the agonies of
many a breaking heart, and have been myself the subject of much sorrow
and anguish; but never did I witness blight and desolation equal to
that brought on the house of McCarthy by the murderous hand of
Raymond.

E.

_Henry County_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES.


  The dove of my bosom lies bleeding,
    The hopes I once cherished are fled,
  I gaze on their ruins unheeding,
    Earth's brightest is low with the dead.

  The eye that with rapture was beaming,
    Is clouded in silence and gloom,
  And those locks that like sunlight were gleaming,
    Are damp with the dews of the tomb.

  The smile that I sought as a treasure,
    Is gone with the being who gave
  To this bosom its throbbings of pleasure,
    And my heart is with her in the grave.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Above her the wild flowers are growing,
    They were nursed by the thoughts of her love,
  They are wet by the tears that are flowing,
    And shall flow, till I greet her above.

MORNA.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MY NATIVE HOME.

BY GEO. WATTERSTON.


  When storms howl around me and dark tempests roll,
  And Nature seems mov'd and convulsed to each pole--
  When billows o'er billows tempestuously foam,
  How dear is the thought of my lov'd native home.

  The Laplander's breast, cold and dreary as night,
  Beats wildly with transport, and throbs with delight,
  When mem'ry, sad mem'ry, once chances to roam,
  And recalls the past joys of his lov'd native home.

  The soldier who combats at tyranny's call,
  In far distant climes, where grim terrors appal,
  At the last beat of life, when he ceases to roam,
  While dying, remembers his dear native home.

  Grim slav'ry's poor victim, long destin'd to mourn
  O'er the ruins of peace that will never return,
  Views with heart-bursting grief, old Ocean's white foam,
  And dies as he thinks of his lov'd native home.

  Misfortune's sad child, while he wanders afar,
  Still guided by Destiny's mysterious star,
  Heaves a sigh, while visions of intellect roam,
  And paint on his mem'ry the sweets of his home.

  When sorrows the cheek of remembrance bedew,
  And disease, death, and misery glare dreadful to view,
  How grateful, when far from our country we roam,
  Are the long cherish'd thoughts of our lov'd native home.

  Who wanders o'er far distant realms to enjoy
  Life's baubles of pleasure and wealth's glitt'ring toy,
  In his old age returns, no longer to roam,
  From the long absent shades of his dear native home.

  Would fortune permit me once more to return
  To the cot of my youth, that in sadness I mourn,
  Oh! nothing again shall induce me to roam
  From the scenes, the lov'd scenes of my sweet native home.


{645}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MEMOIR OF THE AMBITIOUS LAWYER.

NO. I.

Will your honor hear me through, before you pronounce sentence.--_Old
Play_.


I was the son of a country clergyman, who, passionately fond of
literature himself, determined to send me into the world with a good
collegiate education. I went through the course of study at the
University of ----, studied hard, graduated with considerable
distinction, and was very fully impressed with the idea that I was a
youth of fine parts and acquirements. On leaving college, I determined
to spend a twelvemonth in recreation and amusement, before I entered
upon the study of a profession.

On my first introduction into the society of the active world, I
expected of course, to command that homage to my superior talents and
acquirements which I thought I so richly merited, and which was so
willingly awarded by the young men at the University of ----. But I
was not only treated with indifference, but contempt. I soon acquired
the character of a conceited coxcomb--a dogmatist without knowledge or
talents. Few of the enlightened part of the community condescended to
converse with me on equal terms; my challenges for argument, in order
to discover my abilities, were disregarded: and I had the
mortification of having the reputation of a fool, without the
opportunity as I thought, of correcting the impression. This treatment
determined me to anticipate the time I had allotted for the
commencement of the study of a profession. The consciousness that I
possessed talents, and the illiberal treatment I conceived I had met
with from the world, excited within me, an ambition of the most
corroding nature. I was determined to extort from an envious world,
that respect which I believed was so unworthily withheld. I had a
restless desire to chalk out my fortunes unassisted. With a single eye
to my purpose, I placed myself somewhat in a hostile attitude to the
world. Such was the uncompromising nature of my pride, and such the
ill-judged confidence in my own abilities, that I enjoyed no man's
friendship, and sought the patronage of none. In two months after I
left the University of ----, I purchased a few books, and commenced
the study of the law. For two years, I gave the most unremitting,
untiring attention to my books. Many nights did I toil over the dry
pages of Coke, until the east was streaked with the approach of
returning day. Many times was my mind so far absorbed, by intense and
abstract thought, that I have been forced suddenly to throw down my
books and count the tiles on the roof of the house, to recall my
aberrated thoughts and prevent absolute derangement. There is always
an exhilaration of feeling which attends mental excitement, that
renders the life of a student happy; and, while my health remained
unimpaired, my hours of study passed pleasantly away. But intense
application began to affect my health, and consequently my spirits; a
melancholy sat continually on my "faded brow." I became unhappy,
without then knowing why; yet I never lost sight of my unalterable
resolve, to make those crouch to my importance, who had once spurned
me from their presence. Occasionally the idea would recur, "would it
not be better to return to my social feelings, unbosom myself to my
relatives, and be content with the good opinion of those with whom I
associated;" but pride and ambition would soon silence such
intimations of my better nature, and goad me on to the attainment of
my object at any sacrifice. In looking back through a period of more
than threescore years, I can distinctly recollect that sullen pride,
that mortified but unsubdued ambition which shut me out from the
pleasures of social intercourse, and "preyed like the canker worm, on
the vitals of my repose."

On perceiving the decline of my health and spirits, my father, with
little persuasion, prevailed on me to take out license and commence
the practise of my profession. By devotion to my studies, I had
acquired such a knowledge of the elementary works, as enabled me to
pass a sustainable examination before the judges of ----. In the
twenty-first year of my age, on the twenty-fifth day of October, with
my license in my pocket, I set out for a distant county court. It was
a fine morning; the air was bracing, but not cold. When I had mounted
my horse, and set off in a brisk trot, on a level and beaten Virginia
country road, I felt an exhilaration that the novelty of my purpose
and the healthy nature of my exercise was well calculated to inspire.
It is needless to inform the reader of the multifarious and never
realized visions of distinction and applause, that my heated brain
formed that day. There is something rather enervating in the young
dreams of love; but the early visions of ambition instil an ardor into
the soul, which nerves the faculties to the most daring enterprize, or
the most laborious undertaking. Both, however, heighten self-respect,
and diffuse a pleasing tranquillity over even excited feeling.

The crowd had already gathered when I reached the court house of ----.
The political rivals had commenced haranguing the mob; the shrill cry
of the Yankee pedler vendueing his goods, the hoarse laugh of the
stout Virginia planter, the neighing of horses, the loud voice of the
stump orator, and the menaces of county bullies, met for the purpose
of testing their pugilistic talents, broke upon the tympanum in no
agreeable confusion. Here was a group collected around a decapitated
cask of whiskey, emptying its contents to the health of favorite
candidates; there a collection eyeing with eagerness two combatants
encircled in a ring, struggling for the acclamation of "the best man."
At a respectful distance stood the man of authority, the Virginia
justice, commanding the peace; but his vociferous interference only
met with the response of "Hands off: fair play!" In this promiscuous
assemblage, every grade of society in the county was represented. Here
was the rich, unpopular aristocrat, with his lofty bearing. The
representatives of old, and once rich and aristocratical families, who
had left nothing but a name for their posterity, were here mingling
familiarly with the plebeian herd, seeking popularity as the only
step-stone to political eminence. Here was seen, also, the rich
demagogue--the people's man--the frequenter of militia musters, the
giver of good dinners, without distinction of guests. Here, also, was
the substantial two hundred acre freeholder. Of the most conspicuous
"_minora sidera_," the Kentuckian horsedrover, the horsejockey, the
ganderpuller, might be mentioned. I soon passed this congregated mass,
and reached the bar. One of the fraternity was kind enough to
introduce me to the court and his professional brethren. It {646} is
useless to describe my sensations during the continuance of that term
of the court. I was, generally, either entirely unnoticed, or treated
with marked contempt. So undeserving and discourteous did this
treatment seem, that I asked an old lawyer, who appeared rather more
affable than his brethren, what it meant; he smiled, and whispered
that every young lawyer, and particularly _a college lawyer_, was,
_prima facie_, a fool, until he showed the contrary. I profited so
much by this rough response, as to resolve to push my own way, without
soliciting favor, and careless even of common courtesy.

After about four months attention to my courts, I found a world of
difference between the life of a student and a lawyer. The one deals
with his fellow at the most confiding and innocent age; the other
deals with every variety of character, and meets with every grade of
vice. When I first discovered with what a cold and selfish set of
creatures I had to mingle, I became melancholy, disgusted with my
profession and every thing attached to it. The fearful thought came
over my mind to turn scoundrel, and manage the _world_ in its own way;
to "carve it like an oyster"--"to ride mankind as Pyrrhus did his
elephant." But my better nature prevailed, and I determined to
persevere in the difficult task of mingling with mankind and
preserving my principles uncontaminated by the contact.

When we reflect what a trivial occurrence alters one's fortunes, we
are ready to conclude that life is a complete game of hazard, and man
the creature of circumstances. If it had not been for a singular
accident, I might have toiled on through the prime of my existence,
without success in my profession, and deserted it after my glittering
youth was spent, a disappointed and pennyless misanthrope. I took a
small "tide of fortune at its flood, and it led to glory." It was
twelve months from the time I took out license, that I was touched on
the arm by a stranger, who asked me if I was not Owen the lawyer? I
told him I was; he then retained me to defend him in a prosecution
against him for forgery, and added, that my general celebrity as a
criminal advocate, had induced him to employ me. The application was
of a kind so new to me, (for I had never been spoken to either for
counsel or defence) that in the agitation of the moment I did not
discover that I was mistaken for a lawyer of some eminence, of the
same name, who attended the same court. As soon as he left me, cool
reflection came, and I was convinced that I had been retained through
mistake. I immediately went in search of the forger, to suggest the
mistake. I met with him among a number of by-standers and a few
members of the bar. As soon as he saw me, he accused me of practising
a fraud upon him, by designingly confirming him in his error. I
immediately turned from him, remarking that I could be no gainer by
altercation with a forger. But from the reception that his charge met
with among some of the by-standers and lawyers, I was impressed with
the conviction that they either believed, or affected to believe, the
accusation of the forger. I concealed my chagrin as well as I could
until his trial came on, and availing myself of the invitation of the
prosecutor to assist him, I made a speech containing the bitterest
invective and perhaps the best argument that I have ever made since.
As soon as I look my seat I observed approbation or envy on every
countenance that met my eye, for the criminal was very opprobrious to
the multitude. He was convicted by the unanimous voice of the court. I
was congratulated on every side on the success of my "maiden effort,"
and by numbers of the obsequious crowd who previously withheld from me
even the ordinary civilities of life.

NARRATOR.




LITERARY NOTICES.


THE CRAYON MISCELLANY, No. II. containing Abbotsford and Newstead
Abbey. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard. 1835.

We hailed with pleasure the appearance of the first number of the
Crayon Miscellany, but we knew not what a feast was preparing for us
in the second. In Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey, the author of the
Sketch Book is at home. By no one could this offering to the memories
of Scott and Byron have been more appropriately made. It is the
tribute of genius to its kindred spirits, and it breathes a
sanctifying influence over the graves of the departed. The kindly
feelings of Irving are beautifully developed in his description of the
innocent pursuits and cheerful conversation of Sir Walter Scott, while
they give a melancholy interest to the early misfortunes of Byron. He
luxuriates among the scenes and associations which hallow the walls of
Newstead, and warms us into admiration of the wizard of the north, by
a matchless description of the man, his habits, and his thoughts. The
simplicity and innocence of his heart, his domestic affections, and
his warm hospitality, are presented in their most attractive forms.
The scenes and the beings with which Sir Walter was surrounded, are
drawn with a graphic pencil. All conduce to strengthen impressions
formerly made of the goodness and beneficence of Scott's character,
and to gratify the thousands who have drawn delight from his works,
with the conviction that their author was one of the most amiable of
his species. No man knows better than Washington Irving, the value
which is placed by the world (and with justice) upon incidents
connected with really great men, which seem trifling in themselves,
and which borrow importance only from the individuals to whom they
have relation. Hence he has given us a familiar (yet how beautiful!)
picture of Abbotsford and its presiding genius; but the relics of
Newstead, which his pensive muse has collected and thrown together,
brightening every fragment by the lustre of his own genius, are
perhaps even more attractive. He touches but a few points in Byron's
early history, but they are those on which we could have wished the
illumination of his researches. The whole of the details respecting
Miss Chaworth, and Byron's unfortunate attachment to that lady, are in
his best manner. The story of the White Lady is one of deep interest,
and suits well with the melancholy thoughts connected with Newstead.
An instance of monomania like that of the White Lady, has seldom been
recorded; and the author has, without over-coloring the picture,
presented to his readers the history of a real being, whose whole
character and actions and melancholy fate belong to the regions of
romance. In nothing that he has ever written, has his peculiar faculty
of imparting to all he touches the coloring of his genius, been more
fully displayed than in this work.

{647} We give a short extract from each of these sketches, although
they can afford no idea of their collective charms. The conversational
powers and social qualities of Sir Walter Scott, are thus described:

"The conversation of Scott was frank, hearty, picturesque, and
dramatic. During the time of my visit he inclined to the comic rather
than the grave, in his anecdotes and stories, and such, I was told,
was his general inclination. He relished a joke, or a trait of humor
in social intercourse, and laughed with right good will. He talked not
for effect or display, but from the flow of his spirits, the stores of
his memory, and the vigor of his imagination. He had a natural turn
for narration, and his narratives and descriptions were without
effort, yet wonderfully graphic. He placed the scene before you like a
picture; he gave the dialogue with the appropriate dialect or
peculiarities, and described the appearance and characters of his
personages with that spirit and felicity evinced in his writings.
Indeed, his conversation reminded me continually of his novels; and it
seemed to me, that during the whole time I was with him, he talked
enough to fill volumes, and that they could not have been filled more
delightfully.

"He was as good a listener as talker, appreciating every thing that
others said, however humble might be their rank or pretensions, and
was quick to testify his perception of any point in their discourse.
He arrogated nothing to himself, but was perfectly unassuming and
unpretending, entering with heart and soul into the business, or
pleasure, or, I had almost said folly, of the hour and the company. No
one's concerns, no one's thoughts, no one's opinions, no one's tastes
and pleasures seemed beneath him. He made himself so thoroughly the
companion of those with whom he happened to be, that they forgot for a
time his vast superiority, and only recollected and wondered, when all
was over, that it was Scott with whom they had been on familiar terms,
and in whose society they had felt so perfectly at their ease.

"It was delightful to observe the generous mode in which he spoke of
all his literary cotemporaries, quoting the beauties of their works,
and this, too, with respect to persons with whom he might be supposed
to be at variance in literature or politics. Jeffrey, it was thought,
had ruffled his plumes in one of his reviews, yet Scott spoke of him
in terms of high and warm eulogy, both as an author and as a man.

"His humor in conversation, as in his works, was genial and free from
all causticity. He had a quick perception of faults and foibles, but
he looked upon poor human nature with an indulgent eye, relishing what
was good and pleasant, tolerating what was frail, and pitying what was
evil. It is this beneficent spirit which gives such an air of
bonhommie to Scott's humor throughout all his works. He played with
the foibles and errors of his fellow beings, and presented them in a
thousand whimsical and characteristic lights, but the kindness and
generosity of his nature would not allow him to be a satirist. I do
not recollect a sneer throughout his conversation any more than there
is throughout his works."

It is more difficult to fix upon an extract from the sketch of
Newstead Abbey, but we take the following as coming within the limits
of our notice:

"I was attracted to this grove, however, by memorials of a more
touching character. It had been one of the favorite haunts of the late
Lord Byron. In his farewell visit to the abbey, after he had parted
with the possession of it, he passed some time in this grove, in
company with his sister; and as a last memento, engraved their names
on the bark of a tree.

"The feelings that agitated his bosom during this farewell visit, when
he beheld around him objects dear to his pride, and dear to his
juvenile recollections, but of which the narrowness of his fortune
would not permit him to retain possession, may be gathered from a
passage in a poetical epistle, written to his sister in after years.

  "'I did remind you of our own dear lake
    By the old hall, _which may be mine no more_;
    Lemans is fair; but think not I forsake
    The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore:
    Sad havoc Time must with my memory make
    Ere _that_ or _thou_ can fade these eyes before;
    Though, like all things which I have loved, they are
    Resign'd for ever, or divided far.

    I feel almost at times as I have felt
    In happy childhood; trees, and flowers, and brooks,
    Which do remember me of where I dwelt
    Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books,
    Come as of yore upon me, and can melt
    My heart with recognition of their looks,
    And even at moments I would think I see
    Some living things I love--but none like thee.'

"I searched the grove for sometime, before I found the tree on which
Lord Byron had left his frail memorial. It was an elm of peculiar
form, having two trunks, which sprang from the same root, and after
growing side by side, mingled their branches together. He had selected
it doubtless, as emblematical of his sister and himself. The names of
BYRON and AUGUSTA were still visible. They had been deeply cut in the
bark, but the natural growth of the tree was gradually rendering them
illegible, and a few years hence, strangers will seek in vain for this
record of fraternal affection.

       *       *       *       *       *

"At a distance on the border of the lawn, stood another memento of
Lord Byron; an oak planted by him in his boyhood, on his first visit
to the abbey. With a superstitious feeling inherent in him, he linked
his own destiny with that of the tree. 'As it fares,' said he, 'so
will fare my fortunes.' Several years elapsed, many of them passed in
idleness and dissipation. He returned to the abbey a youth scarce
grown to manhood, but as he thought with vices and follies beyond his
years. He found his emblem oak almost choked by weeds and brambles,
and took the lesson to himself.

  "'Young oak, when I planted thee deep in the ground,
      I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine,
    That thy dark waving branches would flourish around,
      And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine.

    Such, such was my hope--when in infancy's years
      On the land of my fathers I reared thee with pride;
    They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears--
      Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide.'

"I leaned over the stone ballustrade of the terrace, and gazed upon
the valley of Newstead, with its silver sheets of water gleaming in
the morning sun. It was a Sabbath morning, which always seems to have
a hallowed influence over the landscape, probably from the quiet of
the day, and the cessation of all kinds of week day labor. As I mused
upon the mild and beautiful scene, and the wayward destinies of the
man whose stormy temperament forced him from this tranquil paradise to
battle with the passions and perils of the world, the sweet chime of
bells from a village a few miles distant, came stealing up the valley.
Every sight and sound this morning, seemed calculated to summon up
touching recollections of poor Byron. The chime was from the village
spire of Hucknall Torkard, beneath which his remains lie buried!

"I have since visited his tomb. It is in an old gray country church,
venerable with the lapse of centuries. He lies buried beneath the
pavement, at one end of the principal aisle. A light falls upon the
spot through the stained glass of a gothic window, and a tablet on the
adjacent wall announces the family vault of the Byrons. It had been
the wayward intention of the poet to be entombed with his faithful dog
in the monument {648} erected by him in the garden of Newstead Abbey.
His executors showed better judgment and feeling, in consigning his
ashes to the family sepulchre, to mingle with those of his mother and
his kindred.

       *       *       *       *       *

"How nearly did his dying hour realize the wish made by him but a few
years previously in one of his fitful moods of melancholy and
misanthropy:

  "'When time, or soon or late, shall bring,
      The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead,
    Oblivion! may thy languid wing
      Wave gently o'er my dying bed!

    No band of friends or heirs be there,
      To weep or wish the coming blow:
    No maiden with dishevelled hair,
      To feel or feign decorous woe.

    But silent let me sink to earth,
      With no officious mourners near:
    I would not mar one hour of mirth,
      Nor startle friendship with a fear.'

"He died among strangers, in a foreign land, without a kindred hand to
close his eyes, yet he did not die unwept. With all his faults, and
errors, and passions, and caprices, he had the gift of attaching his
humble dependants warmly to him. One of them, a poor Greek,
accompanied his remains to England, and followed them to the grave. I
am told that during the ceremony, he stood holding on by a pew in an
agony of grief, and when all was over, seemed as if he would have gone
down into the tomb with his master.--A nature that could inspire such
attachments, must have been generous and beneficent."

       *       *       *       *       *

THE CONQUEST OF FLORIDA, by Hernando de Soto; by Theodore Irving.
Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard.

There is so much of romance in the details of Spanish conquests in
America, that a history of any one of the numerous expeditions for
discovery and conquest, possesses the charm of the most elaborate
fiction, even while it bears the marks of general truth. These
adventures occurred during the age of chivalry, when danger was
courted for distinction, before the progress of science and literature
had opened other avenues to renown, and when personal valor was looked
upon as the pre-eminent quality--skill in arms as the highest
accomplishment of an aspiring spirit. No nation was more celebrated
during that chivalrous age than Spain, and in none did the genius of
chivalry longer resist the influences under which it finally fell into
decay. Upon the discovery of America, a wide field was opened for the
warlike spirit of the age, and Spain sent forth her hosts of
adventurers, filled with wild visions of boundless wealth, and the
easy conquest of the barbarian nations of those golden regions. There
are in the histories of their exploits, so many displays of dauntless
courage--of skill in overcoming difficulties--of the power of a few
disciplined warriors, to contend successfully with hosts of equally
brave, but untutored savages--and so many exhibitions of the generous
qualities of the soldier, that in the glare of brilliant achievements,
and the excitement of thrilling incident, we are tempted to overlook
the injustice and cruelty which marked the footsteps of the
conquerors.

Mr. Irving's work is one of great interest. The conquest of Florida by
De Soto, while it is contrasted with the conquest of Mexico by Cortez,
(which immediately preceded it) in regard to its results to those
engaged in it, resembles it in the patient suffering and indomitable
bravery of the adventurers, and in the numerous thrilling scenes
through which they passed. While the conquest of Mexico enriched the
followers of Cortez, and poured the wealth of the new world into the
lap of Spain, that of Florida proved fatal to all who attempted it,
and ended in disaster to the ultimate conquerors. Ponce de Leon, the
visionary, who sought in Florida the Fountain of Youth, Vasques de
Ayllon, the ruthless kidnapper, and Pamphilo de Narvaez, the well
known rival and opponent of Cortez, had made fruitless attempts to
colonize this disastrous coast. But the last and most splendid effort
of that day, was made by Hernando de Soto, a cavalier who had served
with Cortez, and had returned to Spain in the possession of immense
wealth derived from the spoil of Mexico. The enjoyment of the highest
favor at the court of his sovereign, the charms of a young and lovely
bride, and the allurements of his splendid position at home, were
insufficient to repress the spirit of adventure which he had imbibed
in the wars in Mexico, and the prevalent belief that Florida presented
a scene for conquest still more magnificent than Mexico. De Soto was
doomed to prove that the golden dreams of wealth with which the
unexplored regions of Florida had been invested, were baseless
illusions. But his adventures and achievements afford a rich mine of
romantic incidents which Mr. Irving has presented in a most attractive
form:

"Of all the enterprises," says he, "undertaken in this spirit of
daring adventure, none has surpassed for hardihood and variety of
incident, that of the renowned Hernando de Soto and his band of
cavaliers. It was poetry put in action; it was the knight-errantry of
the old world carried into the depths of the American wilderness:
indeed, the personal adventures, the feats of individual prowess, the
picturesque descriptions of steel-clad cavaliers, with lance and helm
and prancing steed, glittering through the wildernesses of Florida,
Georgia, Alabama, and the prairies of the Far West, would seem to us
mere fictions of romance, did they not come to us recorded in
matter-of-fact narratives of cotemporaries, and corroborated by minute
and daily memoranda of eye witnesses."

Hernando de Soto was in every respect qualified for the task he
undertook in this ill-starred expedition. But the Floridian savage was
a more formidable foe than his Mexican brother--more hardy of frame,
and more implacable in his revenge. Hence, although the imagination is
not dazzled in the conquest of Florida, with descriptions of boundless
wealth and regal magnificence--although the chiefs are not decked in
"barbaric pearls and gold"--their sturdy resistance, and the varied
vicissitudes created by the obstacles which nature presented to the
conqueror's march, afford numberless details of great interest. The
book abounds with thrilling passages, from which, but for the crowded
state of our pages, we should make a few extracts. Whether it is the
merit of the writer or his subject, (probably it is a combination of
both,) which gives to this work so much fascination, we will not
decide; but it is scarcely possible to commence it, (at least we found
it so) and lay it aside until its perusal is concluded.

       *       *       *       *       *

{649} CHANCES AND CHANGES; a Domestic Story, by the author of "Six
Weeks on the Loire." Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard.

This is an uncommon book. In these days of high excitement and
_powerful_ writing, it is refreshing to be introduced among characters
of so much purity, benevolence and intelligence as those delineated in
"Chances and Changes." The moral of the book, although it is not
ostentatiously pressed upon the attention, is obvious and forcible. A
lovelier being than Catherine Neville, the heroine, can scarcely be
imagined. There is nothing new in the story--the events are such as
might easily be supposed to have occurred, and the leading features of
the plot may be stated in a few words: Colonel Hamilton, a man of
fashion and something of a _roué_, is engaged in a duel with a
baronet, in consequence of an intrigue between the Colonel and the
titled wife of his antagonist. The latter is dangerously wounded, and
Colonel Hamilton seeks a refuge for several months in the remote
dwelling of his former tutor, Mr. Neville, a benevolent and
conscientious clergyman. Hamilton becomes enamored of Catherine
Neville, who returns his passion with all the ardor of a first love.
He at length mingles with the world of fashion again, is involved once
more in his former intrigue, and although struggling to retain and
deserve the affections of Catherine, becomes completely entangled in a
criminal attachment. Catherine, after a long and painful conflict with
her feelings, resolves to conquer her ill-placed affection, and is
ultimately united to a worthier object. The struggles between passion
and duty in her breast, and the conflict of good and evil in Hamilton,
are admirably portrayed. The sentiments and opinions are often
striking, and the style elegant and attractive. We give a few
extracts, taken at random:

"Come along with me," said she, "come and look by the side of the
little stream that runs through the garden."

"This girl, after all, can do whatever she likes with me," thought
Hamilton, as he rose with affected effort, from the chair which he had
just before vowed to himself nothing should induce him to stir from,
until it was time to dress for dinner. Away they went to the brook,
and found Mr. Neville standing there, looking at the daffodils with
all the delight of the poet whose words were on his lips.

  "I wandered lonely as a cloud,
     That flits on high, o'er vales and hills,
   When all at once I saw a crowd,
     A host of dancing daffodils.
   Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
   Fluttering and dancing near the trees.

   Continuous as the stars that shine
     And twinkle in the milky way,
   They stretched in never-ending line,
     Along the margin of a bay.
   Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
   Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

   The waves beside them danced, but they
     Out-did the sparkling waves in glee,
   A poet could not but be gay,
     In such a jocund company.
   I gazed and gazed, but little thought
   What wealth to me the show had brought.

   For oft when on my couch I lie,
     In vacant or in pensive mood,
   They flash upon that inward eye
     Which is the bliss of solitude.
   And then my heart with pleasure fills
   And dances with the daffodils."

Hamilton was so unused to hear Wordsworth quoted in any other tone
than that of ridicule, or absurd parody, that he was amazed to hear
his old tutor, whose taste he revered, not more from habit than
experience of its correctness, repeat these lines with the enthusiasm
of Catherine herself, and conclude them with a panegyric on their
author, as having formed a new school in poetry, and finding

  "Books in the running brooks,
   Sermons in stones, and good in ev'ry thing."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Well, sir, what do you think of our daffodils?" said Mr. Neville,
pointing to them exultingly, "are they not enough to inspire a poet?"

"I am not poet enough to answer the question," said Hamilton, "but I
remember the eldest of poets says they make very good salads."

"Ah ha!" said Mr. Neville, "I am glad you have not forgotten old
Hesiod--but, however, I did not think of getting into Greek when I
quoted Wordsworth."

"Nor I of hearing anything like common sense spring out of a quotation
from him," said Hamilton. "Not but that all he says may be very fine,
but I am of another school--I am a Byronian--he is the only man that
is read in Town--those Lakeists that go and make faces at themselves
on the waveless waters, and then run home to put their reflections
upon paper, are quite outvoted now; even the ladies never think of
them."

"No, I suppose not," said Mr. Neville, "any more than they would think
of seeing hay-makers in their verandas, or a sheep-shearing in their
drawings-rooms. But 'the children of darkness are wiser in their
generation than the children of light,' and he who sings of nothing
but lawless crimes, and sated vices, does wisely to address his song
to the inhabitants of an overgrown and luxurious metropolis."

"Yes, yes; he is sure enough of sympathy, plenty of dancing daffodils
there,--only of rather an opposite species. What do you say, Miss
Neville, do you like the titled Bard?"

"Quite well enough, as a poet, to wish he had made choice of better
subjects. Edward Longcroft says he has in him a fragment of almost
every other poet's distinguishing excellence, but unfortunately his
own genius is only a fragment itself, and, therefore, he produces
nothing but fragments after all."

"Very wise in Mr. Longcroft--I dare say he could prove every thing he
says most mathematically; but I fancy he will find the generality of
his acquaintance admire diamond sparks more than brick-bats--though
one is only a part, and the other a whole."

"Very good! very good!" said Mr. Neville, "but who have we here?" he
added, as he looked towards the little gate. "Ah ha! here he is
himself--now we can have diamond sparks versus brick-bats, as long as
you like, and see who has the better of the argument."

A matter-of-fact-man is well portrayed in the following:

"Henry Barton," said she to herself, "is a good creature, as ever was
born; and he has great merit, too, in cultivating his mind so
sedulously, surrounded as he is only by the clodpoles his father has
brought him up amongst. But, after all, he is such a mere
matter-of-fact-man, that one soon tires of him--he tells one an
anecdote just as he reads it, and there's an end of it. And then he
moralizes, too, in such a common-place way, and wonders how the Romans
could degenerate so as to suffer themselves to be conquered by the
Goths, and finds out that it was an abominable thing in Henry VIII to
cut off his wives' heads, and not much better in Queen Elizabeth to
sign Essex's death warrant. There is no play of imagination about
him--no whim, no wit--he would as soon think of launching a man of
war, as maintaining a paradox."

The subjoined sentiment is beautifully expressed:

"Ah, is there any happiness like that of the affections! from the
soul-absorbing influence of individual love, through all the endearing
gradations of natural ties, {650} and selected friends, down to the
generalized claims of our fellow-creatures: it will ever be found that
all our real enjoyments are solid only as the feelings of the heart
are connected with them; and long after the traces of external objects
may be effaced from the memory, the kindly sentiments and participated
feelings, with which they may have been connected, remain indelible in
the interior recesses of the breast, which they fill with a sweet
indistinctness of recollected enjoyment."

And how much truth in Catherine's criticism of Byron:

"I cannot feel the beauties of any poetry whatsoever," said Catherine,
"when I think the poet has no feeling himself--I have admired many
passages in Lord Byron's earlier works, even to enthusiasm; but when I
came to his most unfeeling mockery of the agonizing sympathies he had
raised in his description of a storm, by the odious levity with which
he concludes it, I closed the book, and never read another page of his
writing. I thought of it ever after as of those monstrosities in
painting, of beautiful heads, and cloven feet, and it inspired me with
the same disgust."

       *       *       *       *       *

_North American Review, No. LXXXVIII: July 1835_.--The last number of
this periodical contains several admirable articles. We subjoin a list
of its contents:

Art. I. A Tour on the Prairies, by the author of the Sketch Book.--II.
The American Almanac for the year 1835.--III. Memoirs of
Casanova.--IV. Machiavelli.--V. Life and Character of William
Roscoe.--VI. Mrs. Butler's Journal.--VII. Dunlap's History of the
Arts.--VIII. Slavery; an Appeal in favor of that Class of Americans
called Africans, by Mrs. Child.--IX. Audubon's Biography of Birds.-X.
Webster's Speeches.

The first article is a noble eulogy on the genius of Washington
Irving, well according with the merits of the writer, and the honest
pride which every American feels in the possession of such a luminary
in our native literature. Great as has been the praise lavished upon
his works, we feel with the reviewer that full justice has not as yet
been accorded them--and it is with pleasure we perceive that the world
at large is becoming more alive to his merits. The following rapid
glance at the various triumphs of his genius, will be read with a
general concurrence in its truth:

"Compare him," says the reviewer, "with any of the distinguished
writers of his class of this generation, excepting Sir Walter Scott,
and with almost any of what are called the English classics of any
age. Compare him with Goldsmith, one of the canonized names of the
British pantheon of letters, who touched every kind of writing, and
adorned every kind that he touched. In one or two departments, it is
true, that of poetry and the drama--departments which Mr. Irving has
not attempted, and in which much of Goldsmith's merit lies--the
comparison partly fails; but place their pretensions, in every other
respect, side by side. Who would think of giving the miscellaneous
writings of Goldsmith a preference over those of Irving, and who would
name his historical compositions with the Life of Columbus? If in the
drama and in poetry Goldsmith should seemed to have extended his
province greatly beyond that of Irving, the Life of Columbus is a
_chef d'oeuvre_ in a department which Goldsmith can scarcely be said
to have touched; for the trifles on Grecian and Roman history, which
his poverty extorted from him, deserve to enter into comparison with
Mr. Irving's great work, about as much as Eutropius deserves to be
compared with Livy. Then how much wider Irving's range in that
department, common to both the painting of manners and character! From
Mr. Irving we have the humors of cotemporary politics and every-day
life in America--the traditionary peculiarities of the Dutch founders
of New York--the nicest shades of the school of English manners of the
last century--the chivalry of the middle ages in Spain--the glittering
visions of Moorish romance--a large cycle of sentimental creations,
founded on the invariable experience--the pathetic sameness of the
human heart--and lastly, the whole unhackneyed freshness of the
West--life beyond the border--a camp outside the frontier--a hunt on
buffalo ground, beyond which neither white nor Pawnee, man nor muse,
can go. This is Mr. Irving's range, and in every part of it he is
equally at home. When he writes the history of Columbus, you see him
weighing doubtful facts in the scales of a golden criticism. You
behold him, laden with the manuscript treasures of well-searched
archives, and disposing the heterogeneous materials into a
well-digested and instructive narration. Take down another of his
volumes, and you find him in the parlor of an English country inn, of
a rainy day, and you look out of the window with him upon the
dripping, dreary desolation of the back yard. Anon he takes you into
the ancestral hall of a baronet of the old school, and instructs you
in the family traditions, of which the memorials adorn the walls, and
depend from the rafters. Before you are wearied with the curious lore,
you are in pursuit of Kidd, the pirate, in the recesses of Long
Island; and by the next touch of the enchanter's wand, you are rapt
into an enthusiastic reverie of the mystic East, within the crumbling
walls of the Alhambra. You sigh to think you were not born six hundred
years ago, that you could not have beheld those now deserted halls, as
they once blazed in triumph, and rang with the mingled voices of
oriental chivalry and song,--when you find yourself once more borne
across the Atlantic, whirled into the western wilderness, with a
prairie wide as the ocean before you, and a dusky herd of buffaloes,
like the crowded convoy of fleeing merchantmen, looming in the
horizon, and inviting you to the chase. This is literally _nullum fere
genus scribendi non tigit nullum quod titigit non ornviit_. Whether
anything like an equal range is to be found in the works of him on
whom the splendid compliment was first bestowed, it is not difficult
to say."

The articles on Machiavelli, and on the life of Roscoe, are both
excellent in their way. The former has particular attractions, as it
is a luminous disquisition on the character and writings of one who
for ages was an enigma in the political and intellectual world, whose
works, like those of Dante and Faust, have been interpreted by
opposing critics in the most conflicting manner, and whose name, error
and prejudice handed down from century to century, have rendered
synonymous with all that is crafty and corrupt in the art of
government.

The notice of Mrs. Butler's work is the best we have seen. The
reviewer performs his task with redoubtable good humor. The gentleness
with which he calls the lady to account for her literary offences, and
the hearty tribute of praise he bestows on the best portions of her
work, show that he is determined to

  "Be to her faults a little blind,
   And to her merits very kind."

But the review of Mrs. Child's ill-judged appeal on the subject of
slavery, has for us a more powerful attraction than any in the number.
It is not possible that we should be witnesses of the momentous
occurrences of the day, and not feel most sensitively every reference
to a topic in the discussion of which all that we love and reverence
is involved. The impatient zeal of pretending enthusiasts, who in the
pursuit of what to {651} them seems good, disregard the frightful
evils which their blind impetuosity may produce, cannot but awaken in
those upon whom these evils must fall, a trembling anxiety for the
future, and an indignant resentment against the madmen who are blindly
jeoparding the peace of the country and the lives of thousands. We
cannot trust our feelings upon this subject. We see too clearly the
horrors in perspective, which fanaticism is preparing for us, and we
humbly hope that the results of its insane excess, may be averted. The
reviewer in the North American, thinks and feels correctly on this
subject, and we regret that we can only make room for the closing
passages of his remarks:

"That we must be rid of slavery at some day, seems to be the decided
conviction of almost every honest mind. But when or how this is to be,
God only knows. If in a struggle for this end the Union should be
dissolved, it needs not the gift of prophecy to foresee that our
country will be plunged into that gulf which in the language of
another, 'is full of the fire and the blood of civil war, and of the
thick darkness of general political disgrace, ignominy, and ruin.'

"There is much error upon this as well as other subjects, to be
corrected, before the public can act deliberately or wisely in
relation to it. It is too common to associate with the slave-holder
the character of the slave-merchant. And we regret to see the
abolitionist of the day seizing upon the cruelties and abuses of power
by a few slave-owners in regard to their slaves, in order to excite
odium against slave-holders as a class. This is alike unreasonable and
unjust. Very many of them are deeply solicitous to free the country of
this alarming evil, but no feasible means by which this is to be
accomplished has yet been offered for their adoption. Such
denunciations are no better than the anathemas of fanaticism, and
ought to be discountenanced by every well wisher of his country. The
subject of slavery is one, in regard to which, more than almost any
other, there are clouds and darkness upon the future destinies of
these states. It is one upon which all think and feel more or less
acutely, and it is moreover one upon which all may be called upon to
act. It is, therefore, we repeat, with regret that we see intellects
like that of Mrs. Child, and pens like hers, which may be otherwise so
agreeably and beneficially employed, diverted from their legitimate
spheres of action, and employed in urging on a cause so dangerous to
the union, domestic peace, and civil liberty, as the immediate
emancipation of the slaves at the South."

       *       *       *       *       *

_American Republication of Foreign Quarterlies_.--The London, Edinburg
and Westminster Reviews for April, 1835, have been republished by Mr.
Foster, in his cheap and valuable series of periodicals. The Edinburg
Review contains an article on American Poetry, in the course of which
a general glance at the literature of this country is taken; and a
more favorable opinion expressed of its achievements than that work
has hitherto entertained. This fact is worthy of remark, when it is
recollected that the taunting query, "Who reads an American book?"
emanated from that journal not many years since. The most attractive
articles in the Westminster, are those upon "Lucy Aiken's Court of
Charles II," and "Dunlop's Memoirs of Spain." To us, an article in the
Quarterly on "Maria, or Slavery in the United States, a picture of
American Manners, by Gustave de Beaumont, one of the authors of a work
on the Penitentiary System in the United States"[1]--"The Stranger in
America, by F. Leiber," and "New England and her Institutions, by one
of her sons," is the most attractive in the April number. The work of
M. de Beaumont has not, as we have heard, been translated or
republished in this country. His views of our manners and institutions
are exhibited in the form of a novel, which the Quarterly declares to
possess considerable interest, and to display in parts a large share
of the true genius of romance, notwithstanding that the incidents are
few and the commentaries copious. The author declares in a preface,
that "though his personages are fictitious, every trait of character
has been sketched from the life, and that almost every incident in his
tale may be depended on as a fact that had fallen under his own
observation." The reviewer is somewhat scandalized at the author's
avowal of "his belief that the democratic system of government, as now
established in America, is the best machinery that ever was invented
for developing the political independence and happiness of mankind,"
and endeavors to show that M. de Beaumont's strictures upon our
manners and condition (and he cannot be charged with undue lenity in
his censure) are inconsistent with that avowal. The reviewer makes
copious extracts from the work, which show that the author is disposed
to censure severely the condition of the colored population in this
country, without a fair consideration of the circumstances which
produced it. But we can scarcely judge of the book from the extracts
in the review, which are probably the most unfavorable that could be
found, as the reviewer displays a strong desire to draw from the
opinions of the French author, support for the assertions of English
travellers.

[Footnote 1: "Marie, ou l'Esclavage aux Etas-Unis, Tableau de Moeurs
Americaines par Gustave de Beaumont, l'un des Auteurs de l'ouvrage
intitulé Du Systeme Pénitentiare aux Etas-Unis."]

       *       *       *       *       *

MY LIFE, by the author of Tales of Waterloo, &c. New York: Harper &
Brothers. 1835.

This is the production of a lively and spirited writer. He describes
skirmishes, onslaughts and battles, with the familiarity of one who
has not seldom taken a part in such actions--traces the Irish
character with great fidelity, and best of all, his book abounds in
humorous incidents. The _contre-pieds_ between the hero and his
cousin, "Jack the Devil," are admirably detailed. Jack is a rare
specimen of the Wild Irishman, and we have seldom been more amused
than we were with the history of the scrapes in which he involved
himself and his cousin. The battle of Waterloo is sketched briefly,
but with a graphic pen. The last struggle of that day, when Ney led
the Old Guard to the charge, and the description of the "field red
with slaughter," after the work of death had concluded, give evidence
of the painting of an eye-witness.

       *       *       *       *       *

BELFORD REGIS, or Sketches of a Country Town, by Miss Mitford.
Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard. 1835.

Like "Our Village," these are delightful productions, abounding with
wholesome satire of folly and prejudice, and displaying in strong
relief the humble virtues of retired life. Some of the characters are
conceptions of great loveliness, and many of the scenes are wrought
with most pathetic effect. The story of Hester is admirable. We have
seldom dwelt with more delighted interest over a picture of juvenile
virtue and self-devotion.


{652}


EDITORIAL REMARKS.


We have but a few words to offer upon the contents of the present
number. Generally they must speak for themselves; but in regard to
others we may be permitted a passing comment.

No. II of the Dissertation on the characteristic differences between
the sexes, sustains the high character of the first number. And
although the branch of the subject--Religious Differences--which the
author has discussed in the present number, seems to promise little
amusement for the general reader, it will be found upon perusal, to
have been so ingeniously treated, so beautifully illustrated, that
even he who entirely eschews polemics, will be edified and delighted.
It was upon this point that we felt the most solicitude for the
success of the writer, for there is no part of his subject so
difficult to manage, or in which he was so liable to fall below the
expectations of his readers. But he has overcome its difficulties, and
presents us with a disquisition, entirely free from the narrowness of
sectarian views, and deeply grounded in the philosophy of the human
mind. His view of the religion of woman is accurate and
beautiful,--her proneness to lean on the strength of a more powerful
being, her confiding nature, her facility in believing where man
cavils and doubts, and the tendency of her religious sentiments to
degenerate into superstition, contrasted with the besetting evils of
man's religious faith--bigotry and fanaticism--are admirably
portrayed. His illustration of this contrast is clear and convincing,
whilst his style throughout is easy and attractive. He seems to have
drawn the true inspiration from his subject, and is doubtless a
believer in the doctrine of the ingenious Biron--

  "From woman's eyes this doctrine I derive:
   They sparkle still the right promethean fire;
   They are the books, the arts, the academes,
   That show, contain, and nourish all the world;
   Else, none at all in aught proves excellent."

Grayson Griffith is a religious story. We approve of the moral, as a
matter of course--who will not? But we do not come quite up to the
writer's standard of perfection, for we candidly confess we cannot see
the germs of perdition in a social game of whist; and while we detest
gambling and gamblers, the proscription of amusements innocent in
themselves, because some remote analogy may be traced between them and
practices at once immoral and every way destructive, seems to us
irreconcileable with sound logic or true philosophy. The attempt to
trace the vices of men to early habitudes is not always successful, as
the power of good or evil impressions over the mind and habits, is
essentially modified by the character of each individual. Besides,
accident often determines the destinies of men, so far as we can see,
in very spite of every previous tendency. We doubt, for instance,
whether the fascinations of the faro-table would not have been as
great to Grayson if he had never seen a card, as they proved to be, as
related in the story. But we are getting into the discussion of a
question which requires more time and space than we have to spare.

The "Letter on the United States, by a _Young Scotchman_," is
generally amusing; but some of the passages in it strike us with
surprise. He tells us that, "although the Americans are great novel
readers, there is too much matter-of-fact about them; they are too
calculating and money-making [this from a Scotchman!] to serve the
purposes of the novelist. They form but indifferent heroes and
heroines of romance, and hence Cooper is obliged to resort to the sea
to rake up pirates and smugglers, or to go back to the revolution or
the early settlement of his country to find characters and incidents
calculated to give verisimilitude and interest to his tales." This
seems to us hasty and jejune criticism. Cooper was not, as we know,
"_obliged_" to rake up pirates and smugglers; but as this writer has
told us in the ninth number of the Messenger, "He (Cooper) had been
for some years an officer in the American Navy, where he acquired a
knowledge of all the minutiæ of nautical life, which was of great
service to him in the composition of some of his tales. These are
justly considered as his best"--and he might have added, are written
with power peculiar to Cooper, of whom it may truly be said:

  "His march is on the mountain wave
     _His home_ is on the deep."

And well would it have been for his fame had he never abandoned his
proper element. On shore he generally makes as awkward a figure as one
of his nautical heroes would do, after a voyage, before he had gotten
rid of his "sea legs." We have read Cooper's last, the Monikins, but
at too late a period to allow a regular notice of it in this number.
_En passant_, however, we must say that it is an entire
failure--vapid, pointless, and inane. It appears to be an attempted
satire on mankind, a bungling imitation of Swift's account of the
_Houynhmins_, Mr. Cooper's monkies are a tedious race, and his Yankee
captain, "Noah Poke," the principal interlocutor, as the lawyers would
term him, is little better. We believe that all who have read this
work, will agree, that the sooner its author is "_obliged_" to take
again to salt water, and "rake up pirates and smugglers," the better
it will be for his own reputation, and the purses of his booksellers.

In regard to the poetry of this number, we must content ourselves with
drawing attention to the pathetic effusion "on the Deaf, Dumb and
Blind Girl."




TO CORRESPONDENTS.


Many favors have been again unavoidably postponed. The communication
of _Scriblerus_ exhibits talent, and is written well, but is not
adapted to the pages of the Messenger. The writer would doubtless
succeed upon other subjects, and we invite him to make the experiment.
"A fragment of the thirteenth century," has held us in doubt for some
days; but we have finally decided upon its exclusion. We are not
better pleased with the poetry of _Timandi_, than with his prose.

The quantity of rhyme poured in upon us, is indeed a matter of
admiration. The effusions which we consign to outer darkness monthly,
are past enumeration. Such, for instance, as one containing the
following lines, and which purports to be "copyed from a young ladies
Album"--

  Miss E---- we have oftimes met before
  And--we may--meet no more
    What shall I say at parting
  Many years have run their race
  Since first I saw your face
  Around this gay and giddy place
    Sweet smiles and blushes darting.


{653}


SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

Vol. I.]  RICHMOND, AUGUST 1835.  [No. 12.

T. W. WHITE, PRINTER AND PROPRIETOR.  FIVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY

And Present Condition of Tripoli, with some account of the other
Barbary States.

No. VII.


Events of great importance had also occurred in Algiers, by which this
ancient stronghold of piracy was stripped of its terrors, and its
impotence fully demonstrated.

The resources of this state were even more severely affected by the
wars of Europe, than those of Tunis and Tripoli, as it depended less
than either of them upon native industry for support. A Pasha of
Algiers, who wished to retain his throne and consequently his life,
was forced to keep his troops engaged in wars from which they might
individually derive profit; to increase their pay at the expense of
the public treasury was ineffectual, and he who attempted thus to win
their favor was soon despised and overthrown. They required the
excitement of contests and plunder, and bread not won at the dagger's
point seems to have had no relish with them. In 1805, these
desperadoes murdered their Dey Mustapha, only because he was of too
peaceable a disposition. Under Achmet his successor, they had a war
with Tunis, but it was conducted in a very languid manner, for no
plunder could be expected.

The United States continued to pay the enormous annual tribute which
had been stipulated in the treaty of 1796, but not punctually. The
little respect which was paid to neutral rights at that period by
France and England, rendered the transmission of the naval stores
composing the tribute difficult and unsafe, and this was the reason
always alleged by the American Consul in accounting for the delay; but
it was also in a great measure intentional, from the idea on which the
other nations tributary to Algiers acted, that by thus remaining
always in arrears, the fear of losing the whole sum due, would render
the Dey less inclined to make any sudden depredations on their
commerce. A strict adherence to engagements voluntarily entered into,
would have been perhaps the better, and certainly much the more
dignified course, as the Dey would have found it to his interest to
conciliate those who paid so regularly.

Whilst the American squadron remained in the Mediterranean, these
excuses were listened to without many signs of impatience, but on its
departure Achmet raised his tone, and after threatening for some time,
he at length in the latter part of 1807 sent out his cruisers with
orders to seize American vessels, informing Mr. Lear at the same time,
that this was not to be considered as a hostile proceeding, and should
not disturb the peace between the two countries.

The Algerine cruisers took three American vessels, of which two were
brought into port and condemned; the crew of the third the schooner
Mary Anne, rose upon their captors, killed four of them, and having
set the remaining four adrift in a boat, carried the vessel safe into
Naples. As soon as the Dey received the news of this, he ordered the
American Consul instantly to pay sixteen thousand dollars as
satisfaction for the lives of his eight subjects. Mr. Lear endeavored
to obtain a delay until he could receive the orders of his government;
but he was threatened with imprisonment, and a number of ships of war
were ready to sail for the purpose of plundering American vessels; he
therefore, after a formal protest, paid the sixteen thousand dollars
for the Algerines killed, as well as the whole amount of the tribute
then due.

Shortly after this occurrence, on the 7th of November, 1808, the
Turkish soldiery revolted, and having killed Achmet, placed in his
stead Ali the keeper of a small mosque. What were their reasons for
such a choice cannot be stated, but the expectations of the Turks seem
not to have been fulfilled; for on the 4th of March, 1809, they
quietly took their sovereign to the common house of correction, and
there strangled him. They then raised to the throne a decrepid old man
named Hadji Ali, whose character was much more conformable with their
wishes, for he proved to be one of the most energetic, as well as most
ferocious tyrants ever known even in Algiers. He determined to revive
the old glory of his state, and again to offer to all Christian
nations the alternative of war or tribute.

Great Britain and France were at that time the only commercial nations
at peace with Algiers and paying no fixed tribute, yet they vied with
each other in the richness of their presents, which were made with
great regularity on all public occasions. Great Britain too, passively
encouraged the piratical propensity of the Algerines, by allowing them
to plunder and carry off the miserable inhabitants of the territories
which were occupied by her troops and at least nominally under her
protection, while France and the countries subject to or in alliance
with her, were secure from such depredations. The British did more;
for in 1810,--when neutral commerce had been extinguished, and the
resources of Algiers were in consequence almost cut off, as neither
could tribute be sent nor compensation be obtained for it by
piracy--at this conjuncture two large ships and a brig entered the
harbor, laden with warlike munitions, the whole sent as a present to
the Dey from the government of Great Britain. Seventy thousand dollars
were soon after received through the agency of the same government
from Spain, in satisfaction for a pretended injury committed by a
Spanish vessel.

By the aid of this timely supply, Hadji Ali was enabled to fit out a
respectable naval force, which under the command of the Rais Hamida a
daring and skilful corsair, sailed for the coast of Portugal, and for
some time continued to insult and plunder the vessels of that wretched
kingdom; this too, at a period when its fortresses were held by
British troops, and its harbors filled with British ships of war.

At the commencement of 1812, it was almost certain that war would soon
take place between the United States and Great Britain; in expectation
of this, it was {654} important to the latter power to raise up as
many enemies as possible to the Americans, and to deprive them of
places of refuge for their vessels. It was principally with this
object, that an Envoy was sent to the Barbary States; and he was made
the bearer of a letter from the Prince Regent to the Dey, containing
an offer of alliance, with the obligation on the part of Great Britain
to protect Algiers against all its enemies, on condition of the
observance of existing treaties between the two nations. The Envoy,
Mr. A'Court,[1] was a man well calculated for carrying into effect the
objects for which he was chosen, and he here first gave proofs of
those talents which have since raised him to exalted stations in his
country. He soon acquired great influence over the savage Turk; he
demonstrated to him the designs and advances of Napoleon towards
universal dominion, and made him tremble for the safety of his own
Regency. On the other hand, he exhibited the mighty naval power of
Great Britain, and endeavored to convince the Dey, that he could only
escape the fate of the greater part of the European sovereigns, by
seconding her efforts in resisting the insatiable conqueror. The
United States were represented as the allies of France, possessing an
extensive commerce, but having no naval force to protect it.

[Footnote 1: Now Lord Haytesbury.]

These views were confirmed by the assurances of the Jewish merchants,
who conducted nearly all the outward trade of Algiers, and who were
generally consulted on points of foreign policy. A truce was in
consequence obtained for Sicily, the captives from that island being
however retained in slavery. A peace was also negotiated between
Algiers and Portugal, the latter agreeing to pay a large sum
immediately, and a heavy annual tribute in future. However, the Dey
could not be led to declare war against the dreaded Emperor of France,
although he had no objection to a quarrel with the United States,
conceiving that it might be made very profitable, either by
depredations on their commerce, or by obtaining an increase of their
tribute. He gave the first hint of his intentions to the American
Consul, by sending him the Prince Regent's letter, under pretence of
requesting a translation of it into Italian, but really for the
purpose of inducing him to bid higher for the friendship of Algiers.
No notice being taken of this, he became more insolent in his demands
and threats.

At length, on the 17th of July, 1812, the ship Alleghany arrived at
Algiers, laden with naval and military stores, which were sent to the
Dey and Regency by the United States, according to the terms of the
treaty of 1796. The Dey at first expressed his entire satisfaction
with what was sent, and a part of the cargo was landed; a few days
after, the Minister of Marine informed the American Consul, that his
master had been much astonished on examining the lists of the
articles, to find that several of them were not in such quantities as
he had required, and also that some cases containing arms had been
landed at Gibraltar, for the Emperor of Morocco; that he considered
the latter circumstance as an insult to himself, and he would not,
therefore, receive any part of the cargo of the ship. Mr. Lear
endeavored to show that the value of the articles sent, was more than
equal to the amount due by the United States, and that if this were
true, the Dey should not complain if a part of the cargo originally
shipped were destined for another purpose.

In reply to this a new demand was made. By the treaty of 1796 the
United States engaged to pay, "annually to the Dey the value of twelve
thousand Algerine sequins (21,000 dollars) in maritime stores," and
payment to this amount had been made for each year since 1796. The Dey
now contended that the time should have been counted by the Mahometan
calendar which gives only 354 days to the year, and that consequently
the United States owed him arrears of tribute for six months, to which
the differences between the Mahometan and Christian years since 1796,
when added together would amount. Against this novel demand, the
Consul remonstrated and protested in vain; he was ordered to pay the
whole sum due immediately in cash, the stores offered as tribute not
being receivable, otherwise he would be sent in chains to prison, the
Americans in Algiers be made slaves, the Alleghany with her cargo be
confiscated, and war be declared against the United States. With such
a prospect before him, the Consul could only pay the money, which was
effected through the agency of the Jewish mercantile house of Bacri.
As soon as this was done, the Consul and all the Americans were
commanded to quit Algiers immediately; they accordingly embarked in
the Alleghany for Gibraltar, where they arrived on the 4th of August.

Orders were then given by the Dey to his cruisers to take American
vessels; but the apprehension of war with Great Britain had caused
most of them to leave the Mediterranean, and the only prize made by
the Algerines, was a small brig the Edwin of Salem.

Information of these outrageous acts was officially communicated to
Congress by President Madison on the 17th of November, 1812; but war
had been declared by the United States against Great Britain, and the
American flag was not seen in the Mediterranean until 1815, in which
year ample satisfaction was obtained for the indignities which it had
suffered from Algiers.

In 1814 Hadji Ali was murdered, and his Prime Minister was invested
with the sovereign authority; within a fortnight afterwards, the
latter underwent the fate of his predecessor, and Omar the Aga or
commander of the forces was made Pasha. Napoleon had by this time been
overcome, and a congress of European potentates and ministers was
assembled at Vienna, engaged in regulating the affairs of that portion
of the world, which circumstances had placed under their control. To
this congress a memorial was presented by the celebrated Sir Sidney
Smith, the object of which was the formation of a naval and military
force, by means of contingents furnished and supported by the nations
most interested, for the purpose of protecting commerce and abolishing
piracy in the Mediterranean. It was declared that the Ottoman Porte
would willingly contribute to the attainment of this end, and that
Tunis was also disposed to relinquish its unlawful attacks upon the
commerce of Christian nations, provided it were sure of protection
against the other two states of Barbary.

This romantic proposition seems to have engaged but little the
attention of the congress, and a petition of the Knights of Malta for
a restoration of their island was equally disregarded. Sir Sidney's
plan was {655} impracticable, and the Knights of St. John could never
have seriously imagined that Great Britain would give up such a
possession as Malta on considerations of doubtful philanthropy; they
probably only hoped for some individual indemnification. No question
concerning the Barbary States indeed seems to have been debated at the
Congress of Vienna; the execution of any plan respecting them, must
have depended on the approval of Great Britain, the commerce of which
being secure from interruption, she had no interest in the suppression
of these pirates.

Attempts had been made on the part of the United States, to obtain the
liberation of the crew of the Edwin and of some other Americans who
were held captive in Algiers; but Hadji Ali refused to part with them
for any sum that would probably be offered, his object being to
increase the number of his captives, in order to compel a renewal of
the treaty on terms still more favorable to himself than those of the
convention of 1796. Omar, who was a much more rational being than
Hadji Ali, would probably have acceded to these offers, but they were
not again proposed; no sooner were the difficulties between the United
States and Great Britain arranged by the Treaty of Ghent, than the
former power made preparations to rescue its citizens from slavery by
force, and to punish the Algerines for the outrages committed in 1812.

A squadron consisting of three frigates, a sloop, a brig and three
schooners, was fitted out and sent under Commodore Stephen Decatur to
the Mediterranean, which sea it entered on the 14th of June, 1815. The
Dey had already been notified of its approach by a British frigate,
which appears to have been despatched for this purpose to Algiers; but
the warning was disregarded, for his ships were all sent out, and no
measures were taken by him to put the city in a state of defence.

On arriving at Gibraltar, the American Commodore received information
that several Algerine ships were in the vicinity, and he immediately
sailed in pursuit of them. On the 17th, the frigate Guerriere
Decatur's flag ship overtook near Cape de Gatte the Algerine frigate
Mazouda, commanded by the famous Rais Hamida; after a short action the
Mazouda was taken, Hamida and thirty of his crew being killed. On the
19th an Algerine brig of twenty-two guns was also captured and sent
into the port of Carthagena, in Spain; on the 28th the American
squadron appeared before Algiers, and proposed to the astounded Dey
the terms on which he might obtain peace with the United States.

Confounded at the loss of his ships and the death of his daring
Admiral, and dreading that the rest of his cruisers which were out,
might fall into the hands of the Americans, Omar at once assented to
the terms proposed, and a treaty was signed on the 30th of June, 1815.
By its terms all the American prisoners were instantly to be
surrendered without ransom, indemnification being made for their
injuries and losses, and for all the seizures of American property in
1812; the Americans on their part, surrendering without ransom all
their prisoners. No demands for tribute, under any name or form, were
ever after to be made by Algiers on the United States; all American
citizens taken on board the vessels of any other country, were to be
set at liberty and their property to be restored as soon as their
citizenship should be proved; vessels of either party were to be
protected in the ports, or within cannon shot of the forts of the
other, and no enemy's vessel was to be allowed to leave a port of one
country in pursuit of a vessel of the other, until twenty-four hours
after the sailing of the latter; with many other provisions highly
favorable to the United States. The American commander promised to
restore to the Dey, the frigate and brig which he had taken, and the
frigate was in consequence immediately given up; the brig was for some
time detained by the authorities at Carthagena, on the pretence that
it had been captured within the jurisdiction of Spain.

The peace being thus made, and the stipulations of the treaty complied
with as far as possible, Mr. William Shaler was installed as Consul
General of the United States for the Barbary Regencies, and the
squadron sailed on the eighth of July for Tunis, where its presence
was required by circumstances which it will be necessary to detail.

During the great European war, the armed ships of France and England
were in the habit of conducting their prizes into the Barbary ports
and there selling them; a number of American vessels were indeed thus
disposed of by the French, under the infamous Decrees of Berlin and
Milan. The British Government, not content with this species of
neutrality, sent Admiral Freemantle with a squadron to Tunis and
Tripoli, and thus obtained from each of these powers, an engagement
not to suffer any of the belligerents on the other side, to bring
British vessels as prizes into its ports. After the declaration of war
by the United States against Great Britain, no American armed vessel
had ventured to pass the Streights of Gibraltar, until December 1814,
when the privateer brig Abællino, from Boston, commanded by W. F.
Wyer, entered the Mediterranean and took a number of prizes, some of
which were sent into Tunis and Tripoli.

On the arrival of the first of these prizes at Tunis, Mr. Noah, the
American Consul, at the request of the master, applied to the Bey for
permission to sell her and her cargo. Mahmoud in reply showed him the
engagement with Great Britain, which forbade his granting such a
license; and the British Consul threatened, in case it were allowed,
to send to Sicily for a squadron, in order to avenge this infraction
of the treaty with his country. License to sell the vessel was however
obtained by Mr. Noah, and she was accordingly disposed of with her
cargo, Prince Mustapha the Bey's youngest son, contriving by fraud and
by force, to become the purchaser of the greater part of the cargo, at
very reduced prices.

Information of this having been conveyed to Admiral Penrose, who
commanded the British naval forces on the Sicily Station, he sent a
ship of the line and two brigs of war to Tunis, with a letter to the
Bey, enjoining him to arrest the sale of the prize, and to forbid
admission to others in future. With the latter requisition Mahmoud
declared his readiness to comply; and two other prizes having soon
after been sent in by Captain Wyer, he permitted the British to take
possession of them, although they were at the time actually at anchor
under the guns of the Goletta fortress. The vessels were immediately
carried to Malta, where they were restored to their original owners,
the prize crews being retained as prisoners.[2]

[Footnote 2: It may be proper here to observe, that although the
treaty of peace between the United States and Great Britain, had been
signed at Ghent on the 24th December 1814, and ratified at Washington
on the 17th of February 1815, yet a space of forty days after the
ratification was allowed by the terms of that treaty, during which all
prizes taken by either party in the Mediterranean, were to be
retained; and hostilities were in fact continued in that sea until the
29th of March.]

{656} Mr. Noah protested against these proceedings, as being contrary
not only to the general principles of national law, but also expressly
to the terms of the tenth article of the treaty between the United
States and Tunis, which stipulates that "the vessels of either party
if attacked by an enemy under the cannon of the forts of the other
party, shall be defended as much as possible;" he at the same time
gave notice to the Bey, that he would be required to make
indemnification for the prizes which he had thus suffered to be
carried off. Mahmoud, who had not had so much experience with regard
to the customs and institutions of the Franks as had been acquired by
Hamouda, could not comprehend this; he offered to intercede for the
restoration of the vessels, and plainly told the Consul that if the
captain of the Abællino chose to cut out two British merchant vessels
which were then lying in the harbor, no attempt would be made to
obstruct him.

Things were in this state on the 20th of July, when the American
squadron arrived at Tunis from Algiers. The Bey was instantly required
to pay forty-six thousand dollars, at which the two prizes which had
been carried off were estimated; he of course refused, endeavored to
evade the demand, and finally threatened resistance. But he had by
this time been fully informed of what had taken place at Algiers, and
the martial appearance and determined bearing of Decatur, who treated
with him personally, not a little contributed to intimidate him; under
these circumstances he thought it expedient to yield, and paid the
money on the 31st, making some remarks on the occasion, which clearly
showed that he had been encouraged by the British Consul to persevere
in resisting the demand.

As soon as this business was concluded, Decatur sailed with his whole
force for Tripoli, where he arrived on the 10th of August. Into this
port the Abællino had carried two prizes; shortly after their
entrance, the British armed brig Paulina with another vessel of war
entered the harbor, and retook the prizes, the commander of the
Paulina at the same time declaring his intention to pursue the
Abællino if she should leave the place. This was done immediately
under the castle walls, without any attempt at interference on the
part of the Pasha. The American Consul, Mr. Jones, instantly requested
Yusuf to cause the vessels to be restored, intimating that in case
they were not, the Pasha would be compelled to pay for them himself;
the Consul also demanded, that measures should be taken, in compliance
with the tenth article of the treaty, to retain the British ships of
war in the harbor, twenty-four hours after the sailing of the
Abællino, which was about to put to sea. To both these demands Yusuf
refused to yield assent; the prizes were in consequence sent to Malta,
and the Abællino was detained in Tripoli. The American Consul then
pulled down his flag, and sent information of the circumstances to the
other Mediterranean Consulates, in order that it might be communicated
to the commander of the squadron immediately on its arrival.

As soon as Decatur entered the harbor, he required the Pasha to pay
twenty-five thousand dollars for the two prizes which he had suffered
the British to carry off; it was paid in two days. In recompense for
the assistance which had been rendered to the Americans by the king of
Naples and the Danish Consul, the commodore also demanded the delivery
without ransom, of eight Neapolitans and two Danes, who were held in
slavery in Tripoli; they were immediately surrendered and restored to
their homes.

Thus, in a great measure, in consequence of the promptitude and energy
of the gallant officer who commanded the American squadron, within
fifty-four days after its arrival in the Mediterranean, were these
three piratical powers completely humbled by a force apparently
inadequate to make any impression on the weakest of them. The treaty
with Algiers was doubtless extorted by fear, and the Dey had no
intention to keep his engagements longer than he was obliged, as facts
afterwards showed; but important benefits were obtained at once, in
the liberation of the captives and the restoration of the property
taken in 1812. The moral effects produced in favor of the United
States, not only in Barbary but in Europe, were incalculable; since
that period, no Americans have been enslaved in either of those
countries, and not a cent of tribute has been paid by the United
States to any foreign power.

Scarcely had the Americans quitted Algiers, when a Dutch squadron
consisting of four frigates, a sloop and a brig, under the command of
an admiral, made its appearance. The object of this display was merely
to propose a renewal of the treaty made before the subjugation of the
United Netherlands by France, on conditions of annual tribute. Omar
however refused to renew the treaty, unless all arrearages of tribute,
which were for more than twenty years, were paid; negotiations on
these terms was impossible, and the admiral sailed away.

The Barbary cruisers, then undisturbed, renewed their depredations on
Sardinia and Naples; the vessels of these defenceless countries were
taken, and the inhabitants of the coasts were dragged away in great
numbers to the slave markets of Africa. Great Britain alone could put
a stop to these outrages; the French navy was disorganized, those of
the other European powers were inadequate. But the British government
was unwilling to give up the old system with respect to the
Mediterranean pirates, and a relation of its proceedings will suffice
to show, that they were by no means to be ascribed to a more liberal
policy, and that their results were not proportioned to the means
employed.[3]

[Footnote 3: It may not be improper here to quote the observations
contained in the London Annual Register, [for 1816, page 97] a work
generally remarkable for its temperance and impartiality. "It has long
been a topic of reproach which foreigners have brought against the
boasted maritime supremacy of England, that the piratical states of
Barbary have been suffered to exercise their ferocious ravages upon
all the inferior powers navigating the Mediterranean sea, without any
attempt on the part of the mistress of the ocean to control them, and
reduce them within the limits prescribed by the laws of civilized
nations. The spirited exertions of the United States of America in the
last year, to enforce redress of the injuries they had sustained from
these pirates, were calculated to excite invidious comparisons with
respect to this country; and either a feeling of national glory, or
some other unexplained motives, at length inspired a resolution in the
British government, to engage in earnest in that task which the
general expectation seems to assign it."]


{657}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXTRAORDINARY INDIAN FEATS OF LEGERDEMAIN.

[From the Manuscripts of D. D. Mitchell, Esq.]


I have felt some reluctance in narrating the following singular feats,
(I had almost said miracles) which I saw performed among the Arickara
Indians, not because I considered them unworthy the attention of the
curious, but lest I should be accused of sporting with the reader's
credulity, or of availing myself too largely of what is supposed by
some to be the _traveller's privilege_. I acknowledge that the
performance was altogether above my comprehension, and greatly excited
my astonishment.

In civilized life, we know the many expedients to which men resort in
order to acquire a subsistence, and are not therefore surprised, that
by perseverance and long practice, stimulated by necessity, they
should attain great dexterity in the art of deception. To find it,
however, carried to such great perfection by wild and untutored
savages, who are neither urged by necessity, nor indeed receive the
slightest reward for their skill, is certainly very surprising.

In travelling up the Missouri during the summer of 1831, we lost our
horses near the Arickara village, which caused our detention for
several days. As this nation has committed more outrages upon the
whites than any other on the Missouri, and seem to possess all the
vices of the savage without a redeeming virtue, we found ourselves
very unpleasantly situated near the principal village, without
sufficient force to repel an attack if one should be made. After some
deliberation, we adopted the advice of an old Canadian hunter, and
determined to move our chattels directly into the village, and, whilst
we remained, to take up our lodgings with the tribe. We were
emboldened to this step, by the assurance of the hunter, that the
Arickarees had never been known to kill but one man who had taken
refuge within the limits of their town, and that their forbearance
originated in the superstitious belief that the ghost of the murdered
had haunted their encampment, and had frightened away the buffalo by
his nightly screams.

We were received in the village with much more politeness than we
expected; a lodge was appropriated to our use, and provisions were
brought to us in abundance. After we were completely refreshed, a
young man came to our lodge and informed us that a band of bears, (as
he expressed it) or medicine men, were making preparations to exhibit
their skill, and that if we felt disposed we could witness the
ceremony. We were much gratified at the invitation, as we had all
heard marvellous stories of the wonderful feats performed by the
Indian medicine men or jugglers. We accordingly followed our guide to
the medicine lodge, where we found six men dressed in bear skins, and
seated in a circle in the middle of the apartment. The spectators were
standing around, and so arranged as to give each individual a view of
the performers. They civilly made way for our party, and placed us so
near the circle that we had ample opportunity of detecting the
imposture, if any imposition should be practised. The actors (if I may
so call them) were painted in the most grotesque manner imaginable,
blending so completely the ludicrous and frightful in their
appearance, that the spectator might be said to be somewhat undecided
whether to laugh or to shudder. After sitting for some time in a kind
of mournful silence, one of the jugglers desired a youth who was near
him, to bring some stiff clay from a certain place which he named on
the river bank. This we understood, through an old Canadian named
_Garrow_, (well known on the Missouri,) who was present and acted as
our interpreter. The young man soon returned with the clay, and each
of these human bears immediately commenced the process of moulding a
number of little images exactly resembling buffaloes, men and horses,
bows, arrows, &c. When they had completed nine of each variety, the
miniature buffaloes were all placed together in a line, and the little
clay hunters mounted on their horses, and holding their bows and
arrows in their hands, were stationed about three feet from them in a
parallel line. I must confess that at this part of the ceremony I felt
very much inclined to be merry, especially when I observed what
appeared to me the ludicrous solemnity with which it was performed.
But my ridicule was changed into astonishment, and even into _awe_, by
what speedily followed.

When the buffaloes and horsemen were properly arranged, one of the
jugglers thus addressed the little clay men or hunters:

"My children, I know you are hungry; it has been a long time since you
have been out hunting. Exert yourselves to-day. Try and kill as many
as you can. Here are white people present who will laugh at you if you
don't kill. Go! don't you see that the buffalo have already got the
scent of you and have started?"

Conceive, if possible, our amazement, when the speaker's last words
escaped his lips, at seeing the little images start off at full speed,
followed by the Lilliputian horsemen, who with their bows of clay and
arrows of straw, actually pierced the sides of the flying buffaloes at
the distance of three feet. Several of the little animals soon fell,
apparently dead--but two of them ran round the circumference of the
circle, (a distance of fifteen or twenty feet,) and before they
finally fell, one had three and the other five arrows transfixed in
his side. When the buffaloes were all dead, the man who first
addressed the hunters spoke to them again, and ordered them to ride
into the fire, (a small one having been previously kindled in the
{658} centre of the apartment,) and on receiving this cruel order, the
gallant horsemen, without exhibiting the least symptoms of fear or
reluctance, rode forward at a brisk trot until they had reached the
fire. The horses here stopped and drew back, when the Indian cried in
an angry tone, "why don't you ride in?" The riders now commenced
beating their horses with their bows, and soon succeeded in urging
them into the flames, where horses and riders both tumbled down, and
for some time lay baking on the coals. The medicine men gathered up
the dead buffaloes and laid them also on the fire, and when all were
completely dried they were taken out and pounded into dust. After a
long speech from one of the party, (of which our interpreter could
make nothing,) the dust was carried to the top of the lodge and
scattered to the winds.

I paid the strictest attention during the whole ceremony, in order to
discover, if possible, the mode by which this extraordinary deception
was practised; but all my vigilance was of no avail. The jugglers
themselves sat motionless during the performance, and the nearest was
not within six feet of the moving figures. I failed altogether to
detect the mysterious agency by which inanimate images of clay were to
all appearance suddenly endowed with the action, energy and feeling of
living beings.

       *       *       *       *       *

[From the same.]

Remarkable Dream and Prediction, with their fulfilment.


Many whose opinions are entitled to profound respect, have believed
that man in his primitive or savage state, without the means of
cultivating or exercising his reasoning powers, has been occasionally
favored by divine or supernatural illumination. Whatever difference of
opinion may exist however, in reference to this subject, there can be
none as to the _facts_ about to be recorded. In the fall of 1827, an
old Mandan chief proclaimed early in the morning, through the village
or town of his tribe, the following dream, which he alleged to have
had the over night. "The Great Spirit," said he, "appeared to me last
night and told me that my feast had given him much satisfaction--that
he had concluded to take pity on me, and afford me an opportunity to
avenge the death of my son. He told me when the sun had performed
about half his journey, that I must start and go down to the little
lake, (about ten miles distant)--that there I should find four of my
enemies lying asleep, and that amongst them was the one who had slain
my son--that I should attack and kill all four, and return safe to the
village with their scalps." This dream the old Mandan repeated to
William P. Pilton and James Kipp, traders, who were then present, and
who are now living and can vouch for the fact. About noon he departed
for the lake, and would suffer none to accompany him. In the evening,
to the astonishment of every one who had heard the dream, he returned
with four scalps and the arms and clothing of four Arickara warriors.
This chief was afterwards called "Four Men," in commemoration of this
exploit.

But the following extraordinary prophecy, and its subsequent exact
fulfilment, came within my personal knowledge. If it does not prove
direct supernatural interference, it at least shows that events
previously foretold, have come to pass in a manner which no human
sagacity can well understand.

In the spring of 1829, about the 14th of March, I was preparing to
leave my wintering ground, which was just below the fork of the _River
Des Moins_. A camp, consisting of about fourteen lodges of Menomonies,
or Wild Rice Indians, situated a few hundred yards below my house, was
also prepared to move down the river immediately on the breaking up of
the ice, which was then daily expected. The wife of one of the
principal men was very sick, and inasmuch as her illness would delay
their departure, they felt much solicitude for her recovery, and
requested an old man among them called "_The Bears Oil_," to call down
the Spirit who presides over human life and question him respecting
her recovery. The venerable doctor or seer at first seemed reluctant
to comply, but on receiving several presents he commenced
preparations. The first thing to be done was the erection of a house
or lodge for the reception of the Spirit. Four poles of about ten feet
in length were planted in the ground, forming a square of about four
feet. The whole camp brought out their blankets, which were wrapped
around the poles from the bottom to the height of about eight feet. On
the ends of the poles was suspended all the finery which the camp
could afford, as a greater inducement, I suppose, for the Spirit to
descend. When these preparations were completed, the old man raised up
the lower edge of the blankets and crawled into the lodge, where he
remained entirely concealed from the spectators--not forgetting
however to take with him his drum and medicine bag. From the time he
entered, he was silent for nearly an hour, when at last he commenced
singing in a low voice, accompanying himself on the drum. The words of
the song, as well as the conversations which he afterwards carried on
with the Great Spirit, were in a language entirely unknown to any
except the initiated; and I have observed in all ceremonies of a
similar kind, and among all tribes of Indians, the same unintelligible
jargon is used. The Great Spirit delayed making his appearance so
long, that I began to think the inducements were not sufficient; {659}
and being anxious to witness the conclusion of the ceremony, I sent to
my house for some tobacco and ammunition as an additional offering.
This gave much satisfaction to the Indians, and appeared also to be
highly acceptable to the Spirit,--for a violent shaking of the lodge,
and the jingling of the hawk bills which were fastened to the end of
the pole, announced his arrival.

The old man proceeded immediately to business. In a short time he
announced to the wondering crowd which surrounded the lodge, that the
woman would die about sunrise on the following morning. He also stated
that the cause which would produce her death was a fever in the heart,
and this was occasioned by her always being in a bad, angry humor. The
object of invoking the Spirit was accomplished in what had been
announced; but the priest of the oracles further observed, that the
Great Spirit had signified his willingness to answer any one question
which might be asked. As the Menomonies were apprehensive of an attack
from the Sioux, their fears naturally induced them to ask if any other
person belonging to their camp should die or be killed previously to
their reaching the Mississippi. The old man soon returned the answer
of the Great Spirit, which was, that three of those who were then
present would never see the Mississippi again. I was astonished at the
old fellow's boldness in thus hazarding his reputation on a prophecy,
the fulfilment of which seemed so very improbable. Some of the young
men ventured a second question, and inquired the names of the persons
who were sentenced to die--but immediately the shaking of the lodge
and the jingling of the hawk bills, as before, announced the sudden
departure of the Spirit. The old man made his appearance, but was
evidently much displeased that the last inquiry was made. His look was
sullen and angry, and he maintained a stubborn silence. Finding that
nothing more was to be learned, I returned home, and amused myself
with what I then supposed a ridiculous superstition.

Early next morning I walked to the Indian camp, in order to ascertain
if the sick woman was still living; and before I proceeded far, I met
several of her own sex, provided with hoes and axes, going to prepare
her grave. They told me that she died precisely at the time that
_Bears Oil_ had predicted; and they further informed me that the
Indians were preparing to move down the river as soon as the ice had
started, not doubting that the other three condemned to death by the
prophet were doomed to be killed by the Sioux.

Two days after the woman's death, an Indian ran into my house and told
me, that a tree which they had commenced cutting down the evening
before, and which had been imprudently left standing cut half way
through, had just blown down, and had fallen across one of the lodges,
by which a woman and child had been instantly killed. He congratulated
himself that, according to the prophecy, only one more person was to
die, and earnestly hoped that it might not be himself.

On the 20th of the month the ice broke up, and on the 22d the Indians
and traders started in company to descend the _Des Moins_ in boats.
For several days we journeyed on without accident or annoyance--and
when we at length arrived within ten miles of the Mississippi, several
of the men began to teaze and joke the old prophet, asking if he meant
to throw himself overboard in order to verify his own prediction. The
old man paid no attention to their jests, but sat silently smoking his
pipe, and apparently absorbed in deep thought. He was an object of
general attention, nor shall I ever forget his appearance. His tall
and emaciated form lay stretched at some length on the deck; his
hollow sunken eyes were turned upward, and appeared straining in
search of some invisible object; and ever and anon long streams of
tobacco smoke were blown through his nose, ascending in curling vapors
above his head. His imagination appeared to be busied in forming
figures out of the smoke, and when a breeze scattered it away, he
immediately sent forth another whiff, again to resume his ideal
occupation. As we approached the Mississippi, the laugh and jests of
the boatmen became more loud and frequent--but he appeared to be
entirely insensible to surrounding objects, and I had almost come to
the conclusion that the venerable seer was about to fulfil his own
prophecy. Just at that moment the man who was steering my boat
complained of a violent headach, and begged me to place some other
person at the helm, which was accordingly done. He seated himself on
deck, but I remarked that his countenance underwent various changes in
quick succession. He paused for a moment, and then exclaimed,
apparently in great agony, "I am the third person destined never to
see the Mississippi, for I am now dying. Oh, my friends, raise me up
and let me but behold the river, for it may possibly change my
destiny!" I exhorted him to keep up his spirits, and to dismiss such
apprehensions from his mind, assuring him that it was impossible for
him to die before we reached the Mississippi, for that as soon as we
turned the point below we should be in sight of the river. Thinking
that some slight indisposition had concurred with the words of the
prophet to excite his imagination highly, I stepped to the bow of the
boat, and ordered the men to row round the point as quick as possible.
I stood on the bow until the point was turned, and the majestic
Mississippi lay stretched before us in full view. I immediately called
to _Baptiste_, (the sick man's name,) and told him he might now see
the river; but the only answer I received was from one of the
men--"_He is dead!_" "Impossible!" I thought, and ran to the {660}
body--but it was too true; the man was a corpse, and his eye now
glazed in death _had not perceived the perturbed waters of the Father
of Floods!_ I turned to the old sorcerer, whom I now considered as
such, and was struck with the calm indifference with which he received
the intelligence. "Villain!" I exclaimed, seizing him at the same
time, with strong indignation, by the arm, "it was you who killed this
man! You have poisoned him, and I will have you drowned for it." The
old man replied with great composure, and without the least symptom of
fear--"if you believe it was I who raised the wind which blew the tree
across the lodge and killed the woman and child, then you may believe
that I poisoned this man." I was struck with the justness of the
defence, and said nothing more to the prophet.

       *       *       *       *       *




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ON THE DEATH OF JAMES GIBBON CARTER.


    O'er the fam'd seat of science and of arms,
  What dire disaster spreads such wild alarms?
  What requiem sad is chanted o'er that bier?
  Why streams the silent, sympathetic tear?
  Why droop the ensigns of our sister state,
  As though they mourn'd a fallen nation's fate?
  In long procession through the crowded hall,
  With measur'd footsteps and uncover'd pall,
  Columbia's youthful chivalry appears
  With crape-clad banners, and with trailing spears;
  Whilst o'er each head funereal cypress bends,
  And the sad streamer from each arm descends;
  They weep the young--the noble--and the brave,
  Consign'd by "doom" to an untimely grave;
  Ere manhood stamp'd its image on his brow,
  Or gave his lips the soldier's gen'rous vow,
  Snapt was this scion in an evil hour.
  Nor ling'ring  death, nor sickness claim'd their pow'r;
  But full of life--joy sparkling in his eye--
  The fell destroyer came, commission'd from on high,
  And Carter perish'd! Casuists, be still!
  Was it without his mighty Maker's will?
  Has not Omnipotence itself the pow'r
  To bring repentance in the final hour?
  Oh sad vicissitudes of earthly trust--
  Hopes--bright as seraph's smile, consign'd to dust!
  Here would we drop the veil o'er mortal woe,
  Or give the dark'ning picture brighter glow,
  But Truth forbids. At duty's call we come
  To paint the horrors at his distant home.
    Lo! by the patriot's couch a group appears,
  Repressing anguish, and restraining tears;
  Though at the effort nature's self recoils,
  (For nature claims her tributes and her spoils,)
  Brief are the hours which now the sick man claims,
  Nor asks he more, since Zionward he aims:
  The feeble sands of life are almost spent--
  Dim is his eye--his locks with silver blent;
  He, with the Patriarch of eld, may say,
  "Short, but replete with woe, has been my day."
  Then spare the agony his heart must know,
  Ere waning life should sink beneath this blow.
  But, oh! the Mother's desolated heart!
  What charm can sooth--or what a balm impart?
  Her hope--her stay--snatch'd to an early tomb,
  Involving life itself in tenfold gloom!

MARCELLA.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES.


  When in my life's propitious morn
    The sun of joy and hope once smiled,
  Fair Poesy, of Pleasure born,
    Each fancied sorrow oft beguiled.

  But when the blast of real woe
    Withered the brightness of my soul--
  Bade me to dream of bliss no more,
    And yet denied the Lethean bowl,

  Did Poesy, like that bright star
    That burns upon the brow of night,
  Scatter misfortune's clouds afar,
    And with her beauty glad my sight?

  Ah, no! She flies the wretched breast,
    To seek the gay and happy throng;
  In mirth's soft bowers she loves to rest,
    And speed the flying hours along.

  Where fountains play, and flowrets bloom,
    And where no thoughts of care intrude,
  To beauty's halls the Muse has flown,
    And left me to my solitude.

  But lo! a fairer form appears,
    On heavenly pinions hovering nigh;
  She bids me dry repining tears,
    And points me to her native sky.

  She tells me of repose and peace
    Which to the pure in heart are given,
  And bids my sorrowing bosom cease
    To mourn for those who're blest in heaven.

  Religion! on thy brow doth glow
    The rainbow hues of hope and joy;
  That perfect peace thou canst bestow,
    Which nothing earthly can destroy.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

STANZAS.


  The moon as brightly shines to-night,
    The scene as lovely ought to be,
  As when I gazed upon its light
    And thought sweet Hope was born for me;
  'Tis _I_ am changed, and not the hour--
    Alas! the darkness centres _here_;
  No clouds about yon planet lower,
    I only view it through a tear.

  Soft, lovely orb! some smiling eye
    Ev'n now reposes on thy beams,
  Some maid that never breathed a sigh,
    Forsakes for thee her tranquil dreams;
  Methinks I view her buoyant breast,
    And mark the hopes that tremble there;
  I also dreamed that I was blest,
    'Till waked from slumber by a tear.

F. L. B.


{661}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LIONEL GRANBY.

CHAP. V.

  The voice of youth! the air is rife
    With a dream of glorious things,
  And our harp is thrilling with the life
    Of all its shining strings.--_Newspaper_.


The famed drinking song of Rabelais "_Remplio tous verre vuide_," the
offspring of that wonderful man whose humor electrified an age, and
whose sarcasm did as much for religious reformation as the logic of
Luther, greeted my ears when I descended at the Raleigh in
Williamsburg. Before me was a huge and curiously misshapen edifice,
surmounted by a box, which looked more like a coffin than a porch.
Over it the frowning head of the immortal patron of tobacco and
potatoes ghastly smiled through its gamboge and vermilion, looking
like one of those rough portraits, which in the earlier maps of
Virginia, are placed amid the _terra incognito_, where "divers
salvages inhabit." The porch was filled with young men, sitting in
that peculiar posture, which resembled them to the mortars which
grimly flank some armed fort, moving themselves and their legs from
the banisters, only to examine a case of pistols, on which an
atrabilarious youth was lecturing with great spirit. A few seemed to
be absorbed in a newspaper, while more than one was employed in
catching the echo of the bacchanial song, and murmuring it back to the
festive board. The arrival of Arthur Ludwell and myself, produced a
momentary sensation of curiosity and attention, and we had scarcely
dismounted from our horses, ere we were frankly invited to join in the
festivities of the club. With his accustomed prudence, Arthur declined
the dangerous honor, while I, through an utter recklessness of heart,
and a burning thirst for excitement, quickly accepted the offer, and
was immediately ushered into the "_Apollo_," a long and dimly lighted
room, in which, around a table, were gathered the bloom of boyhood and
the bud of adolescence. Wine, adulterated into poison by its union
with brandy, and that original sin of southern intemperance mint
julap, stood forth the bold heralds of an incipient debauch. A young
man of dark complexion and melancholy countenance, acted as the
president of the board, occasionally struggling with himself for a bad
pun, or joining in the chorus of each mirthful song.

"How has the affair between Leger and Allan terminated?" inquired a
faint voice near me.

"Diffugere _vives_," responded the president, "for they fought this
morning at the hay-yard with my pistols. Leger had the advantage of
the ground, '_mutat terra vices_,' and hit Allan at the third fire.
However, his wound is not dangerous; they are now friends. Here's to
their health, and to the ball, which in purifying honor, exalts
friendship."

I did not comprehend either the logic or morality of this toast--yet I
drank it through common civility; and from my desire to be considered
as a youth of spirit, I soon reeled in the full grossness of
intoxication. The lights were now extinguished, and we sallied forth,
fired with the ambition of "putting the town to rights." At the door I
met Scipio, who gazing on me for a moment, averted his face and burst
into tears. I passed rapidly by him, and with difficulty smothered a
curse which my pride aimed at his weakness. Unnoticed by my companions
he silently followed me; and it was his hand which raised me from the
earth where I had fallen, and his arm which bore me to my room.

I arose the next morning with a shattered frame and an aching heart,
nor could my crazed philosophy destroy the blush with which memory
every moment bitterly suffused my cheek. But was not drunkenness the
attribute of genius! the unerring characteristic of intellect!--for
while tradition sighed over the memory of the victims of intemperance,
the lustre of genius awoke the pity of sympathy, the pardon of virtue,
and the emulation of folly. All the promising young men who have sunk
into a drunkard's grave, were full of high and lofty intelligence, and
would have realized the proudest hope of fame but for this fatal
excess of genius. Strange fatuity! and stranger that its rottenness
should excite either our pity or forgiveness!

College life is a little dream of human passion and human infirmity.
It is the same eternal track of disappointment, over which folly
vaults and ambition staggers--a record of youthful happiness written
on a summer's leaf, it glitters for the moment, and fades away beneath
the spirit which freshens it into beauty. 'Tis the miniature arena in
which human life first disports its vices, its hopes, and its
imaginings--and if no other knowledge be acquired, the collegian can
look with pride on his acquaintance with the world, its follies and
its pleasures, and hug to his bosom that kernel of truth which has
been wrested from the hard husk of disappointment. We had numerous
debating societies, where the elements of government, the subtleties
of law, and the vagaries of taste were nightly discussed. We were
either orators or philosophers--the former declaiming in all the pomp
of verbosity, the latter deciding in all the solemnity of silence.
Newspapers were eagerly read, and many a maiden pen first fleshed
itself in these shambles of faction. All write in Virginia for these
greedy receptacles of morbid ire and political venom--and he who can
sketch the hundredth-told tale, in improved bombast, or provincial
dialect, becomes the little great man of the cross-roads, or struts
the swelling Junius of the courtyard. Write in jagged orthography--the
dictionary is at hand; scuffle through the rules of grammar--the
printer has a happy talent of correcting by his own grammar; violate
the sense of language and the chastity of style, for this is a trait
of towering genius; but write, and write again, until you can gaze
with triumph on the tenth number of some masterly Cato--some learned
Sidney--or some eloquent Curtius. These compliments are the certain
rewards of your labors--for the printer's praise is measured by your
fustian, and that of his readers is gained by the length of your
numbers.

I found Pilton, a student of reputation and character, which added
bitterness to the malignity of my hate. Our meeting was cold, formal
and ceremonious; and on my part, I was repulsive almost to direct
insult. My hate was fierce, violent and untamed--but still it was open
and undisguised, apparently losing its malice in good breeding, and
its assassin-like propensity in honor. As usual, his habits of intense
application had given him a high rank both in his class and in the
esteem of the professors, while his ill-breeding was forgotten in the
light which learning threw around him. To all my open attacks, secret
insinuations, and {662} malevolent hints, he exposed that affected
candor and subtle magnanimity, which neutralized the poison and
blunted the edge of my weapons.

There was a ball at the Old Raleigh during the Christmas holydays, to
which the city as well as its vicinity sent a numerous representation
of those soft, fragile and dove-like females, who, springing like so
many Venus' from the bosom of the sea, claim their home only in the
tranquil and affectionate hearths of tide-water Virginia. Like the
mocking bird, their dwelling place is amid the ripple of the murmuring
tide, while their song is the melody which thrills into life the
fearful and eternal solitude of the pine forests. When I entered the
room, the dance was exultingly triumphant, and each mazy figure was
softened into intense interest by that joyousness of mirth which takes
its pride of place only from early hearts and youthful hopes. One girl
instantly arrested my attention; and the long, deep and ardent gaze
which I directed towards her, mantled her cheek with a deep and
struggling blush, giving that delicate tint which, like the fabled
rose, twines itself around, only to bloom over the pallid countenance
of disease. She was pale, attenuated and fragile, with that dewy-like
softness which is stolen from the couch of sickness, and that tranquil
firmness which shows both a capability of happiness, and a peaceful
resignation at the want of it. Her form was full of grace and
symmetrical beauty, and her eye, like a glow-worm, lit up the saddened
paleness of her face. How wonderful is the contagion of friendship!
How curious are the hallowed sympathies of love! Unseen though
felt--unknown though experienced, they breathe that pathos of
congeniality, which in exciting attachment, confirms constancy, and
which ever leaves us to wonder not so much at their commencement as at
their continuance. I do not know that my appearance was calculated to
impress the heart of the fair girl who trembled under my searching
gaze; but her blush truly responded to the passion, poetry and
sympathy which my eyes discoursed, and I soon found that the shadowy
gloom of my countenance had arrested her kindness and excited her
curiosity. I was soon formally introduced, though in the confusion of
the moment I did not hear her name; and on her complaint of fatigue, I
led her to a retired seat, and in a short time we were fairly launched
into that great sea of conversation, the mental difference of the
sexes--a subject on which man ever shows his ill-nature, and woman her
superiority. I found her mind opening like the flowers of the
wilderness in richness, variety and freshness, and her wit leaping and
gambolling like an uncaged bird. I poured out all the long-hived
treasures of my erudition, disclosed the whole extent of my learning,
and disported all the little elegancies and graces of my nature. I
could tell her no secret of taste, or display no gem of literature,
with which she was not familiar; and looking up in her tranquil and
placid face, I took no note of time, or of the whispers of the crowd,
which had declared me "a case."

Towards the conclusion of the ball, a gentleman taking advantage of a
pause in our conversation, addressed her by the name of Miss Pilton.
Good God! how that word rang and tingled through the deepest recesses
of my heart, and how quickly did my hate leap up to it as a fortuitous
gift for its demoniac revenge.

"Are you the sister," I inquired, "of Mr. Henry Pilton, now at William
and Mary?"

"I am his only sister," was her reply. "You certainly know him, and if
you do not, you must seek his acquaintance. I will tell him that I am
about to make you my friend, and he will love you for my sake."

"I do know him," I answered; "he is studious and intelligent, and
possesses the esteem and confidence of all the professors."

She rewarded this constrained, though frank avowal, with a smile--and
in the rapture of her joy, she betrayed all that confidence which her
brother's pride had deposited in her bosom, and told with enthusiasm
the little history of his ambition, his fears, and his hopes. He
boldly anticipated every honor within the compass of society; and that
proud determination to be great, which invigorated his youthful
ambition, added a deeper hue of malignity to the venom of my hate.

"He hardly gives me time," she said, "to love him; for gazing like the
eagle on the sun, he never looks down on the insipid dulness of earth.
I do not admire students, Mr. Granby; they are cold and selfish, and
though they gain our flattery, they rarely win our hearts."

I construed this remark, though made at the expense of her brother, as
a compliment to myself, and soon gained her smiles, by many sarcasms
which I levelled at pedants, scholars and students. Without professing
flattery, I pleased her by a ready acquiescence of sentiment and
opinion; and anticipating her pride of sex and her tenderness of
heart, I lauded in the richest language of quotation, woman's love,
and woman's constancy. The artlessness of her character, and the
simplicity of her nature, could not hide from my vanity the favorable
impression I had made on her heart. I looked on my victim with some
emotions of pity, and paused for a moment under the goading sting of
conscience; yet the fiend-like passion which rioted on my life, told
me that the ruin of her peace, and the destruction of her happiness,
would be the proudest victory which my hate could achieve.

Leaving her for a few moments, I looked around at the mirthful throng
which filled the room, and sauntered to the _bar_, which was a point
where conversation converged its focus. About a table prodigally
ornamented with decanters and glasses, were collected numerous groups
of young men, who were all talking at the same time on beauty,
horseracing, politics and duelling. Here and there a solitary tobacco
chewer might be seen, stealing to some fire place or window, and
enjoying in mute rapture, the filth, excitement and grossness of his
depraved appetite. Two or three youthful legislators from the
adjoining counties, were flaunting their maiden honors in the broad
light of political vanity--while four elderly gentlemen, in
embroidered waistcoats and fair-top boots, were eloquently deprecating
the onward march of democracy, which made the legislature a mob of
demagogues, and the ball room a collection of fine clothes and
vulgarity. This was my uncle's favorite theme, and from the folly of
such croaking aristocracy, common sense and not education had
delivered me. An aged negro, the "harmonious Phillips" of the country,
dressed in the ample costume of the old school, with a powdered head,
a large knob of watch seals, and a silver ship in his bosom,
controlled with fierce tyranny his partners of the bow, fife and {663}
triangle. Bowing almost to the floor, he would ever and anon cry out
in a magisterial tone, _cross over_--_forward_--_turn your
partners_--_done_, and catching the inspiration of catgut and rosin,
his ivory teeth were displayed like the keys of a piano-forte, while
his broad face fairly laughed itself into ecstasy.

At the conclusion of the ball, I became the solitary escort of Miss
Pilton. The moon was shining coldly and brightly over the world; and
when I was about to leave my fair charge, looking up she exclaimed,
"How beautiful!--how melancholy!--it makes me almost a poetess. What a
contrast to the busy crowd we have just left; oh! that human life was
as cloudless, and human love as pure!"

There was no affectation in this rhapsody--no girlish sentiment in the
display; for nature called forth the gushing softness of her heart,
and I quickly took advantage of this moment of philosophic
romance.--Where is the lover who has not found the moon his silent yet
most impassioned advocate, and who, when gazing on its mellow light,
has not caught that saddened sympathy which brightens every dark spot
in the horizon of the heart.

"Yes," I replied, "it is the same cloud-wrapt sphere which has always
looked down on the little drama of human folly, unmoved amid the
desolations of death and the fall of empires, forever whispering love,
and exalting the best affections of our nature. Marriages must be made
in _heaven_--and this pale messenger, in expanding the heart, almost
persuades me that it is commissioned to teach love and awaken
affection."

Ere she could reply, I placed a leaf of evergreen in her hand, and
uttered enough of love to call a burning blush to her cheek. I
lingered for a few moments at the door, and on leaving the scene, I
turned around to gaze on the being who was thus insensibly falling
into the toils of my duplicity. I saw her place in her bosom the
treacherous emblem which I had given her; and as the silvery light of
the moon trembled over her marbled brow and placid countenance, I
almost believed that its rays had claimed that spot, as the only
tranquil home in the wide world on which they might kiss themselves
into slumber.

THETA.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM A SISTER.

LETTER SEVENTEENTH.

The Garden of Plants--The Camel Leopard--The Library, Museum, and
Cabinet of Anatomy--Manufactory of Gobelin Tapestry.


PARIS, ----.

_My dear Sister:_--

I do not wonder that you are surprised at my not having yet described
to you the "Royal Garden of Plants." The fact is, we have been thrice
disappointed in our arrangements to go there, but at last have
accomplished our project, and devoted both Tuesday and Wednesday to
the investigation of this famed spot, and we have seen nothing in
Paris that has interested us more. It is of great extent, and affords
the visiter as much information as amusement. It was founded by Jean
de Brosses, the physician of Louis XIII, and much improved by the
exertions of Buffon the naturalist. It contains various enclosures,
some of which are appropriated to botany, and display every plant,
flower and shrub, native and foreign, that can be made to grow there.
Each is labelled, and bears its botanical name; and there are spacious
hot-houses for such as require shelter and extreme care. We remarked
here some fine specimens of the bread tree and sugar cane. Other
enclosures are filled with all sorts of culinary vegetables. There are
besides, nurseries of fruit trees and samples of different kinds of
fences, hedges and ditches, and of various soils and manures. The
enclosures are separated by wide gravel walks,

  "Bounded by trees, with seats beneath the shade,
   For talking age and whispering lovers made."

In the centre of the garden is an artificial hill, crowned with a
temple, from which you enjoy a view of the city, and may aid your
sight with a spy glass, by paying a trifle to a man who owns it and
generally sits there, for the purpose of hiring it, and indicating to
strangers the names of the public edifices visible in the perspective.
On the way to the temple, you pass under a huge and towering cedar of
Lebanon, which De Jussieu the botanist planted more than eighty years
ago. This superb tree was considerably injured during the revolution;
and had it not been for the remonstrances and influence of Humboldt
the traveller, the whole garden would probably be now in a ruinous
condition--for when the allies were in Paris, it was owing to his
exertions that the Prussians were prevented encamping there.

The menagerie exhibits the greatest variety of animals. The ferocious
are kept in iron cages; those that are gentle, in enclosures and
habitations suitable to their propensities and natures, and
embellished with such trees and shrubs as are found in their native
climes. Goats for instance, are furnished with artificial acclivities
for climbing, and bears with dens and rugged posts. The populace often
throw biscuits and fruit to the bears, in order to witness their
endeavors to catch them; but this is dangerous diversion, for in doing
this, a boy was not sufficiently alert in his movements, and ere he
withdrew his arm, had it severely lacerated by the eager animal. On
another occasion, a careless nurse, while amusing herself in a similar
manner, let a child fall in, which was instantly devoured! Among the
gentlest and most curious of the quadrupeds, is the giraff, or camel
leopard, which was brought from Africa about two years ago, and threw
all Paris into commotion. Thousands visited him daily, and belts,
reticules, gloves, kerchiefs, and even cakes and blanc mangés were
decorated with his image. It is said that he possesses both sagacity
and sensibility, to prove which the following anecdote is related of
him. As his keepers were bringing him to Paris, they were joined by a
man on horseback, who continued to bear them company for several
miles, until he came to another road. The giraff, which had manifested
great delight when the traveller first appeared, then evinced deep
distress, and even shed tears! Upon inquiry, it was found that the
traveller's horse and the giraff were from the same part of Africa,
and probably old acquaintances. This is a marvellous story, I must
confess; nevertheless, many persons believe it. I will now tell you
another less incredible, and which shews to what perfection the flower
makers here carry their art. The giraff is very fond of rose leaves;
and not long since, seeing a bunch of artificial roses in a lady's
bonnet, and thinking them natural, he seized hold of them, and {664}
pulled with such force, that he soon had possession of hat and all. It
must have been a ludicrous scene. He is so delicate, that strict
attention is obliged to be paid to his food and lodging. The first
consists of _delicate_ vegetables, and the heat of the last is
regulated by a thermometer; and his African attendant sleeps near to
guard him and supply his wants. Leaving the quadrupeds, we proceeded
to look at the birds, which are also admirably arranged. The water
fowls have their pools and lakes--the ostrich its sands, and so on.

I have now detailed what we saw on Tuesday. On Wednesday we returned
to the garden, and examined the Library, the Museum of Natural
History, and the Cabinet of Comparative Anatomy, where, for the first
time in my life, I beheld the human form, divested of its skin and
flesh, and changed to a machine of dried bones and sinews, and
bloodless veins! The sight made me shudder, and I felt relieved when
we came away.

Not far from the Garden of Plants, at the corner of the Rue
Mouffetarde, is the celebrated manufactory of Gobelin Tapestry, which
derives its name from a dyer who first owned the establishment, and
employed himself in coloring worsteds. Colbert, the patriotic champion
of the arts and sciences, during his ministry, occasioned the rise and
perfection of it in the following manner. He engaged workmen to weave
tapestry in imitation of that of Flanders. The attempt succeeded, and
such has been the proficiency of those who have since carried on the
work, that their productions are now equal to any others of the kind.
You may imagine what care and expense is required in the business,
when I inform you that a single piece of tapestry frequently demands
two years labor to finish it, and has cost almost three hundred pounds
sterling!

The clock is striking two, and I must prepare for a ride in the Bois
de Boulogne. It being a delightful afternoon, we shall no doubt find
it alive with carriages, pedestrians and equestrians. Those who repair
there in coaches, usually drive to a pleasant spot, and then descend
to walk to and fro in the shade, for air and exercise, until the
approach of the dinner hour, or some other engagement calls them
elsewhere. Farewell.

LEONTINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTER EIGHTEENTH.

Ceremony of taking the Veil--Palace of the Warm Baths, a Roman Ruin.


PARIS, ----.

Oh! Jane, how we wished for you yesterday! Early in the morning we
received a note from Madame F---- saying, that if the ladies of our
party would like to witness the ceremony of "taking the veil," and
would repair to her house by nine o'clock, she would accompany them to
a neighboring convent where it was to be performed about the hour of
ten. The Abbess being her friend and cousin, she had obtained her
consent to our attending on the occasion in case we wished it. We
_wished_ it, you may be sure, and her kindness was eagerly and
thankfully accepted. On reaching the convent its portal was opened by
two of the sisterhood, who greeted Madame F---- very cordially, made
their curtsies to us, and then conducted us to the gallery of a small
chapel, the main body of which was filled with nuns clad in black, and
seated on rows of benches each side of the aisle. In the centre of it,
upon a damask chair, sat a young lady richly dressed. She wore a
yellow silk frock trimmed with lace, white satin shoes, long white kid
gloves, and ornaments of pearl. A wreath of orange blossoms mingled
and contrasted with her dark hair, and were partly concealed by a
flowing veil. Madame F---- related her history, and to our surprise we
learned she was an English girl who had been placed in the convent at
an early age to be educated. As might have been expected, associating
so constantly and closely with Catholics from childhood, she became
one herself; and when her parents came over to France for the purpose
of carrying her home, they found her resolved on becoming a nun.
Having tried in vain to dissuade her from it, they at length yielded
to her entreaties, and were even present when she took the vows; and
as they did not appear distressed on the occasion, I suppose they had
finally become reconciled to their bereavement. I wonder they did not
_compel_ her to relinquish her determination. But to proceed to the
ceremony. Long prayers were said, incense scattered, and a fine hymn
chanted--the novice kneeling down before a table covered with a
crimson cloth, and reclining her head upon it, in humble submission to
that Divine Power to whom she was dedicating her heart and days! When
the music ceased the Abbess advanced, and taking her hand, led her out
through a side door; and while they were absent, a nun distributed
among the sisterhood a number of large wax candles, which she
afterwards illumined. The Abbess now re-entered with her charge, and
prayers and incense were again offered, a second hymn sung, and the
novice had her hair, or a portion of it, cut off; she then prostrated
herself before the altar, and a black pall was cast over her, to
signify she was dead to the world. On rising, she retired a second
time with the Superior, and in a few minutes re-appeared, clad in the
habiliments of the cloister, and went round the chapel to receive the
kiss of congratulation and welcome from each of the community; after
which the lights were extinguished, and every one departed, leaving
her to solitude, meditation and prayer, until the vesper bell should
tell the hour for rejoining her. How awful I felt while a spectator of
the solemn scene; and how strange, is it not? that reflecting beings
who know the fickleness of human nature--that "nature's mighty law is
change," can venture thus to bind themselves for life to stay in one
limited space, and pursue one unvaried mode of existence! I hope and
think I love religion truly; but I am sure if I were a _saint_ upon
earth, I should never hide my light in a monastery. I ought to
mention, that except the father and brothers of the new nun, no
gentlemen were admitted to the ceremony; and I ought also to state
that she was very pretty. Leonora says that notwithstanding the scene
and place, she was constantly imagining the interference of some brave
youth, to save the fair creature from her fate, by rushing in and
bearing her off by force; but alas! the age of chivalry is long past,
and now-a-days a _hero_ in _love_ would be thought a prodigy and hard
to find, unless perhaps, he was sought for is a certain old fashioned
fabric in the vicinity of Morven Lodge. _There_, peradventure, such an
_odd personage might be discovered_.

From the convent we drove to what is called the {665} "Palace of the
Warm Baths." This is a relic of Roman antiquity. In it, the Roman
emperors, and after their dominion ceased in France, the French
monarchs, used to reside. Its foundation is attributed to Julian the
Apostate. The sole remaining apartments consist of an extensive and
lofty hall, and some cells beneath it. The hall is lighted by an
immense arched window, and its vaulted roof for several ages supported
a garden. By this we may judge how firmly and strongly the Romans used
to build. I cannot, for lack of space, express to you the kind
messages with which I am charged. Suffice it to know, we all love you
dearly.

LEONTINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTER NINETEENTH.

Visit to Versailles--The Little Trianon--The Grand Trianon--Church of
St. Louis, and Monument of the Duke de Berri--Mendon--Chalk
Quarries--Tortoni's--Wandering Musicians--An Evening at Count
Ségur's--Children's Fancy Ball.


PARIS, ----.

_My dear Sister:_--

I have really a great mind to give you a _scolding_, instead of a
_description_, for your perusal. What are you all about at the Lodge,
that you have not written to us for this fortnight. Papa and Mamma are
quite out of patience with you, and desire me to request you will
answer this the moment it reaches you. Indeed I hope you _will_, for
they are evidently uneasy in consequence of your long silence.

Now let me tell you of our visit to Versailles. We spent Friday there,
and carrying with us a cold dinner, partook of it under the trees near
the Petit Trianon, having gained a keen appetite by first walking over
the immense palace and its garden; of the splendors of both you are
well aware. We were not much pleased with our rustic mode of eating on
the grass, the premises of the table cloth being frequently invaded by
insects. Like dancing on the turf, such arrangements are pleasanter in
description than in reality. The Petit Trianon was the favorite
residence of Marie Antoinette, and there she passed a great deal of
her time, free from the bustle and formality of the court, and devoted
to rural occupations. The place still exhibits evidences of her taste
and innocent amusements. The grounds are diversified with grottos,
cottages, temples, mimic rivers and cascades. Then there is a
beautiful little music room, a labyrinth, a dairy, and a lake. The
palace is a tasteful edifice, and a part of the furniture is the same
that was used by the decapitated queen.

The Grand Trianon, another palace situated in the park of Versailles,
is superior to this in elegance and embellishments, but not half so
interesting. The parterre behind the mansion, teems with Flora's
choicest gifts, and reminded me of the saying, that "Versailles was
the garden of waters; Marly the garden of trees; but Trianon that of
flowers." In the orangery at Versailles we were shown an orange tree
which is computed to be three hundred years old! It is denominated
"The Old Bourbon," and has been the property of several kings of that
race. Its trunk and foliage are remarkably thick. The garden and park
are five miles in circumference; and only think of these and the
magnificent structure overlooking them, being completed in seven
years! But perhaps did we know the number of workmen employed upon
them during that period, the fact would not seem so amazing.

We rode through the wide streets of the town, visited the Church of
St. Louis, where a simple monument is erected in honor of the Duke de
Berri, and then turned our course homewards, stopping for an hour at
Mendon, a royal chateau that Napoleon fitted up elegantly for his son;
it is now unoccupied, though I believe the Duke de C---- sometimes
spends a few weeks there. A noble avenue leads to the house, and from
the terrace in front of it the prospect is very fine. As we traversed
the grounds, guided by an old soldier, we were quite diverted at the
astonishment he expressed, on discovering from an observation of
Leonora's that she and her family were Americans. "Mais comme vous
êtes blondes!" cried he, "et j'ai toujours en tendu dire que les
habitans d'Amerique étaient rouges ou noirs!"[1]

[Footnote 1: But how fair you are! and I have always heard that the
inhabitants of America are _red_ or _black_.]

At the foot of the hill of Mendon, near the banks of the Seine, are
large quarries of chalk, that we were told merited our attention; but
it was too late to profit by the information, and we hastened on to
Paris.

After resting ourselves and drinking tea, we sallied forth again, and
strolled on the Boulevard as far as Tortoni's, to eat ices. He is
master of a grand caffé, and famous for his ices and déjeunés à la
fourchette. His establishment is splendidly illuminated every night,
and so thronged with customers, that it is often difficult to procure
a seat. Some prefer regaling themselves before the door in their
carriages; and there is generally a range of stylish equipages in
front of the house, filled with lords and ladies, and beaux and
belles, partaking of the cooling luxuries of iced lemonade and creams,
and listening to the bands of ambulatory musicians, that here are
always to be found and heard, wherever there is a crowd. They select
the popular airs of the theatres and those of the first composers of
the day, which are as familiar to the common people as they are to
amateurs.

We recently spent another delightful evening at Count Ségur's. We
found him, as usual, surrounded by the learned and refined; and he met
us with his accustomed smile of benevolence and bonhomie. There was a
lively young relative of his present, and when most of his visiters
had departed, she insisted on his joining her and myself in playing
"l'Empereur est Mort," &c., and with the utmost amiability he complied
with her wishes. The play of l'Empereur is similar to that termed the
"Princess Huncamunca."

While we were at the Count's, Mr. and Mrs. Danville attended a levee
at the Hotel Marine, and the girls accompanied a young friend of
Marcella's, (a Miss Y---- from Soissons) to a fancy ball given by the
children of Madame Clément's seminary. Miss Y---- being a pupil, had
the privilege of inviting two acquaintances, and chose Marcella and
Leonora as her guests. They were highly entertained. All the scholars
wore costumes, and several supported the characters they assumed with
proper spirit. There was a little round, rosy faced girl, of five
years old, decked as a Cupid. She was entwined with a silken drapery,
thickly studded with golden stars; sandals laced on her feet, {666}
and a quiver slung over her plump and naked little shoulders! In her
right hand she held a gilt bow, and her curls were confined by a
glittering bandeau. They danced until ten o'clock, and as none of the
masculine gender were admitted, the elder Misses played the part of
beaux. I should have liked to join in the frolic, I confess, though
not upon condition of foregoing the pleasure we had at No. 13, Rue
Duphot, Count Ségur's residence.

Papa has presented me a beautiful watch, and intends purchasing
another for you. With tender regards to aunt M---- and Albert, I
remain your attached sister

LEONTINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTER TWENTIETH.

Mechanical Theatre--The Boulevards--the derivation of the term.


PARIS, ----.

"Joy! joy!" cried I, on looking out of the window yesterday, and
spying Arnaud returning from the post office with a letter, which,
according to our wishes, proved to be from our naughty Jane. Arrant
scribbler that I am, I hasten to answer it, though you must feel you
do not deserve to be replied to so speedily. However, as this is the
first time you have been negligent, we ought not to be relentless--so
here is my _hand_ in token of forgiveness and good will; but beware of
repeating the offence.

Having finished my lecture, and knowing you are fond of listening to
adventures, I will now recount a droll one that happened to us last
evening. At sunset we were walking on the Boulevard du Temple, which
abounds in every variety of the lower order of amusements, when
suddenly a violent shower began to fall, and of course every body to
scamper to some shelter. _We_ took refuge in the portico of an
illuminated building, entitled in large transparent letters over the
door, "Theàtre Mecanique," and finally determined to enter and witness
the acting within. We accordingly purchased tickets of the woman
employed to sell them, and following her up a narrow flight of stairs,
were ushered into a confined gallery, overlooking a dirty pit, the
highest grade of whose occupants seemed to be that of a cobbler. Four
tallow candles lighted the orchestra, where _two hard_ plying fiddlers
performed their tasks. We began to think we might be in "Alsatia!" and
then the actors and actresses! what were they? Why, a set of clumsy
wooden figures that tottered in and out, and were suspended by cords
so coarse, as to be visible even amidst the gloom that surrounded
them. A ventriloquist made these puppets appear very loquacious; and
whenever they stopped to make a speech it was quite ludicrous, for
they vacillated to and fro like the pendulum of a clock, for more than
a minute. We would have rejoiced to get out, but the rain still
poured, and we were compelled to remain. After the piece was
concluded, and the fiddlers had put up their instruments, and were
puffing out and pocketing the bits of candles, and we were reluctantly
preparing to issue forth into the storm, up came the above mentioned
vender of billets, (who it seems was manager likewise,) and calling to
the musicians to resume their operations, begged us to be re-seated,
in order to see the first act repeated, which we had lost by arriving
too late. We availed ourselves of her politeness and _honesty_, but
could scarcely refrain from laughing as we did so--and fortunately,
during the half hour that succeeded, the weather cleared, and we were
thus enabled to get home without the dreaded wetting; but the
Boulevards not being paved, the walking was exceedingly muddy, and it
was so long ere we reached a stand of carriages, that when we did, we
thought it more prudent to continue our route on foot, than to risk
sitting in our wet shoes.

As you may not know what is meant by the "_Boulevards_," I will tell
you. They are wide roads, or streets, edged with spreading umbrageous
elms, and formerly _bounded_ the city, but now, from its increase in
size, they are _within_ it. Their appellation of "Boulevards" is
derived from "bouler sur le vert," to "bowl upon the green"--being
once covered with turf, and the frequent scene of playing at bowls.
Here, nightly, the citizens forget the cares and labors of the day,
and resign themselves to pleasure and mirth. Rows of chairs, owned and
placed there by poor persons, may be hired for two sous a piece.
Adieu.

LEONTINE.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

BURNING OF THE RICHMOND THEATRE.

The following lines are from the pen of a venerable lady of Virginia,
widow of one of the patriots of the revolution. They were written in
1812, shortly after the conflagration, and are now for the first time
published.

  What is this world? thy school, oh misery!
  Our only lesson is to learn to suffer,
  And they who know not _that_ were born for nothing.
                                  [_Young's Night Thoughts_.


    Whence the wild wail of agonizing woe
  That heaves each breast, and bids each eye o'erflow?
  Ah, me! amid the all involving gloom
  That wrapt the victims of terrific doom,
  While _palsied fancy_ casts an anguish'd glance,
  What _phrenzied_ spectres to my view advance!
  Appalled nature shrinks--my harrowed soul
  Dares not the direful scene of death unrol;
  Yet o'er the friends she loved the muse would mourn,
  And weep for others' sorrows and her own;
  To their sad obsequies would _grateful_ pay
  The heartfelt tribute of a mourning lay.
  And lo! through the dark horrors of the night,
  What form revered now rushes on my sight!
  Ye blasting flames, oh spare the cheek of age!
  Ah, heaven! they with redoubled fury rage!
  Yet undismay'd she view'd the fiery flood,
  Resign'd amid the desolation stood--
  To God alone address'd her feeble cry,
  Oh! save my child, and willingly I die!
  Approving heaven propitious heard her prayer,
  To bliss receiv'd her, and preserv'd her care.
  Oh, long lov'd friend! oh, much lamented Page!
  How did thy goodness every heart engage--
  How oft for _me_ thy generous tears have flow'd,
  What kind attention still thy love bestow'd;
  When sickness mourn'd or sorrow heav'd a sigh,
  Thy useful aid benignant still was nigh;
  The best of neighbors, and the truest friend,
  O'er thy sad urn disconsolate we bend. {667}
  Heardst thou that shriek? the accent of despair!
  The mother's deep felt agony was there:
  My only hope, Louisa, art thou gone?
  Is thy pure spirit to thy Maker flown?
  Oh! take me too! the mourner frantic cries,
  When such friends part _'tis the survivor_ dies!
  She was my all--so gentle, good, and kind;
  Then she is blest, and be thy heart resign'd!
  And see, of sympathy, alas! the theme,
  In woes experience'd, and in griefs supreme!
  Yon aged matron now to view appears,
  One thought alone her anguish'd bosom cheers;
  For while on vacancy she bends her eye,
  She sees her children angels in the sky!
  Juliana! Edwin! beauteous Mary too!
  To yon bright realm from earthly suffering flew;
  Well tried in fortune's ever changing scene,
  A mourner now with calm resigned mien,
  Who bears a name to every patriot dear,
  Nelson! who long Virginia shall revere,
  Ah, see! submissive to the direful stroke,
  No murmurs from her pallid lips have broke;
  Though lov'd Maria, long her age's stay,
  Whose duteous care watch'd o'er her setting day,
  The awful mandate bade, alas, depart!
  "Lean not on earth--'twill pierce thee to the heart;"
  Yet must our sorrows stain the mournful bier,
  When virtue lost demand the flowing tear!
  And youthful Mary shares Maria's fate,
  Her gentle cousin and endearing mate;
  For hand in hand they mount the ethereal way,
  To brighter regions and unclouded day.
    Great God! whose fiat gives the general doom,
  Speaks into life, or lays within the tomb,
  Oh! teach our hearts submissive to resign;
  Thy will be done--be much obedience mine.
  And lo! advancing from the deepest shade,
  A generous youth sustains a sainted maid;
  Down his pale cheeks the gushing tears o'erflow,
  And fancy's ear attends the plaint of woe.
  Oh, much lov'd Conyers! lov'd so long in vain,
  Could but my death thy fleeting soul retain,
  Far happier I, than doom'd, alas! to prove
  The bitter pangs of unrequited love;
  My constant heart disdains on earth to stay,
  While thou art borne to native realms away--
  Nor at my hapless fate can I repine,
  Since bless'd in death to call thee ever mine!
  Oh, gallant youth! Oh, all accomplish'd maid!
  At your sad shrine shall votive rites be paid;
  There oft at eve shall pensive lovers stray,
  And future Petrarchs pour the plaintive lay;
  For, ah! behold a faithful wedded pair,
  Blest _too_ in death, an equal fate to share!
  In their sad breasts no _selfish_ fears arise,
  _Each_ for the other _feels_--_each_ in the _other dies!_
  Yon man of woes, oh! mark his furrowed cheek;
  What deep-drawn sighs his misery bespeak:
  'Tis Gallego! Each bosom comfort flown,
  In the dark vale of years he walks alone.
  And now amid the victim train appears
  A friend of worth, approv'd through twenty years;
  Just, wise, and good, true to his country's cause,
  He from opposing parties gain'd applause:
  From life and usefulness forever torn,
  Virginia long for Venable shall mourn;
  And for her chief, lamented Smith, shall share
  His orphan's grief, his wretched widow's care.
  Nutall--a man obscure, of humble name,
  Virtuous, industrious, tho' unknown to fame,
  Escap'd in safety--heard his wife's sad cries!
  "Safe tho' we are, alas! my daughter dies!"
  He heard, nor paus'd, but dar'd again the fire,
  Resolv'd to save or in the attempt expire;
  Oh! noble daring--worthy to succeed--
  But Heaven forbade, yet bless'd the generous deed:
  The daughter lives--the father's toils are o'er--
  Where sorrow, pain and want, can wound no more;
  In the bright glow of youthful beauties bloom,
  Ill-fated Anna sinks beneath the gloom:
  Her lovely orphan--yet too young to know
  Her cruel loss or the extent of woe--
  In deepest grief while all around her mourn,
  Still piteous cries, "When will Mamma return!"
  What tender cries, what anguish'd moans prevail,
  How many orphans join the plaintive wail!
  For Gibson, Heron, Greenhow, Gerardin,
  And Wilson, borne from the heart-rending scene!
  While frantic husbands, mothers, widows rave,
  O'er the _vast urn_ the _all-containing grave!_
  But ah! my muse the death-fraught theme forbear,
  Nor longer tread the abyss of wild despair;
  I sink with life's distracting cares oppress'd,
  And fain with those would share eternal rest;
  Yet impious, let me not presume to scan--
  Great God--thy ways mysterious all to man!
  But while for mercy humbly I implore,
  "Rejoice with trembling," and resign'd adore.

M. L. P.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.


  I'll neither call thee beautiful
    Nor say that thou art fair;
  I will not praise thy witching eye,
    Nor compliment thy hair;
  I'll speak not of the roses sweet,
    That blush upon thy cheek,
  Nor of the tresses richly hung
    About thy snowy neck.

  For thou wouldst deem it flattery,
    Altho' it would not be,
  And flattery would never do
    To win a smile from thee;
  And surely I would proudly win,
    Without the help of guile,
  A look that would be mellowed
    By the magic of thy smile.

JACK TELL.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

GIRL OF BEAUTY.


  Girl of Beauty! can you tell,
  Gazing in the crystal well,
  Who it is that madly dreams
  Of thine eye's bewildering beams?

  Girl of Beauty! is the bird,
  In the spring, with pleasure heard,
  When the melody of song {668}
  Leaps the listening boughs among?
  If the birds delight the grove,
  Can I hear thee, and not love?

  Girl of Beauty! does the Bee
  Love the rose's purity?
  Does the Miser love his dross?
  Does the Christian love his cross?
  Then _I love thee_, gentle girl,
  Dearer than the crown of earl.

  Girl of Beauty! does the sky
  Seem all beauteous to thine eye,
  When the stars with silver rays
  Brightly beam before thy gaze?
  Thou art dearer far to me,
  Than the stars _can be_ to thee.

  Girl of Beauty! does the tar
  Love to dream of scenes afar,
  When the mildly sighing gale
  Fills the proudly swelling sail?
  Then I love to dream of thee,
  And thy sweet simplicity.

  Girl of Beauty! does the boy
  Kiss his sister's cheek with joy
  When they meet in after years,
  Having parted once in tears?
  May you kiss your brother soon--
  Ere the rounding of the moon.

JACK TELL.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE RECLAIMED.


It was a bright and beautiful summer evening. All nature seemed to
speak the language of peace and joy; the birds warbled in the groves,
the gentle breezes sported among the lofty trees, and all objects wore
the soothing aspect of that benevolent spirit who had spread them
before the eye of man. While indulging the pleasing sensations which
scenes like this never fail to inspire, my attention was directed to
an elegant mansion situated on the opposite hill, and my companion
asked whether I had ever heard the history of its present inmates. To
my reply in the negative, he remarked, that being personally
acquainted with the family, and knowing their history, he would relate
it, aware of the deep interest I felt in every thing which bore any
relation to the subject, to which the narrative will afford a
sufficient clue.

In the summer of 1824, Mrs. Loraine removed to this neighborhood with
two children, a son and a daughter; the former twelve, the latter ten
years of age. Her husband alike distinguished for talents and humanity
in his medical profession as well as social relations, had died during
the previous autumn in New Orleans, where he had removed shortly after
his marriage with Miss Allen, who was adorned with the virtues and
graces which are requisite to make the amiable wife, the prudent
mother, and valuable friend. Deeply affected at the loss of a husband
tenderly and deservedly beloved, and being herself a native of
Virginia, and having relations in this county she resolved to remove
to her native spot; preferring the retirement of the country to the
gaieties of a city, not only on her own account, but also on that of
her children. A young lady who had been for several years the
instructress of her two children, agreed to accompany her and continue
their education till such time as it might seem advisable to employ
more extended means of instruction for one or both. In Miss Medway
were happily blended a strong and energetic mind, a correct judgment
and taste, affectionate heart, polished manners, and an education
liberal and elegant. Born to high expectations, reared in the lap of
wealth and indulgence, _loving_ and _beloved_, a cruel tide of
misfortune deprived her of all, and threw her at the age of nineteen,
poor and dependant, on a cold and unfeeling world. But why descend to
particulars which intercept the thread of our narrative? Of her much
remains to be told, which you yet will hear, but for the present let
it suffice to say, that in this state of sorrow Dr. Loraine became her
friend and bountiful benefactor. At this retired and beautiful spot,
the minds of William and Lavinia were not only expanded by the
faithful care of their mother and tutoress in literature, but in the
richer and far more valuable lessons of virtue, which were daily
enforced by precept and example. Six years rolled round, and found
little change in the domestic circle. William was now eighteen, and
his mother determined to enter him the ensuing session at the college
of ----, in order to prepare him for the study of that profession in
which his father had excelled, and for which he seemed peculiarly
adapted by the tender benevolence of his heart, and the discriminating
powers of his mind. In William Loraine were strangely blended the
softness and gentleness of woman, with the noble firmness and
independence of man. Beloved by all who knew him, and reared up in the
precincts of his mother's influence, it was not unreasonable to
believe that he had grown sufficiently strong in the theory and
practice of virtue, to stand uncontaminated, among the vices and
follies of a collegiate life. But alas! how often is the morning which
dawned in cloudless beauty soon succeeded by storm and tempest; and
the bud which promised beauty and fragrance, withered ere it expands
to maturity: and how often, thus linger on the bright visions of fancy
and hope, while before us lie the sad realities of life.

With many tears, and tender caresses, and regrets, William left his
peaceful happy home, to mix with strangers in a distant state. Deeply
did he feel the trial, and while his mother's tender and ardent
benediction and admonitions sounded in his ear, the tear of love and
promised obedience trickled down his manly cheek. Soon after his
introduction to the beings with whom he was to associate, he resolved
to watch for awhile the conduct of all the students, and choose for
his friend that youth whose feelings and conduct most nearly accorded
with his own views and intentions. Nor did he wait long ere he found
an object to love and confide in. There is in the heart of all a
desire for friendship which nothing can satisfy but the belief that it
is possessed. Various are the properties which may lead to a selection
of the object in different minds, but congeniality in some respects is
almost indispensable to the formation of friendship. James Drayton, of
South Carolina, seemed to the confiding heart of William, the very
being he had sought. In James Drayton was presented a union of the
most opposite traits of character, {669} yet so blended as to almost
add effect and interest to each other. Singularly handsome, of
polished and elegant manners--of a gay disposition, but a deeply
reserved and shrewd mind--generous to a fault, and possessing every
facility for the gratification of every wish--ardent but injudicious
in attachments, and above all of a memory which required no exertion
to make a conspicuous figure in his studies, he was at once beloved,
envied, flattered, and caressed. In such a being the innocent heart of
William confided, and to imitate him and gain his affection,
constituted his great delight. Nor were his affections unreturned.
Drayton loved him with a passion at once impetuous and sincere.
Pleasures were but half enjoyed when William Loraine was not a
participant, while his presence rendered pleasant scenes otherwise
unpleasing. Twelve months rolled round and found their hearts fondly
united, not only by scenes of profitable research and benevolent acts,
but also by the baneful yet fascinating pleasures of wildness and
dissipation. The regular examination which as usual concluded the
collegiate year, was to them a time of real and almost unalloyed
pleasure. Distinguished in their various studies, and improved by
their teachers for moral deportment and dutiful demeanor, generally
beloved by their companions, few youths seemed to enjoy a more
enviable lot. It was determined that James should accompany William to
Virginia, to spend the vacation at Roseville, with his friends and
relations. Accordingly the day after the close of their examination,
they took seats in the stage, and in about eight days arrived at the
lovely spot. In silence we pass the meeting scene, and all the usual
events which mark such periods, the welcome given the friend of their
William, and the joy felt by all who knew the amiable inmates, at
again seeing him among his friends. Time had dealt bountifully with
Lavinia, and to the eye of her brother, every day had added to her
charms, since they parted.

James saw her with admiration and delight. True she was young, being
little over sixteen, but to the playful innocence of the child, was
added the grace and dignity of manners, befitting the woman. She was
not strictly beautiful, yet a spell seemed thrown around her, that
insensibly drew the hearts of all who lingered in her presence. Tall
and elegantly formed, her dark brown hair hung in natural ringlets on
her white neck, the rose and lily mingled their choicest tints on her
cheek, while her full dark eye spoke the strong and polished mind, the
soft and innocent heart that illuminated it. Her features were not
what the connoisseur would term unexceptionable, while the less
critical observer would almost declare them perfect. Such was the
_person_ of Lavinia: but who can paint the endowments of her heart and
mind? the casket was indeed pleasingly garnished, but the jewel within
was of transcendent brightness. To the enthusiastic mind of Drayton,
she was a being of unearthly mould; and while he almost gave to her
his adoration, it was blended with a serious awe. In Lavinia Loraine
he beheld a christian, and while he loved the woman he feared to
approach what he deemed the saint. We have said Drayton was wild and
dissipated: but it was not that grosser kind of dissipation which is
visible and disliked by all. He loved the social card table and
glass--the night spent in folly and mirth--but morning found him in
the path of the gentleman, pure in honor, and unstained in truth.

William too loved the pleasures of his friend, and though he dipped
deep in the gilded pool that allured him to its banks, he found it
bitterness in the end. His mother's tender admonitions sounded in his
ears--his sister's kind counsels, and the earnest appeals of his
beloved friend Miss Medway, turned every cup to gall. Yet still he
went on, and vainly hoped to find a solace in the thought, that to
them he was a moral and religious youth. Two months flew on rapid
wing, and the two young men were again to return to the college.

With many swelling emotions William left the maternal roof, and with
many tender regrets bade adieu to the friends who had welcomed him to
their mansion. But James felt what his proud soul could not own even
to itself. He felt he left his heart with one who gave only friendship
in return; whom he must honor and adore, feeling he could never be
beloved, and for once the thought of his unworthiness of such a being
darted with painful sensations through his heart. He knew he was not
what the pure and pious mind of Lavinia would choose for a companion,
and feeling his inferiority he had not dared to breathe his flame.
Sadly he entered the halls he lately left, the gayest of the
gay--coldly he received the greetings of his collegiates, and with
loathing opened the learned volume it was his duty to explore. Even to
William he was altered. He avoided his presence as though it conjured
up some phantom to torment. Grieved at this change, William sought
some means to draw from him the cause of his altered appearance and
manner, but sought in vain. Six months at length passed by, and he
gradually began to assume his former self. Again William was his
favorite companion, and again they mingled in the same seductive joys.
Gradually intemperance was seizing upon them, and in like manner they
were becoming dead to the ennobling feelings of the heart.

The next vacation came. They still wore a mask that few could
penetrate: again honors were awarded them, and William was now to
accompany his friend to South Carolina. James welcomed him with feasts
and revelry: his parents poured out the richest allurements to joy and
indulgence. He seemed to be in Elysian fields, and almost forgot the
quiet and rational delights of his own home. Splendid profusion marked
the whole domain, while races, balls, and the like amusements filled
up every hour.

Yet even here could _James_ find room for ennui. He would sometimes
stroll away from all, and seem lost in a deep and painful reverie. He
appeared to enjoy few of the objects around them, and although he
loved his parents, he avoided their presence, as though he dreaded to
meet their scrutiny. With pleasure he welcomed the day that he was to
be again seated among his books and papers--not that he delighted in
their pages, but they drew his mind from other thoughts.

In six months the two young men were to complete their course, and
James resolved then to visit Roseville again, and see the object of
his ardent love. Their course is finished--they went together--and
once more the heart of Drayton felt a gleam of joy. He saw Lavinia
more beautiful than ever, and fondly fancied she was less indifferent;
but he was still unhappy--he felt that he had been unworthy of
her--that he had been seducing {670} the heart of her brother from the
path of piety she trod--and that he was endeavoring, by deep
dissimulation, to win a being free from guile, and who knew vice but
to detest it. Lavinia saw her William changed. She heard the unguarded
expressions of profanity that sometimes escaped his lips; she saw him
disposed to leave the family hearth, and go she knew not whither--yet
feared to ask; she saw the smile of contempt that curled his lip when
religion was the theme of conversation; nor could she fail to see that
the society of his family was a painful restraint.

Young Drayton, deeply skilled in dissimulation, had as yet retained
the esteem of Mrs. Loraine and Miss Medway, while the heart of Lavinia
had owned his fascinating power. He saw he was not to her an object of
indifference. The glowing cheek and downcast eye, when _he_ approached
her, he could not fail to understand. Six weeks he remained at
Roseville, ere he dared to breath to Lavinia the love that glowed in
his bosom. One lovely evening, after a long conflict between
inclination, hope and fear, he determined to pour out his heart, and
hear from her own lips that doom which would either seal his weal or
woe. According to his determination, he proposed a walk on the banks
of the river, to which she reluctantly acceded. He then informed her
of the ardor of his affection, and urged his suit with such address,
that the heart of Lavinia almost resisted the voice of prudence and
duty. But the conflict was to be but short, as the impetuous youth
would hear of no postponement. Lavinia discarded him; but not without
candidly acknowledging, that his want of true morality, proper
sobriety and religion, (facts long suspected, but recently ascertained
beyond a doubt,) had induced her to relinquish the hand of the only
man she had ever loved. In vain he attempted to shake her resolution;
and the next morning's sun rose not, till he was far from the hitherto
happy Roseville.

When Lavinia arose, she was handed the following note:

"_Lavinia!_--A fond, a long, an eternal adieu. I leave you, and with
you, all I ever valued or loved. I go where none will know my sorrow
or my shame. Lost to all that made my life desirable, I go--where--it
matters not what I may become. May you be happy, if the thoughts of my
misery will allow it. _You_ deserve it--_you_ are virtuous; but as for
me, I am only left to drink _that cup_ of misery which a life of
dissipation never fails to prepare for its votaries. Your brother's
principles I have corrupted; and, wretch that I was, who have madly
sought to unite an angel to a demon. Oh! Lavinia, I deserved you not.
You are born to bless, and to be blessed--and I, alas! to curse, and
to be cursed. _Farewell_--again _farewell!_--but know, that while life
and memory last, you will be dear to the heart of the wretched

JAMES DRAYTON."

The heart of Lavinia bled over every line of that impassioned note.
She saw her brother changed from what he once had been--her mother's
cheek pallid--and the fond friend and instructress of her youth
sharing the sorrows of all.

Four years rolling round, brought to her many admirers--but to her
they talked of love in vain. William had married a lovely, wealthy
girl--but was bowing her happy spirit by his folly and extravagance.
Her mother was gradually sinking; and but for the stay of religion,
_she_ too would have sunk under the pressure of her sorrows--but he
whose promises she trusted, never forsook those who lean on his
almighty arm. Renowned for piety and benevolence, beloved, admired,
she moved around the circle of her acquaintance like a spirit of light
and peace. But her youthful attachment haunted her riper years--of
James no tidings had been heard--vain had proved her numerous
endeavors to learn his fate. She was one day alone, when a young man
of fine appearance knocked at the door. She arose and admitted him,
when he asked if she had ever known a Mr. Drayton. To her reply in the
affirmative, he arose and presented her the following letter, which
she no sooner took, than bowing, he wished her a happy evening, and
withdrew. Hastily she broke the seal, and read as follows:

"Will Lavinia now remember him whom once she knew, and who gave to her
the only sincere portion of his nature which he possessed? Does she
remember him whose follies and vices removed him from her and
happiness? Yes, she cannot have forgotten the once wretched, but now
comparatively happy Drayton. But you shall know what I owe you, and
though I may be disregarded, you will joy that you have saved a being
from misery and disgrace. But to my narrative.

"The day I left you, I resolved to join some lawless band, and strike
your heart with sorrow by your hearing of my crimes. But the thought
of your piety and virtue, were like a mountain between me and crime. I
went from place to place, but found no peace. Home I dreaded to
approach; but after three months of wandering, determined again to
behold my parents, and fix on some course of conduct. I went--my
father was on his death-bed. His illness was augmented by anxiety for
my return, as he had not heard from me since I left Roseville. I
received his dying blessing; and in less than two months my mother lay
beside him. Watching and grief had been too much, and perhaps the
folly of her son added another mortal wound. I was now left sole
master of about fifty thousand dollars, and with it a heart almost
lost to virtue. I sold out my lands, &c., vested nearly all the amount
in stock, and embarked for the Indies, determined to see my native
land no more. Tossed on the wide ocean, I was surrounded by ten
thousand dangers, more lawless in feeling than the billows around,
beneath, above me. I cared for nothing--regarded nothing--and often
hoped to find a watery grave. A storm arose--we were shipwrecked--and
the near approach of death brought with it the instinctive love of
life. A vessel bound to England spied out the wreck; a few only had
clung to its ruins. I was taken on board, and after a voyage of a few
days was landed at Liverpool. I was then an altered man; five days of
hunger, cold and suffering had brought me to reason. I had thought of
what had caused all the woes I then endured. I thought of Roseville,
and of you--of my native land, and all it once contained; _they_ were,
I felt, lost to me, and I sunk into despair. On board the English
vessel I had found a pious Quaker and his family. I now longed again
to behold them. Having sought them in vain in Liverpool, I advertised
for tidings of them; and hearing they {671} were in London, I went
thither and found them. They received me like a child, and to them I
related my history and my misery. They pointed out to me the only
means of present and future happiness. I thought of you, Lavinia, and
of your frequent, modest and affectionate exhortations to your brother
and myself, to seek the pearl of matchless price. I resolved to strive
to win the smile of heaven, and to give up all on earth.

"America I never expected again to behold, but the joys of religion to
seek till life was o'er. Yes, often in the anguish of despair, I
recollected some passage you had marked in the Bible I took as I left
the house at Roseville for the last time. It lay on your work-table; I
knew you loved it--I took it to give you a pang. I read it to
cavil--to disbelieve. I was tempted to burn it; but it had been yours,
and I could not give it up. In the horrors of the storm, I kept it
near my heart. It raised my hopes--for I felt that though I had
despised its truths, _they_ were still immutable. Even now I have
it--dear, precious volume. But I have wandered from my narrative.

"After many months of struggling--sometimes for truth, then to forget
it--I at length gave up all as lost, and in anguish sought my friend.
He bade me look to him who alone could save. I looked with faith--I
seized the promises--I was blessed. Yes, Lavinia, I felt what was
worth a world. I immediately resolved to engage in business, and not
return to America, till I had tested the truth of my present feelings.
I entered into a life of activity. I read and grew in knowledge, and I
trust in grace. I thought of you, but feared to trust my heart. You
had been, and might be again its idol. I resolved to tear it from the
throne I had vowed to give to God. But I could not forget. Three years
had at length rolled round since we had parted. You were, I doubted
not, another's. But for me, I could not love again. I consulted my
friend, who had returned to America, as to what course I should take.
He advised me to return. Of my fortune I had not heard; but I was able
to defray the expenses of my voyage. I left London; four months ago I
landed in New York. From thence I went to Philadelphia--remained a
month with the Quakers--thence to South Carolina, and was joyfully
received by all except the 'nearest of kin.' Of you I could hear
nothing. William I heard was married, and wild enough. I sent my
friend Mr. Alston to Virginia. He heard you were single--saw you at
church--heard the whole history of your family. He wrote me; I came to
----. He is the bearer of this. I there await an answer, saying
whether or not you will again behold your ever faithful

J. DRAYTON."

Immediately after she concluded this interesting epistle, she poured
out her heart in praise to God for preserving and reclaiming him for
whom she had so often wept and prayed, and whom she had loved with
unaltered fervor. She then hastened to communicate the glad tidings to
her mother and Miss Medway, and to despatch a servant to the village
to bring to Roseville the still dear Drayton. He came. Again he beheld
the being he so long had loved. Again he saw William, and exercised
his former influence--but in a holier channel. You can imagine the
scene--the mutual relations--the ensuing courtship, and the result.
Yes, my friend, Lavinia is the wife of Drayton. His large fortune is
now useful in acts of pious benevolence and zeal. His fine talents are
employed in dispensing good; his fascinating manners in winning others
to admire that which made him what he is. William Loraine is snatched
from ruin. His amiable mother is again blessed with duteous and
devoted children. And whence the mighty change? In this simple
narrative stands forth in glowing colors the truth of that maxim, that
the influence of the female sex is great, when enlisted either on the
side of virtue or of vice. Had Lavinia been less prudent and pious,
how great would have been the contrast; and amidst all the blessings
that have attended her through life, none diffuse such thrills of
rapture through her grateful, peaceful heart, as when reflecting on
the history of him, to whom is not inaptly applied the title of "The
Reclaimed."

The evening was far spent. My friend and myself bade each other adieu,
to return to our respective homes--but not without his promising at
some future day to inform me of the history of that young lady, to
whose eventful life he had briefly hinted. Ruminating on the moral of
the narrative, I could but deplore that the fair sex of our state did
not more nearly resemble Lavinia--refuse to unite their destinies with
the slaves of dissipated pleasure, and thereby reclaim from vice
thousands of her victims.

PAULINA.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THIS OCEAN.


  I've stood and watch'd the inconstant Ocean's wave,
    Till it within my mind has grown to life,
  And when the hoarse, loud storm did wildly rave,
    I've loved the dashing, boisterous, foaming strife;
  And when the angry tempest died away,
    I've gazed upon its bright unruffled breast,
  Till my responsive soul in quiet lay,
    Just like the scene it view'd--so calm--so blest.

  Wide Ocean! I have mark'd thy silvery sheen,
    And when the dark cloud frown'd upon thy face,
  I've felt my soul expanding with the scene,
    And glowing with thy bright enchanting grace;
  But when I think that thy proud billows heave
    Between ten thousand hearts that once have twined,
  And still to their lost friends would fondly cleave,
    A pensive sadness steals upon my mind.

  'Tis hard that in our pilgrimage below,
    In all the storms and trials of the heart,
  A friend, the only balm to sooth our woe,
    That from that friend we should be forced to part,
  Proud Ocean, thou hast borne a brother o'er
    Thy heaving bosom to another strand;
  Tho' not unfriended was the distant shore,
    Still, still, it was a strange and foreign land.

  My brother--if my heart could but disclose
    Its warmest wish, it is with thee to be.
  My brother--if the fondest feeling glows
    Within my bosom, it still points to thee.
  My brother--does thy heart in transport hear
    The name of friends, of country, and of home?
  My brother--does thy soul these things revere,
    As once in early days untaught to roam?

  My brother--does a hope thy breast inflame,
    To clasp those dear loved objects to thy heart?
  I fear the charm has faded from their name,
    The bliss forgot, that it could once impart:
  No, no--upon thy heart are deep portray'd
    The home, the friends that thou hast left behind;
  'Tis not in time's destructive power to fade
    Those generous feelings from a noble mind.

J. M. C. D.


{672}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

DISSERTATION

On the Characteristic Differences between the Sexes, and on the
Position and Influence of Woman in Society.


No. III.

_Resignation--Fortitude_.

In my first number I described woman as modest and timid, and man as
bold and courageous, and endeavored to explain the causes of this
characteristic difference between them. In the same number, however, I
showed that so strong are the humane feelings of woman, so powerful
are her kindly sympathies, that under peculiar circumstances she will
sometimes conquer all the weaknesses of her nature, triumph over all
opposing obstacles, and finally carry consolation and relief to man,
when overwhelmed by misfortunes of so appalling a character as even to
intimidate the hardier sex, and keep them at a distance. In my last I
pointed out the religious differences between the sexes together with
their causes, and the subject naturally invites me to compare them
together in relation to their _fortitude and resignation_ under
calamities and misfortunes.

I think there can be no doubt that woman is generally more resigned
than man under any very severe infliction which cannot be avoided. Her
calm resignation under the severest strokes of fortune, has been the
theme of eulogy for the poet, and the puzzle for the philosopher, from
the earliest times to the present. She who in her "hours of ease" is
so timid, so shrinking, so fearful of even a shadow, has always been
found in the dark hour of adversity to bear up with more fortitude and
resignation against the tide of woe than man. This character belongs
to woman even in the most savage state. She supports, in that state,
misfortunes both physical and moral with more resignation than man.
Ask, says Gisborne in his "Duties of Woman," among barbarians in the
ancient and the modern world who is the best daughter and wife, and
the answer is "she who bears with superior perseverance the
vicissitudes of the seasons, the fervor of the sun, the dews of
night." In fine, she who is most resigned and meek under the heavy and
intolerable burthen which is ever placed upon her.

Physicians tell us that woman supports sickness, pain and suffering,
much better than man. We are told that in the great earthquake in
Calabria, in 1783, which destroyed 40,000 persons, there was a very
noted difference between the men and women in regard to their
resignation. The very bodies of the sexes dug from the ruins marked
the difference in this respect between them--those of the women
exhibited calmness and resignation in the hour of death--their arms
were generally found hanging by their sides, or calmly folded over
their breasts; all struggle seemed to have ceased before death, and
they quietly submitted to their fate. Not so with the men. Their
bodies when dug from the ruins exhibited a mortal struggle to the
last--a leg thrust out here, an arm protruded there, and the whole
body thrown into an agonizing contortion, but too clearly marked the
fearful conflict which endured till the moment of dissolution, and the
great reluctance with which they let go their hold on life.

Let us then inquire into the causes of this difference between the
sexes, and we shall find them to spring out of circumstances already
pointed out and explained. I shall therefore be very brief on this
point.

I have already said that woman is physically weaker and consequently
less capable of laborious and constant exertion than man. The latter,
therefore, occupies the front station, whilst the former takes
possession of the back ground in the picture of human society. The
former is more self reliant, more bold, more confident and active--the
latter more modest, more timid, more dependent and passive. Man
depends on his activity, his energy and his strength, for the mastery
of all around him. Woman depends on her modesty, grace, beauty, in
fine upon her fascinations to command those energies which she finds
not within herself. _Activity_ is eminently the character of the one,
_passivity_ of the other. Now I have already pointed out the effect of
this dependence of woman on her feelings of devotion and religion. A
similar effect is produced on her resignation when visited by some
remediless calamity. Her weakness and dependence, at an early period
of her life admonish her of the hopelessness of all conflicts with the
mightier powers around her. When visited by any great misfortune,
therefore, whether the work of nature or of man, she is more resigned
and patient under her suffering, whilst man in the vain confidence of
his powers is disposed to battle and struggle with fate even to the
last.

Her religion, her superior devotional feelings, have likewise a mighty
influence in the production of that calm resignation which woman so
often exhibits amid the storms and calamities of this world. She has a
more abiding and implicit faith in the protection of heaven--her
trust, her reliance is greater; and whether she be overtaken by
calamity upon the land, or on the sea, she at once throws herself into
the arms of the divinity and quietly awaits the result. Man is like
the mariner aboard the ship--he must be always on the alert--he must
trim the sails, watch the midnight blast, and steer the ship on her
way over the rolling billows. Woman is like the passenger in the
vessel. She is carried forward by powers that are not hers, by
energies that she is unable to control. When then the tempest comes,
and the sea is lashed into the mountain wave--while every sailor is on
the deck at his post, battling against the storm, she is calm and
quiet within--she knows full well that all her efforts will be in
vain--she therefore looks to heaven for aid and protection: she trusts
in God whose arm alone is mighty, and able to save, and in the full
devotion of a confiding and trusting heart, she can truly exclaim:

  "Secure I rest upon the wave
   For thou, my God, hast power to save,
   I know thou wilt not slight my call,
   For thou dost mark the sparrow's fall;
   And calm and peaceful is my sleep,
   Rock'd in the cradle of the deep."[1]

There is certainly nothing which contrasts so beautifully with the
restless activity and feverish impatience of man, as the calm and
subdued countenance of woman in the hour of resignation, amid the
stern powers that are at work around her. How beautiful, how
transcendently lovely does the Thekla of Schiller's {673} Wallenstein
appear in the camp surrounded by soldiers encased in iron. I borrow
from the graphic pen of M. B. Constant. "Sa voix si douce au travers
le bruit des armes, sa form delicate au milieu des hommes tout
couverts de fer, la pureté de son âme opposée a leurs calculs avides,
son calm celeste qui contraste avec leurs agitations, remplissent le
spectateur d'une emotion constante et melancholique, telle que ne la
fait ressentir nulle tragedie ordinaire."

[Footnote 1: These beautiful lines are taken from the Ocean Hymn,
published in the 10th number of the Messenger, from the pen of Mrs.
Emma Willard.]

Again, I have already explained how it happens that woman is capable
of suffering more than man in silence, without wearing even such an
aspect of countenance as may betray the internal agony. For the same
reason, of course, she has more resignation and fortitude.

Lastly, her physical organization renders her much more liable than
man to constitutional derangements, to periodical sickness, and
physical infirmities of all descriptions. Disease gradually inures the
mind to resignation and patience, and at last teaches us to bear with
fortitude all the ills we have. "We seldom," says Bulwer, "find men of
great animal health and power, possessed of much delicacy of mind.
That impetuous and reckless buoyancy of spirit which mostly
accompanies a hardy and iron frame, is not made to enter into the
infirmities of others;" and he might well have added, is not made to
bear its own infirmities and calamities with resignation and
fortitude, when at last overtaken by them. It is well, perhaps, in the
order of nature, that we should be afflicted sometimes. It improves
all our sensibilities, and strengthens our patience and resignation,
to have our thoughts occasionally directed to

  "The knell, the shroud, the mattock, and the grave,
   The deep damp vault, the darkness, and the worm."

"Non ignara mali, miseris succurrere disco," is the noble motto which
disease and infirmity have written on the heart of many a female.

Having thus cursorily pointed out the causes of the superiority of
woman in regard to the resignation and fortitude with which she bears
misfortune, I cannot refrain from indulgence in a few remarks on the
admirable adaptation of the sexes to each other in this particular.
There is nothing more grateful to the feeling of piety, than to be
able to trace out in the works of nature, such adaptations as not only
mark the intelligence and unity of divinity, but proclaim in language
as clear as revelation itself, his unbounded benevolence and goodness.
It is this superior resignation and fortitude of woman, which so well
befits her to be the comfort and support of man in the hour of
remediless misfortune. Man is necessarily an active, restless,
energetic, impatient being. This character is generated by the
functions which he has to discharge in this world. He must not too
soon retire from the conflict. He must not bear too calmly and
quietly, the misfortunes and ills of this life. He must arouse
himself, and be in action. He must oppose and conquer all the
obstacles around him. In the beautiful language of one of the
ancients, "he must remember that nature has not intended him for a
lowspirited or ignoble being, but brought him into life in the midst
of this vast universe, as before a multitude assembled at some heroic
solemnity, that he might be a spectator of all her magnificence, and a
candidate for the high prize of glory." Under these circumstances
resignation and patience could not, perhaps ought not to have been
prominent traits in his character. Woman, however, moves in a
different sphere, and acquires, of course, a different character. Her
resignation and fortitude not only supports herself but man likewise,
amid the calamities of the world. "As the vine," says Irving, "which
has long twined its graceful foliage about the oak, and been lifted by
it into sunshine, will, when the hardy plant is rifled by the
thunderbolt, cling round it with its caressing tendrils, and bind up
its shattered boughs, so is it beautifully ordered by providence, that
woman, who is the mere dependent and ornament of man in his happier
hours, should be his stay and solace when smitten with sudden
calamity, winding herself into the rugged recesses of his nature,
tenderly supporting the drooping head, and binding up the broken
heart."

It is in the conjugal state where all the kind and humane attributes
of woman are augmented and softened by the mighty influence of human
love, that we most frequently behold her supporting and cheering her
partner, when visited by the rough blasts of adversity; and sometimes,
when all hope on this side the grave has fled, when his doom is fixed,
and disease or the execution of the law is quickly to hurry him into
another world, we find woman still his dearest solace, sometimes
encouraging him by examples which mark so much devotion, so much
self-sacrifice, as frequently to rise into the region of the moral
sublime. It is well known that the stoic religion of the ancients
justified suicide, when the individual, after a due consideration of
all the circumstances, came to the conclusion that he had fulfilled
all his more glorious destinies on earth. Hence it was frequently
considered a duty incumbent on man to put an end to his existence,
when calamity and misfortune seemed to mark him out as a nuisance on
earth. Hence, too, according to Dr. Smith, this religion may be
considered as "the noblest death-song ever sung by man." We must go
back then, to antiquity, when this religion was prevalent, and of
course when suicide was justified, to see what woman is capable of
doing to console or encourage her husband in the midst of his
calamities.

Pliny the younger, tells us of a neighbor, in the humbler walks of
life, who was visited by a loathsome, painful disease, of an incurable
character. Himself and wife came to the conclusion that it would be
better for him to end his existence; and in order that she might
encourage him to execute this resolve, she determined to die with him.
The death which she chose, was truly characteristic of that devoted
affection which she had so constantly felt for him whilst alive. She
was bound in his arms, and in this condition they precipitated
themselves from a window into the sea beneath. Montaigne seems to have
been particularly struck with this act of heroism on the part of a
female who was of an humble and obscure family, and remarks, that
"even amongst that condition of people, it is no very new thing to see
some examples of uncommon good nature."

          ----"Extrema per illos
  Justitia excedens terris vestigia facit."

Seneca, the philosopher and tutor of Nero, was condemned to death by
his pupil, in the decline of life, after having married Pompeia
Paulina, a young and noble Roman lady, who loved and was loved
devotedly by him. She too, in the plenitude of her grief and
affection, nobly determined to die with her husband, and {674} thus to
encourage him by her example, quietly but firmly to bear the last
struggle of humanity. She, however, was saved, after having opened her
veins, by the emissaries of Nero, who feared the effect which this act
of self-immolation might produce on the excitable populace of Rome.

Plutarch, in one of his most interesting Dialogues, makes Daphneus
assert that there is something divine in the love of woman, and
compares it to the sun that animates all nature. He places the
greatest felicity in conjugal love, and gives us as an
exemplification, the very interesting tale of the adventures of
Eppopina, which passed before the eyes of Plutarch, as he was at that
time living in the house of Vespasian. Sabinus, the husband of
Eppopina, being vanquished by the troops of the Emperor Vespasian,
concealed himself in a deep cavern between Franche Compté and
Champagne. The unbounded affection of Eppopina and her untiring
researches, soon enabled her to find the hiding place of him who
commanded all the affections of her heart. She determined to be the
consoler and the comforter of her husband, who was buried from the
world. She accordingly shut herself up with him, attended on him in
that dark cavern for many years, and bore children whilst there; and
all this she encountered for his sake. When brought before Vespasian,
who was astonished at her heroism and fortitude, she said to him, "I
have lived more happily under ground, than thou in the light of the
sun, and in the enjoyment of power."

But one of the most celebrated examples on record, of the ardent
desire of woman to console and encourage her husband in the dismal
hour of despair, is furnished by Arria, the wife of Cecina Pætus. This
Pætus, after the defeat by the troops of the Emperor Claudius of the
army of Scribonianus, whose party he had espoused, was condemned to
death by the same emperor. It was the custom under the emperors, to
leave condemned individuals to terminate their existence themselves,
provided they could have the resolution to do it. Pætus wavered and
hesitated. The dreadful struggle which it cost him, made a deeper
impression upon the devoted and tender heart of Arria than even the
sentence of death had inflicted. After caressing and encouraging him
by the most tender offices to nerve himself to the act, she took the
poniard which he wore by his side, and exclaiming, "Pætus, do thus!"
she plunged it into her own bosom; then drawing it from the reeking
wound, she presented the dagger to her husband "with this noble,
generous, and immortal saying:" _Pæte non dolet!_ "Pætus, it is not
painful!"[2]

[Footnote 2: This death has afforded Martial the subject of one of his
most elegant epigrams, which has been thus rendered:

  "When to her husband Arria gave the sword,
   Which from her chaste, her bleeding breast she drew,
   She said, 'My Pætus, this I do not feel;
   But, oh! the wound that must be made by you!'
   She could no more--but on her Pætus still,
   She fix'd her feeble, her expiring eyes;
   And when she saw him raise the pointed steel,
   She sunk--and seem'd to say, 'Now Arria dies!'"]

Such instances as these we do not find in modern times, because the
introduction of a more humane and rational religion, together with
juster and more philosophical notions upon the subject of morality,
have taught us that under no circumstances short of _absolute
necessity_, can suicide be justified. But we are not to infer that
woman is not as kind, as tender now as in the days of antiquity, when
her religious creed did not forbid suicide. What, for example, can
show more kind solicitude, more tender anxiety about the last moments
of a condemned husband, than the letter written by Lady Jane Grey to
her husband Lord Guilford Dudley, a short time previous to his
execution, when she herself at the same time was lying under a
sentence of condemnation. "Do not let us meet, Guilford," she says,
"we must see each other no more, until we are united in a better
world. We must forget our joys so sweet, our loves so tender and so
happy. You must now devote yourself to none but serious thoughts. No
more love, no more happiness here upon earth! We must now think of
nothing but death! Remember, my Guilford, that the people are waiting
for you, to see how a man can die. Show no weakness as you approach
the scaffold; your fortitude would be overcome perhaps, were you to
see me. You could not quit your poor Jane without tears; and tears and
weakness must be left to us women. Adieu, my Guilford adieu! be a
man--be firm at the last hour--let me be proud of you." Well then
might Guilford die like a hero, when he had such a wife to encourage
and be proud of him. And who was this tender, kind, consoling wife, in
the hour of death? Her political history is known to all. Almost
forced for a moment to wear the crown of England, she incurred the
guilt of treason, was condemned to death at the very time when she
forgets herself in trying to impart resignation and fortitude to her
husband, and was executed a few days afterwards. She is described as
having been lovely beyond measure. Her features were beautifully
regular, and her large and mild eyes were the reflection of a pure and
virtuous soul, peaceful and unambitious. Yet even she could forget
blood and royalty, and all the weakness of her own nature, and the
terrors of her own execution, to impart moral courage and resignation
to a husband about to die.

Many most affecting instances of the same kind might be cited from the
French revolution; but my limits will permit me to adduce no more. I
hope then, all my readers are ready to acknowledge the justice of the
celebrated eulogy which the Duke de Lioncourt passed upon the merits
of woman in this particular--a eulogy whose justice and truth his
condition and career in life, seem to have well befitted his head to
comprehend and his heart to feel. "Their friendship," says he, "is
inviolable, their fidelity unshaken, their courage invincible. They
are intimidated by no difficulty, and bid defiance to dangers. Amiable
woman! while man desponds, she animates him with new hopes. When he is
sick, she ministers unto him; when in distress, she comforts him, bids
him live, and makes him in love with himself. And well can she sooth
and comfort him: she is all patience, she is all fortitude. The
endearments of her smiles, the melting accents of her voice, and her
bewitching softness, beguile him of his sorrows, and make his prison a
palace." Enough has been said to prove the admirable adaptation of the
sexes to each other in the particular under discussion, and to show
what a kind ministering angel woman can become in the dark hour of
adversity.

It has been truly remarked, that when a married man falls into
adversity, he is more apt to retrieve his {675} situation in the world
than a single one, "because his spirits are soothed and relieved by
domestic endearments, and his self-respect is kept alive by finding
that though all abroad is darkness and humiliation, yet there is still
a little world of love at home of which he is the monarch." He can
truly say, "if I am unacceptable to all the world beside, there is one
whom I entirely love, that will receive me with joy and transport, and
think herself obliged to double her kindness and caresses of me, from
the gloom with which she sees me overcast. I need not dissemble the
sorrow of my heart to be agreeable there; that very sorrow quickens
her affection." Let every husband then remember this, and never keep
from his wife his misfortunes, no matter how heartrending they may be.
Woman is always full of resources on these occasions, and will ever
submit with cheerfulness to every privation, which her altered
circumstances may demand. There is many a husband who has never known
the true character and value of his wife, until he has seen her
resignation, fortitude, and almost angelic cheerfulness under the dark
clouds of misfortune. It is then "she openeth her mouth in wisdom; and
in her tongue is the law of kindness." Then may the husband well
acknowledge that he has found a truly virtuous woman, and her price to
him at least, is far above all rubies. One of the most beautiful tales
of Washington Irving, is that which is entitled "The Wife," and owes
its great merit to the singular beauty with which he describes the
fortitude and encouraging cheerfulness of a young wife whose husband
is ruined. Women even who have been reckless and dissipated, and have
ruined their husbands by their extravagance, have frequently reformed
in adversity, and become the stay and solace of their husbands when
stript of all their possessions. It is then we may truly say of the
reformed woman in the language of holy writ, "she looketh well to the
ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness." Even
Bulwer, in his England and the English, makes his fictitious Mrs.
Thurston, after ruining her husband by her extravagance, occasioned by
vanity and ambition, consent with cheerfulness to assume the coarser
and more homely garments of penury, and forget her own proud self in
the desire to console and comfort her ruined husband. And Miss
Edgeworth too, in that beautiful romance, "The Absentee," after
misfortune had visited the Clonbronny family, makes the vain and
haughty Lady Clonbronny, who was so desirous to reside in London, and
whose very heart and soul yearned after the society of the fashionable
circles of that great metropolis, consent to return to her deserted
castle in Ireland, on the _reasonable condition_ that she might never
be mortified with the sight of the old _yellow damask curtains_ which
hung in the windows of the hall. Well then may we truly say of woman
what Cicero so beautifully asserted of the genuine friend. She doubles
our enjoyments by the pleasures which they afford her, and she halves
our sorrows by the comforts, and consolations, and sympathies which
_she_ affords us.

  "'Tis woman's smiles that lull our cares to rest;
   Dear woman's charms that give to life its zest:
   'Tis woman's hand that smooths affliction's bed,
   Wipes the cold sweat, and stays the sinking head."


_Intellectual Differences between the Sexes_.

I shall now proceed to the consideration of the differences between
the sexes in regard to their intellectual powers; and here we shall
find differences of the most marked and important character, which
perhaps have more puzzled the philosophers, and given rise to more
speculation, sophism and false reasoning, than any others observable
between the sexes. At one time a spirit of gallantry and blind
devotion, at another time of revenge and jealousy, has mixed itself
more or less with the spirit of speculation upon this subject, and of
course warped and biassed the conclusions of authors. Hobbes, in his
writings, has asserted that if the interests or passions of men, could
ever be steadily opposed to the mathematical axiom that the whole is
equal to all the parts, its truth would quickly be denied and boldly
reasoned against. It stands because neither interest nor feeling is
opposed to it. Out feelings are more or less to be guarded against in
all our moral speculations, but particularly in discussions relative
to the comparative merits of the sexes.

Shortly after the revival of letters, when the institution of chivalry
was still in successful operation, there seemed to be a combination
among the literati in Europe, to place woman in every respect above
man. The celebrated Boccaccio, the most beautiful writer, one of the
most devoted lovers, and perhaps the greatest favorite of his time
with women, led on the van of this band of gallant authors. In his
work "On Illustrious Women," he runs through the whole circle of
history and fable. He ransacks the Grecian, Roman and sacred
histories, and brings together Cleopatra and Lucretia, Flora and
Portia, Semiramis and Sappho, Athalia and Dido, &c.--and lavishes out
his sweetest praises on charming woman. We are not to wonder then at
his popularity and authority among the women of his age, when we
remember his devotion and his eulogy. His harangue against the
marriage of christian widows, did not however share the same
popularity with those to whom it was addressed, although backed by
quotations and ingenious explanations thereof, from the apostle Paul.

Boccaccio was followed by a host of imitators, singing the praises of
the sex. Throughout the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, the tide of
discussion, if I may be allowed the expression, ran almost wholly on
the side of the females. Love, polytheism, christianity, and the
worship of the saints, were strongly blended by the over-zealous
gallantry of the times, into one incongruous heterogeneous compound,
calculated to excite the smile of the philosopher, and the frown of
the theologian. Ruscelli, for example, one of the most celebrated
writers of his day, maintains the decided superiority of woman over
man. "But the effect of his reasoning," says a modern writer, "is
destroyed by the confused impression which is made on the mind of the
reader by the mixture of divinity and platonism; by blending through
the whole the name of God and woman; by placing Moses by the side of
Petrarch and of Dante; and by giving in the same page, and even in the
same period, quotations from Boccaccio and St. Augustine, from Homer
and from St. John." "This however," says the same writer, "must
necessarily be found in a country where we often meet with the ruins
of a temple of Jupiter in the neighborhood of a church, a statue of
St. Peter upon a column of Trajan, and a Madonna beside an Apollo."

{676} Throughout the whole of this period it seems to have been
ungallant in the highest degree in an author not to place woman
decidedly above man in every particular. Even in intellectual power
she was considered as superior; and in perusing the voluminous proofs
which were so industriously, and sometimes so ingeniously brought
forward to prove it, we find ourselves as bewildered as the _femme de
chambre_ of Molière, under the learned remarks of the doctor upon the
death of the coachman. The poor woman at last exclaims, "Le Medecin
peut dire ce qu'il veut, mais le cocher est mort." Whatever may have
been written or said in praise of the intellectual powers of woman
during the very gallant period of the fifteenth and sixteenth
centuries, it is now a conceded point, that under the actual
constitution of society, and with the superior education of our sex,
the intellectual endowments and developments of man are generally
found superior to those of woman at the age of maturity. In fact, the
remark is susceptible of the greatest possible extension. Among all
the barbarous nations--among the half civilized, as well as among the
refined and polished, we find the intellectual powers of man every
where and in every age superior to those of woman.[3]

[Footnote 3: I do not mean to assert here that woman has been found
inferior to man in _every_ department or modification of the
intellect; for in some kinds of intelligence she always has been, as
we shall soon see, man's superior;--but my meaning is, that in the
higher department of the intellectual powers, and in the general range
of the mind, man is superior to woman.]

It is fable alone which tells us of whole nations of Amazons. There is
no well authenticated history of any people where the women have taken
the lead, and governed the men by their superior intellectual
endowments. Of course, as already remarked, individual exceptions
prove nothing. We are here concerned with masses of individuals; and
from the foundation of the world to the present time, we find that man
has been uniformly the commander in the field; he has formed the
material of the armies; he has led them to battle, won the victories
and achieved the conquest. He has directed at the council board; his
eloquence has been most powerfully felt in the senate and the popular
assembly; he has established and pulled down dynasties--built up and
overthrown empires, and achieved the mighty and convulsive revolutions
of the nations of the earth. All the great, and learned, and lucrative
occupations of life are filled by him. 'Tis he who studies the
wondrous mechanism of our frame, the nature and character of our
diseases and physical infirmities, and applies the healing balm to the
suffering individual stretched on the couch of pain and sickness. 'Tis
he who made the law--who studies its complicate details, its massive
literature and profound reasoning, and traces out the chain of system
and order, which like the delicate thread of the labyrinth, runs
through the whole range of its subtleties and sinuosities. 'Tis he who
has studied most profoundly and elaborately the record of man's fall
and redemption. 'Twas he who conducted the children of Israel, under
the guidance of heaven, out of Egypt, through the wilderness, into the
promised land of Canaan. 'Twas a man who first preached the new gospel
of Christ at Jerusalem, before the assembled nation, on the great day
of Pentecost. It is man upon whom devolves the sacred functions of
preaching and spreading the gospel through the world. It is

  "He that negotiates between God and man,
   As God's ambassador, the grand concerns
   Of judgment and of mercy."

It is he whose sublime and warning eloquence is heard from the pulpit,
arousing and awakening the apathy of the listless, and stimulating the
ardor of the pious. 'Tis man who carries forward, by his restless
energies, all the complicate business of that great commerce, which
binds together by the indissoluble ties of interest, all the nations
of the earth. 'Tis he who creates the stocks, charters companies of
enterprise, and works by his skill the mighty machinery of capital and
trade. And if we look to the rich and varied fields of literature and
science, we shall find his footstep every where, and see that his
labors have reared the choicest fruit, and produced the most stately
and enduring trees. We cannot then for a moment question his past and
present intellectual superiority in society.

But whence arises this actual superiority? Is it the result of nature?
or is it the result of education in that enlarged sense which I have
already explained in my first number? Is the capacity of man naturally
greater than that of woman? or are they born with equal natural
endowments in this respect? and are the great differences which we
observe in the full maturity of age, generated by the different
circumstances under which they act, and the different positions which
they occupy in society? I have already said that we have no data by
which this question can be positively and satisfactorily settled; that
long before the child arrives at that age at which we are able to
detect the development of the intellectual powers, his education both
physical and moral, has already advanced to such an extent as to
render all our deductions from mere experiment and observation
entirely fallacious. I am inclined however to the belief, that there
is _no natural_ difference between the intellectual powers of man and
woman, and that the differences observable between them in this
respect at mature age, are wholly the result of education, physical
and moral. At all events, I think I shall be able to show that the
difference in education is fully sufficient to explain these
differences, without looking to any other causes.

First then, we find that the education which boys receive from
teachers, is much more scientific and complete than that of the girls.
The latter are sent to school but a few years, and those during the
earlier period of their lives, before the development of the reasoning
powers. What they learn at school, therefore, must be acquired by the
exercise of memory alone, and not by the employment of the far higher
powers of judgment, reason and reflection. These latter powers are not
generally developed before the age of seventeen or eighteen, and in
some cases still later. It is for this reason we so often find the
mature man failing to fulfil the promise of his youth. In the early
part of our lives we learn principally by memory, and the boy with the
most ready memory therefore, is he who treasures up the knowledge
generally acquired in youth with most facility. He, therefore, is apt
to pass for the brightest genius. But it may happen that this bright
youth may never develope to any extent the reasoning powers; and if
so, he will rarely go much {677} beyond the mere smartness and
quickness of youth. Memory will ever be his principal and greatest
faculty, and with it alone he can never travel out of the common
routine of knowledge, or disenthral himself from the dominion of mere
precedent and example. On the other hand, we frequently see the dull
boy developing at the age of maturity a large share of the reasoning
power, and infinitely surpassing, in stretch of mind and depth of
research, the individual who far outstripped him in his boyhood. Every
man can readily call to mind illustrations of the remarks here made.
Newton never exhibited any very great range of faculty till he
commenced the study of the mathematics; and Dean Swift, the great wit
and philosopher, is said to have been rather a dull boy.

Now then, just at the period when the reasoning faculties are about
developing themselves--when a new intellectual apparatus is just
coming into play, by which we are capable of achieving at school, in
one or two years, more than we have done by all our past labors--the
girl is taken from her studies, enters into society, plunges into all
the scenes of gaiety and fashion, and is frequently married before
that age at which the boy is sent to college. It is impossible then,
under the prevalence of such a system as this, to give an education at
all scientific to the female. Her mind at school is not sufficiently
developed to receive such an education. You frequently find our female
teachers professing to teach the higher branches of science, such as
chemistry, natural philosophy, moral and mental philosophy, and
political economy. I do not pretend to call in question the capacity
of such teachers, or their ability to teach what they profess to do;
but I do assert that most of our young ladies are not competent at the
time they are sent to school to acquire such knowledge. They skip, at
so early a period of life, as lightly and fantastically over the
buried treasures of science, as they would over the floor of the ball
room. I have never known an individual, no matter how apparently
bright his intellect--no matter how much Latin and Greek, and Grammar
and English he had studied, who was capable, at the age of sixteen, of
mastering the abstruse principles of the philosophy of the human mind.
Such a science as this absolutely requires a development of the higher
powers of the mind, before it can be studied with any degree of
success; and that development very rarely takes place before the age
of seventeen, no matter how stimulating may have been the previous
education of the youth.

But again: not only is the female stopped in her studies at a time of
life when she is becoming most capable of acquiring knowledge, but,
even whilst at school, her studies are of a lighter character,
contributing more to _accomplishment and grace_, but far less to
intellectual vigor than those of the boy. Much of her time is consumed
in music, painting, needle work, &c. while the boy is laboring over
his Greek and Latin. I do not pretend to condemn this difference in
education. It arises principally from the opposite position of the two
sexes in society, as we shall soon see. But I would like to see a
classical education become more fashionable among the ladies than it
has heretofore been. I would not insist upon such studies at a later
period of life, when the mind might be capable of mastering those of a
higher and more useful order; but between the ages of ten and fifteen,
there is nothing with which I am acquainted that can be so
advantageously studied as the Latin and Greek. "The grammatical
education," it has been justly observed by D. Stewart, "which boys
receive while learning Latin, by teaching them experimentally the aid
which the memory derives from general rules, prepares them for
acquiring habits of generalization when they afterwards enter on their
philosophical studies." I am happy to find the great authority of Mr.
Stewart to be decidedly in favor of giving to females a classical
education. In a foot note of Vol. III of Philosophy of the Human Mind,
he says: "Latin, I observe with pleasure, is now beginning to enter
more into the system of female education, and nothing could have so
long delayed so obvious an improvement, but those exceptionable
passages with which the Latin classics abound, and from which it is
devoutly to be wished that the common school books were carefully
purged, in editions fitted for the perusal of youth of both sexes."

Not only, however, are boys confined to studies which invigorate and
discipline the mind more thoroughly than those of the girls, but they
are much more stimulated and encouraged by parents, guardians, and
friends, to persevere in the arduous, and at first excessively
disagreeable career of study and literary labor. Whilst the father is
perfectly contented with the most superficial knowledge--with the
little music, and the few graces and accomplishments which his
daughter acquires at a boarding school--he watches narrowly the
progress of his son. He stimulates him by every means to assiduity and
exertion. He impresses upon his mind the important truth, that his
standing, his career in after life, his ultimate success, all may
depend upon these his preparatory exertions. It is to be expected,
under this unequal system of stimulation, that the efforts of the boys
will generally be greater than those of the girls.

Those who have not reflected much upon this subject, can form no
adequate conception of the vast influence exerted over the minds of
students by that discipline which depends upon a well directed system
of opinion and encouragement, entirely extraneous to the school or the
academy. Those who have attempted to teach the children of savages in
New Zealand and New Holland, in the isles of the Pacific, or on our
own continent, have all borne witness to the truth of this remark. For
example, a teacher in New Zealand tells us that the first day his
scholars met they were exceedingly anxious to learn; it was a new
thing: they, and their parents too, expected some sudden, mysterious
kind of benefit which was to result from this system, requiring no
great lapse of time, or exertion on the part of the children. In a day
or two the confinement and tedium of school hours became intolerable;
the children became lazy in spite of all the efforts of the teacher.
Parents knew not the advantages of an education, and consequently did
not enforce the regular attendance of the pupils, nor stimulate them
to exertion; and for this reason the school soon became a total
failure.

From all these causes combined, we are not to wonder that the
education of a boy up to the age of seventeen or eighteen, is of a
more invigorating character than that of the girl. At this age the
girl is taken {678} home to be _turned out_, as it is termed, and the
boy is sent, when the parent's circumstances will admit it, to
college. The college education, therefore, of the young men, may be
considered as a clear superaddition to that which young ladies
receive. It is the college education which is decidedly the most
efficacious, when properly conducted, in nurturing and developing the
higher powers of the mind. The lecturers in well endowed institutions,
are generally men of superior attainments and intellectual powers. The
division of mental labor, in consequence of the number of professors,
renders each one more perfect in his department. The library and
apparatus are great advantages not possessed at common schools. Well
delivered lectures too, upon the text of some good author, though they
may not impart a greater fund of positive information than might be
acquired by reading, yet they deeply interest the attention, and
stimulate the exertions of the student; they awaken a spirit of
inquiry and research; they teach him to examine and sift all he
peruses with a skeptical mind. They break the charm which is created
by mere precedent and written authority, and furnish, if I may so
express myself, the leading strings by which we are gently led forth
to more hardy and manly explorations in the field of science and
literature. All these are advantages _exclusively_ enjoyed by our
young men, and hence, so far as the school education of the sexes is
concerned, there is no question that men have decidedly the advantage
over women.

This then must certainly be looked upon as one of the most powerfully
operating causes of the intellectual differences between the sexes.
But it is only a proximate cause, and the question immediately
presents itself, how has it happened that the young men have been so
much more universally and deeply educated in all ages and countries?

And here we are led to a consideration of the effects of that more
enlarged and general education which arises from physical and moral
causes, independently of mere teachers. I have already explained the
causes which assign to woman the domestic sphere, and all the
occupations pertaining to it, and to man the out of door world with
all the business, occupations, and cares pertaining to its management.
These separate, distinct, and widely different spheres in which the
two sexes move, as we have already observed, generate characters
distinctly marked and widely different. And it is not to be wondered
at that these characters, so totally different, belonging to persons
moving in different spheres, should require different kinds and
degrees of intellectual powers. Woman is domestic in her habits, she
requires therefore a knowledge of all those minutiæ--all those details
which can best befit her for her domestic occupations. She is more
concerned with the individual than with the multitude. She feels more
deeply interested in a mere family, than in a whole nation. Hence she
studies individual character, individual disposition, and the motives
by which individuals are governed, more than she does the general
traits of the multitude, the distinctive character of nations, or the
great and general principles by which they are governed. Woman is the
delight and ornament of the social circle. She therefore aims to
acquire that knowledge, and become possessed of those graces and
accomplishments which may cause her to be admired by all while she is
walking the golden round of her pleasures and duties; her object is
rather to please and fascinate the imagination than to instruct the
understanding. She is more humane, more tender, sympathetic, and moral
than man, and, consequently, she is more interested in the study of
the feelings and the passions than in that of the understanding and
the intellectual powers. In general she is more eager for the perusal
of all that addresses itself to the fancy and the feelings, such as
novels, romances, and poems, than for the study of philosophy and
science. In fine she is much more literary than scientific.


_Abstraction and Generalization_.

We can now easily account for that great difference which we observe
in the intellectual powers of the sexes, dependent on habits of
abstraction and generalization. Undoubtedly one of the greatest and
most useful powers of the human mind, is that by which we are enabled
to classify and generalize our ideas--that power which enables us,
from the observance of multitudes of facts and details, to seize on
those which possess a resemblance, to arrange them together under
genera and species, and thus to arrive at general principles or facts
applicable to thousands of cases which may occur in our passage
through life. It is this power of abstraction and generalization which
may be truly said to give to our reasoning faculties the wings of the
eagle. We are enabled thereby to soar to a height, and command an
extension of prospect which cannot be reached by those who do not
cultivate this power. It is the great labor saving machinery in the
economy of the human mind, and belongs in all its perfection only to a
few gifted and educated minds, capable of rising to an altitude far,
very far beyond the common intellectual level. According to the degree
in which this noble faculty is possessed, the metaphysicians have made
a division of the human race, very unequal as to numbers, into _men of
general principles_ or _philosophers_, and _men of detail_. The former
possessing minds inured to habits of abstraction and generalization,
the latter more conversant with mere individuals and individual
character, with the details and minutiæ of common life, and therefore
better suited to the ordinary routine of every day duties in the
common transactions of the world. But if I may borrow the sentiment of
Mr. Burke, when the path is broken up, the high waters out, and the
file affords no precedent, then men who possess minds of comprehension
and generalization, are required to lead the way through the chaos of
difficulties and dangers which surround them.

When we compare the sexes together in this particular, we see that man
has generally, and _necessarily_ must have, from the very nature and
requisitions of that extended sphere in which he moves, a greater
share of this power of abstraction and generalization than is commonly
found developed in the female mind. The confined sphere in which woman
moves, requires, as I have already observed, close attention to all
the details and minutiæ of the little events daily and hourly
transpiring around her. Instead of studying the general traits of
character which belong alike to the whole human family, she studies
most deeply the individual characters of those who compose her
household, and her circle of friends and relatives. Her mind becomes
one of detail and minute observation, rather than of {679} abstraction
and generalization. The intellectual eye of woman is like the pleasing
microscope; it detects little objects, and movements, and motives,
upon the theatre of life, which wholly escape the duller but more
comprehensive vision of our sex. Man, in the wider sphere in which he
moves, deals not so much with the individual as with masses of
individuals. Take for example the statesman. Is he a legislator? Then
he must make laws not only for the few individuals with whom he has
been raised, but for the whole nation. In doing this he is obliged to
discard the mere individual from his mind, and look to the population
in the aggregate. He must abstract himself from the consideration of
the minutiæ, the little details and peculiar circumstances which
operate _exclusively_ on his own little narrow neighborhood, and
attend to those general circumstances which affect alike the condition
of the whole body politic. His intellectual vision should not be too
microscopic. He must look to generals rather than particulars. The
minute vision of the fly would perhaps best survey the little specks
and blemishes that may exist on the vast and mighty fabric of St.
Peter's church, but it requires the more comprehensive vision of a man
to survey the whole building at a glance. In like manner the honest,
high minded, intellectual statesman looks to the good of the
whole--discards the more petty consideration of self and friends. In
contemplating the compound fabric of mind, law, and human rights, if
he survey mere individual peculiarities with too intense a vision he
will never be able to form in the mind one comprehensive, connected
whole with the position and relation of all the prominent and distinct
parts fully exhibited and well defined. Now there are few women who
can wholly abstract themselves from the influence of those peculiar
circumstances which operate exclusively on the circle in which they
move. The circle they live in, conceals from them the rest of the
world. The general remark made on this subject by Madame de Stael in
her _Corinne_, is particularly applicable to woman. "The smallest
body," says she, "placed near your eye, hides from it the body of the
sun; and it is the same with the little _coterie_ in which you live.
Neither the voice of Europe nor of posterity can make you insensible
to the noise of your neighbor's family; and therefore whoever would
live happily, and give scope to his genius, must first of all choose
carefully the atmosphere by which he is to be surrounded."


_Politics and Patriotism_.

We can now easily explain why woman has, in general, less patriotism,
and is more unfitted for the field of politics than man. The very
intensity of her domestic and social virtues makes her less patriotic
than man. The ardor with which she loves her husband, her children,
her intimate friends and associates, concentrates the mind within the
little circle by which she is surrounded, and clips the wings of that
more expanded but less ardent love which embraces whole states and
nations. Her _individuality_ is much too strong for the feeling of
patriotism. She is, in this respect, like the knight of the twelfth
and thirteenth centuries, who coveted individual honor and glory
alone. He lived only for his mistress, his God, and himself, and did
not like to share his glories and his honors with an army, a nation,
or mankind. Hallam, in his "Middle Ages," has pronounced the Achilles
of Homer to be the most beautiful picture that ever was portrayed of
this character (of chivalry). And strange as it may appear, the
political character of woman in general, bears a very close and
striking analogy to that of Achilles; who has been pronounced by
competent judges, to be the most terrific human personage ever
portrayed in prose or poetry. In search of individual glory and renown
Achilles consents to join the allied army of Greece, with his
myrmidons, in the siege of Troy. He receives an insult from Agamemnon,
the chief of the Grecian forces, who determines to take from him a
captive female slave. Instantly he resolves on revenge; his patriotism
yields to his intense feeling of individuality, and he sullenly
withdraws his troops from the field of battle, remains unmoved while
the Trojans are gaining victory after victory, until they begin to
burn the ships; then the security of himself and his particular
friends required that he should drive back the Trojan army.
Reluctantly he consents that Patroclus might lead forth the myrmidons
to battle, but with strict injunction to retire from the field the
moment the Trojans were beaten from the ships. Patroclus goes forth
and is slain by Hector, the great rival of Achilles in war. Then is
the wrath and jealousy of Achilles raised against the Trojan hero who
has slain Patroclus, for whom his bosom throbbed with the intensest
friendship. He now arms himself for the fight, and consents to go
forth to battle; not for any love he has for Greece, not for any
hatred which he bears to the Trojan state, but because he loved
Patroclus and his own glory, and hated Hector, who had wreathed his
brow with the laurel won by the death of his dearest friend.

Such is the patriotism of woman. Her husband and children are more to
her than her country. You never hear of woman consenting to sacrifice
her son for the country's welfare; the reverse is much apter to be the
result. She would sooner sacrifice the welfare of the nation, for the
promotion and happiness of her family. In the various political
contests of our country, it has sometimes been my lot to be present
when ladies have received intelligence of the defeat of brothers,
husbands, &c. in their political aspirations. Such defeats I have
generally found to disgust them at once with the whole subject of
politics, and almost instantly to extinguish the little patriotism
which their political hopes had kindled. It is well known that
misfortune of all kinds has a most wonderful influence in darkening
the picture which the imagination sketches of the future. Pope has
admirably hit off this feature of the mind in his allusion to the
pensioner who suddenly has his pension stopped.

  "Ask men's opinions, Scoto now can tell
   How trade increases, and the world goes well;
   Strike off his pension, by the setting sun,
   And Britain, if not Europe, is undone."

So have I known ladies, from the defeat of their husbands at a county
election, to predict more disaster and calamity to the nation, than if
an army were on the frontier or a revolution threatened from within. I
have known brother arrayed against brother, and father against son in
politics, so decisively as to attempt to defeat each other's election;
but I do not know that I have ever yet seen a mother, sister, or wife,
whose politics were of that stern, unbending character which would
lead her to vote, if allowed, against a son, brother, or {680} husband
opposed to her in political sentiments. Their affections and
sympathies for those connected with them, are sure to triumph over the
general feelings of patriotism and justice.

Woman therefore cannot make a good politician, because she has too
much feeling, too much sympathy and kindness for her friends; her very
virtues lead to injustice. Let us take, on this subject, the testimony
of a lady who is well acquainted with the whole moral and mental
constitution of her sex. "I never heard," says Mrs. Jameson, "a woman
_talk_ politics, as it is termed, that I could not discern at once the
motive, the affection, the secret bias which swayed her opinions and
inspired her arguments. If it appeared to the Grecian sage so
'difficult for a man not to love himself, nor the things that belong
to him, but justice only,' how much more for a woman." Bulwer, too,
tells us that women always make prejudiced politicians in England. "No
one will assert," says he, "that these soft aspirants have any ardor
for the public--any sympathy with measures that are pure and
unselfish. No one will deny that they are first to laugh at principles
which, it is but just to say, the education we have given precludes
them from comprehending--and to excite the parental emotions of the
husband, by reminding him that the advancement of his sons requires
interest with the minister." Again, he says, "how often has the
worldly tenderness of the mother been the secret cause of the
tarnished character and venal vote of the husband; or to come to a
pettier source of emotion, how often has a wound or an artful
pampering to some feminine vanity, led to the renunciation of one
party, advocating honest measures, or the adherence to another
subsisting upon courtly intrigues." Doctor Johnson is reported by
Boswell to have said, that in these matters no woman stops short of
integrity.

Women, therefore, whose husbands are engaged in political life, ought
ever to recollect their foibles in this respect, and beware of
yielding too much to their sympathies and partialities, lest they ruin
the political reputation of their husbands, or alienate their
affections by too much tampering in matters which do not belong to
them. Madame Junot thinks that the constant interference of Josephine
in politics, her constant, ardent desire to serve her friends,
weakened very much the attachment of Napoleon for her. Nothing so much
tormented Charles II, as the constant intermeddling of his mistresses
in politics; and one reason of his very sincere attachment to Nell
Gwyn was, that she rarely gave herself any concern about the political
squabbles of the day. She never interfered, except on behalf of her
own children and one or two friends.

But although woman is much apter to err in politics than man, we must
ever bear in mind, as some mitigation and justification of her errors,
that they arise in a great measure from those kindly feelings, those
strong sympathies, those family endearments and social ties which,
whilst they mark her unfitness for the ruder arena of political life,
demonstrate unequivocally the goodness of her heart.

Even women of corrupt hearts do sometimes manifest strongly the most
amiable feelings and tender sympathies in their political intrigues;
take, for example, the Duchess de Longueville, that bold, arbitrary,
intriguing, profligate, vain, facetious heroine of the _Fronde_, who
is described as making rebels by her smiles--or if that were not
enough, she was not scrupulous; without principle and without shame,
nothing was too much! Now "think of this same woman," says a modern
writer, "protecting the virtuous philosopher Arnauld, when he was
denounced and condemned; and from motives which her worst enemies
could not malign, secreting him in her house, unknown even to her own
servants; preparing his food herself, watching for his safety, and at
length saving him. Her tenderness, her patience, her discretion, her
disinterested benevolence, not only defied danger, (that were little
to a woman of her temper) but endured a lengthened trial, all the
ennui caused by the necessity of keeping her house, continual
self-control, and the thousand small daily sacrifices which to a vain,
dissipated, proud, impatient woman, must have been hard to bear."

Again, let us look to the celebrated Duchess de Pompadour--the
corrupt, profligate, and intriguing mistress of that weak, effeminate,
heartless monarch, King Lewis XV, whose abandoned, lewd court, is so
well described as plunged in the sink of corruption and debauchery,
and dead to all shame of decency and morality. Even she is represented
by some of the wisest men of the day, as being exceedingly kind and
beneficent to her friends, or tender and sympathetic in the highest
degree towards misfortune of all kinds, when the parties concerned had
not in any manner wounded her feminine vanity or prejudices. How
interesting even does this woman become in that scene in which
Marmontel, pleading the claims of Boissy to a pension, so works on her
feelings by the recital of the galling poverty of Boissy, as to make
her exclaim, "Good God! you make me shudder. I'll go and recommend him
to the king." Marmontel was so much influenced by her kind attentions
to her personal friends, of whom he was one, that he every where
speaks of her in the most grateful terms as one not only willing to do
a kindness, but to do it in the most flattering, affectionate and
pleasing manner, frequently adding little injunctions or
recommendations, which communicated the highest pleasure whilst they
imposed no heavy obligation. For example, when he applied to the king,
through Mad. de P. for a favor relative to a work of his entitled the
"_Poetique_," he says, "I owe this testimony to the memory of this
beneficent woman, that at this simple and easy method of publicly
deciding the king in my favor, her beautiful countenance beamed with
joy. 'Most willingly,' said she, 'will I ask for you this favor of the
king, and it will be granted.' She obtained it without difficulty, and
in announcing it to me, 'You must give,' said she, 'all possible
solemnity to this presentation; and on the same day all the royal
family and all the ministers, must receive your work from your own
hand.'"

When, however, any prejudice exists in the mind of woman, from pique
at the conduct of a particular individual, or from any cause which
wounds her feminine vanity, you may in vain expect such kindness and
sympathy. All a woman's benevolence is dried up the moment the object
of it becomes _disagreeable_ to her. Madame de Pompadour disliked the
king of Prussia, and she could never be prevailed on to do anything
for d'Alembert, because he was a great admirer eulogist of that
celebrated monarch. Racine basked in the {681} royal sunshine of
courtly favor, while Madame de Maintenon was the ascendant at court.
He happened one day, in presence of the king and Madame de M. in one
of those fits of absence for which he was remarkable, to observe that
the theatre had fallen into disrepute, because the managers selected
plays of too inferior a character, such as those of Scarron, &c. Now
Scarron had been the husband of Maintenon, and from that day poor
Racine, the immortal tragedian of France, was never more invited into
the royal presence, or loaded with the royal favors.

Not only, however, does woman's feelings, sympathies, prejudices, &c.
make her an unsafe and most partial, and sometimes very unjust
politician, but her mind is rarely of that order, from reasons already
pointed out, which will enable her to take large, and comprehensive,
and unbiassed views of political subjects. Woman's individuality is
too strong for general principles and abstract considerations. She has
too much pleasure in the particulars and details around her, to
develope much of the higher and more comprehensive powers of
generalization. She judges of the great characters who are moving
forward the mighty drama of politics as she would judge of beaux in a
ball room, or friends and relatives in a parlor. Henrietta, queen of
Charles I, is an admirable specimen of female politicians. She viewed
the characters of great men with all the sensations of a woman.
"Describing the Earl of Strafford," says D'Israeli, in his Curiosities
of Literature, "to a confidential friend, and having observed that he
was a great man, she dwelt with far more interest on his _person_.
'Though not _handsome_,' said she, 'he was _agreeable_ enough, and he
had the finest _hands_ of any man in the world.'" The same author
tells us, that when "landing at Burlington Bay in Yorkshire, she
lodged on the quay; the parliament's admiral barbarously pointed his
cannon at the house; and several shot reaching it, her favorite Jermyn
requested her to fly; she safely reached a cavern in the fields, but,
recollecting that she had left a _lapdog asleep_ in its bed, she flew
back, and, amidst the cannon-shot returned with this other
_favorite_." Well might this have been termed a complete _woman's_
victory. With such feelings, and sympathies, and judgments as these,
however amiable and pure they may be, you can never expect to meet
with the comprehensive views and well arranged plans of the great
statesman: a Jermyn or a lapdog may disarrange or defeat them.

The peculiarities and minuteness of woman's speculations may be
observed on all subjects, even on the graver and more impressive topic
of religion. Although the celebrated Eloisa was deeply learned in all
the cumbrous learning of the schools and the fathers, yet when
speaking of the apostles, she seems to forget their religious
character in order that she might express her astonishment that "even
in the company of their master, they were so _rustic_ and _ill-bred_,
that regardless of _common decorum_, as they passed through cornfields
they plucked the ears and ate them like children. Nor did they _wash
their hands_ before they sat down to table." Pope, who in his Abelard
and Eloisa, has followed with wonderful exactness, the real history of
these two lovers, makes Eloisa, when speculating on the use of
letters, think of no advantage but those furnished to lovers.

  "Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid,
   Some banished lover, or some captive maid."

This is truly characteristic of the woman, and it manifests an order
of mind admirably adapted to the circumscribed sphere in which nature
seems to have destined her to move. But it does not suit the wide
arena of the statesman. Go, for example, into the great deliberative
body of this country, and listen to the polemical combats of the minds
that are there brought together, and mark particularly the powerful
effusions of that individual with the master mind of this country--I
had like to have said of the age in which he lives--and you will be
amazed at the vast power of generalization and consequent condensation
which his capacious mind displays. Is it the complicate and difficult
subject of the banking system which has fallen under his review, then
observe how he passes by unheeded, the petty details and minute
histories of the little institutions around him which engage the
little minds of the body, and fixes his eagle gaze on the great and
prominent points of the subject; shows you that the _general_ nature
of man, and the _general_ nature of this institution, is the same at
Amsterdam, at Venice, at London, as at Philadelphia, Washington, or
Baltimore. He points out the great and general circumstances which
lead on to the corruption and final destruction of the system, and
shows you that the straining and breaking of our banks in by-gone
times, was not the result of chance and accident, but of causes as
fixed and unerring in their operation as the law of gravity or the
force of elasticity. Or is he on the great subject of the dangers to
be apprehended from irresponsible power in the hands of a dominant
majority, then observe how his mind ranges over the history of the
past, and culls from the page of Greece and Rome, and even from that
more sacred one of Israel's people, the great lessons which they
inculcate upon this point. He shows you that the contests of
patricians and plebeians, the forcible establishment of the power of
the tribunes in ancient Rome, and the division of a modern parliament
into the lords and commons, or the fearful disputes between the _tiers
état_ and the nobles and clergy in France, all prove the same great
truth and teach the same great lesson, _that every great interest to
be safe, must have the means of defending itself_. Such a mind as this
when it fails, fails (if I may use the language of the logician) from
not attending to specific and individual differences in the
application of general principles: it fails because while leaping from
the Appenines to the Alps, and from the Alps to the Pyrennees, it does
not perceive the rivulets, the flowers, the little hills and dales
which lie beneath. Such a mind is the very opposite of that of woman.

But it may be said there are women who have reigned with glory and
lustre, and merited well of their country and mankind. Christina, for
example, in Sweden, Isabella in Castile, and Elizabeth in England,
have merited the esteem of their age and posterity. The two Catharines
in Russia, and Maria Theresa, during the long wars about the pragmatic
sanction, have each manifested the abilities of statesmen. To this
however, I would remark in the first place, that we are concerned here
with general rules and not with particular exceptions. Now the general
rule is what I have stated; women make bad politicians, unsafe
depositaries of power, and most partial and unequal administrators of
{682} justice. In the second place, you will find that the weakness
and errors of the good female sovereigns have almost always arisen
from their feminine foibles or womanly judgments. Take, for example,
Queen Elizabeth, whom Mr. Hume has pronounced to have been perhaps the
greatest female sovereign who ever sat upon a throne. It was said of
her that her inclinations and the coquetries of her sex, stole beneath
the cares of her throne and the grandeur of her character. And it has
been said, with perhaps too much truth, that if Mary Queen of Scotland
had been less beautiful, Elizabeth had been less cruel; she always
believed too readily, that the mere power of pleasing implied genius.
The exaggerated but well-timed gallantries of Raleigh,[4] and the
personal beauty and accomplishments of the earl of Leicester, made the
fortunes of those individuals.

[Footnote 4: Raleigh threw a new plush cloak into the mud over which
the queen was passing; she stepped cautiously on it, and shot forth a
smile upon the young captain. This cunning gallantry introduced him to
the queen for the first time; his advancement was rapid, and the title
of captain was soon changed for that of Sir Walter.]

This celebrated queen has been described as passionately admiring
handsome persons, and he was already far advanced in her favor who
approached her with beauty and grace. It is said she had so
unconquerable an aversion to ugly and ill-made men, that she could not
endure their presence. Her aversion to boots was very marked, and
highly characteristic of the woman. I think it is Sir Walter Scott
who, in one of his romances, represents her as having had so much
aversion to the boots of the Duke of Suffolk, who was brought forward
by his party for the honor of knighthood, as to fly into a passion
about it, and for some time to refuse to knight him in such a
dress.[5] She is well known to have been a great coquette, giving all
her suitors some hopes of finally obtaining her hand. She had likewise
a most ardent desire to be thought beautiful. Raleigh was well aware
of this excessive vanity, and made it a means of securing her favor
and continuing in her good graces. Mr. Hume tells us that Sir Walter,
in a love-letter written to the queen when she was sixty years old,
after exhausting his poetic talent in exalting her charms and his
devotion, concludes by _comparing_ her to _Venus and Diana_. D'Israeli
says that Du Maurier, in his Memoirs, writes: "I heard from my father,
that having been sent to her, at every audience he had with her
Majesty, she pulled off her gloves more than a hundred times, to
_display her hands_, which were indeed beautiful and very white." And
he says, "She never forgave Buzenval for ridiculing her bad
pronunciation of the French language; and when Henry IV sent him over
on an embassy, she would not receive him. So nice was the irritable
vanity of this great queen, that she made her private injuries matters
of state." Well then has it been said, that "the toilet of Elizabeth
was indeed an altar of devotion, of which she was the idol, and all
her ministers were her votaries: it was the reign of coquetry, and the
golden age of millinery."

[Footnote 5: In the Memoirs of the Duchess d'Abrantes, it is stated
that Madame Permon, mother of the Duchess, had a very great aversion
to the boots of the Republican generals, particularly when wet and
passing through the process of drying.]

It is true, in spite of all these foibles and defects of character,
she made a great sovereign; but it is easy to mark throughout the
whole course of her administration, even in the graver matters of
legislation, the constantly modifying influence of feminine weakness.
It was Elizabeth who granted, more extensively than any other
sovereign, privileges and monopolies to her favorites, which is one of
the worst forms which the restrictive system can assume. In doing
this, she seems to have been anxious to solve the problem of doing
every thing for her friends and pretended admirers, without disturbing
her conscience by the infliction of too much injury on the body
politic. But experience has shown that she most wofully failed by her
plan in the solution of the problem, and took by these monopolies and
privileges even a great deal more out of the pockets of the people,
than could ever come into those of her favorites and flatterers. Even
the celebrated laws of this reign in regard to the paupers of England,
in my opinion, mark the overweening humanity of the woman, combined
with a deficiency of that power of generalization, which can alone
enable us to arrive at just conclusions on so delicate and complicated
a subject. When she ordered the overseers of the poor to see that
every individual in the kingdom should be well fed, clothed and
employed, the order, although a humane one, was certainly
impracticable. Mr. Malthus asserts, that when king Canute seated
himself on the sea shore, and ordered the rising tide not to approach
his royal feet, he was not guilty of more vanity than this celebrated
order of Elizabeth displayed; but there was certainly humanity in the
intention.

In addition to the preceding remarks upon the incapacity of woman in
general for the able discharge of political duties, we may observe
that she is more disposed to despotism while in power than man. This
may be ascribed to greater physical weakness, and consequent
dependence in general. When, therefore, she wields the sceptre, she is
constantly disposed to manifest her power--to let the world see she is
really a ruler. She makes a show of her authority, precisely for the
same reason that a newly created nobleman is more tenacious of his
title than an old one, or a legitimate monarch less suspicious on the
throne than a usurper. Thomas says that great men are more carried to
that species of despotism which arises from lofty ideas; and women
above the ordinary class, to the despotism which proceeds from
passion. The last is rather a sally of the heart than the effect of
system. The despotism of woman however, very rarely, except when
stimulated by violent love and jealousy, leads on to cruelty; they
have too much feeling, sympathy and kindness to be cruel. Their
despotism arises rather from caprice, and a desire to promote the
interest of friends and flatterers, than from any regular system of
ambition and vice. Give them unlimited sway, and you rarely find them
exercising that merciless tyranny which delights in blood. Their
sensibility rarely forsakes them, even on the throne. Deny them power,
and they make monarchs as jealous and suspicious as rival beauties in
a ball room. There never was on the throne of England a more
determined stickler for prerogative than Queen Elizabeth. She was
exceedingly jealous of the powers of her parliament; and up to the
very last hour of her long life, a shuddering came over her whenever
she thought of a successor to the throne. {683} Yet Elizabeth was far
from beings as cruel as many of the male sovereigns who have sat on
the English throne.

The passion of love, however, is the most dangerous one in the breast
of the female sovereign. As I have already observed, it is the
strongest of our nature whilst it lasts, even in the breast of man;
but with woman, it is not only the strongest, but like Aaron's rod, it
swallows up all the rest. Elizabeth's lovers were her dependents, and
she was withal a woman of strong masculine mind, cultivated by an
education of the most classical and severe character, yet we have seen
the mighty influence which even her lovers exerted over her, in spite
of all her caution.

Mary, the sister of Elizabeth, the bigoted Catholic, is a melancholy
instance of the influence of even unrequited love, upon the politics
of a female sovereign. While married to Philip of Spain, England was
very little more than a Spanish province. Perhaps it was the example
of Mary which in a great measure deterred Elizabeth from ever
marrying, although repeatedly pressed to it by the Parliament. The
caricature gotten up during the reign of Queen Mary is an admirable
burlesque of the errors and weaknesses of female rule. It represented
her Majesty "naked, meager, withered and wrinkled, with every
aggravated circumstance of deformity which could disgrace a female
figure, seated in a regal chair; a crown on her head, surrounded with
the letters M. R. A. accompanied with Maria Regina Angliæ in smaller
letters! A number of Spaniards were sucking her to the skin and bone,
and a specification was added of the money, rings, jewels, and other
presents with which she had secretly gratified her husband Philip."

To see what woman may be capable of doing under the influence of the
passion of love accompanied by jealousy, let us at once recur to a
state of semi-barbarism, where but little restraint is imposed on the
feelings and passions, and where nature consequently manifests itself
in all its most horrid deformities without wearing the mask which
civilized manners and an enlightened and moral public opinion, aided
by the printing press have imposed even upon the most hardy and most
wicked in the polished countries of Europe. Among the Memoirs of
Celebrated Women by Madame Junot, we find that of Zingha, a great
African princess who ruled in her dominions with absolute sway. In the
contemplation of her character we are fully disposed to acquiesce in
the truth of Shakspeare's assertion, that "proper deformity shows not
in the fiend so horrid as in woman." This princess was a perfect
tigress when for a moment her argus-eyed jealousy conceived the least
interruption to her amours, from the beauty, or the affections, or the
accomplishments of another. We are told that "a young girl who waited
on her had the misfortune to be attached to a man upon whom the queen
had herself cast an eye of affection. Having discovered that the
feeling was mutual between the youthful lovers, Zingha had them
brought before her; and giving her poniard to the young man, ordered
him to plunge it into the bosom of his mistress, to open her bosom and
eat her heart! The moment he had obeyed this cruel order she turned to
the wretched man, who perhaps expected his pardon, and looked at him
as if to confirm this expectation. But she ordered his head to be
severed from his body, and it fell upon the mutilated corpse of his
mistress." On another occasion she had spared a particular female from
among those doomed to destruction, when perceiving a paramour looking
with tenderness upon her, she immediately recalled her executioner,
and coldly said, "take this woman also and throw her into the grave
with her companion." Such is the influence of the passion of love and
jealousy upon the female mind even in _Negro land_, and well may we
join Madame Junot in the remark, that "this memoir (of Zingha) which
is strictly true may lead to much reflection in those who so bitterly
attack the whites for their treatment of negro slaves. The latter in
our colonies have _never yet undergone such degradation_."[6]

[Footnote 6: "Add to this the horrible superstitions of the Giagas,"
says the same writer, "and our colonial slaves must have little to
regret in their native country."]

A woman in love, whilst she is willing to sacrifice all for the object
beloved, may occasionally demand all. She is very apt to be too
capricious for wise and prosperous government. A little experiment in
love matters might occasionally be of more moment to her, than the
regulation of trade, the modification of the corn laws, or the raising
or lowering of the taxes. We all know that woman is sometimes
extremely capricious and even despotic in the wars of Cupid. She does
sometimes make most fearful exactions merely to manifest her power, or
to confirm her faith in the fidelity and devotedness of her lover. Now
all this will do well enough in private life, because it chequers the
path of love with the powerfully exciting alternations of hope and
disappointment, and throws around the object of our affections all
those attractions, and all that more ethereal and imaginative
loveliness, which the extreme difficulty of attainment ever generates
in the mind. Although the lover may sometimes groan under such a
despotism, and even attempt to renounce it,[7] yet the public sustains
no injury. But when this capricious lover is a queen upon the throne,
or an ambitious aspirant for political power, then the consequences
may be truly disastrous. Rousseau tells us upon the authority of
Brantome, that during the reign of Francis I, a young girl had a lover
who was a great _babbler_. So capricious was she, and so fond of the
exercise of power, that she ordered him to keep an absolute and
profound silence, as the condition of her love, until she might
release his tongue. He actually remained silent two years, when every
body believed him dumb. Then one day in the presence of a large
assembly, she boasted that by _one word_ she could restore speech to
the _dumb_. She looked him in the face and said, "_parlez!_"
"_speak!_" when the man began to speak again! Now in this case no one
suffered but the poor man, and he had no doubt hours of ecstatic
felicity in her occasional kindness, and sympathy, and love, for so
much devotion. He gloried in the chains which he wore: he might be a
little restive at times, under the caprice and whim of his {684}
mistress, but was no doubt in all his difficulties ever ready to apply
to her the language of one of Martial's Epigrams on the whimsical
waywardness of a friend,

  "Difficilis, facilis, jucundus, acerbus es idem
   Nec tecum possum vivere, nec sine te."

but when such love or caprice as this reaches the throne, the people
pay for the folly. _Delirant reges plectuntur Achivi._

[Footnote 7: We are informed that during the age of chivalry, a lady
and her lover knight, at the Court of Vienna, were looking over a
palisade at a very ferocious lion, when the lady designedly let fall
her glove within the enclosure, and asked the knight to pick it up for
her. Without hesitation he leaped the enclosure, threw a cloak at the
lion, which diverted his attention for a moment, and escaped unhurt
with the glove, and then in presence of the whole court renounced the
lady and her love forever, because she had imposed so cruel and
dangerous a test of his affections.]

The poor Dutch saw but little sport or justice in those harassing
campaigns of Lewis XIV in Holland, undertaken principally to please
and amuse his mistresses, and exalt himself in their estimation as a
military chieftain. The English too saw nothing but degradation and
misfortune while Mademoiselle Queraille, the celebrated Duchess of
Portsmouth, was the favorite mistress of Charles, and by her
predilections for France, and influence on Charles, made him the
subservient tool of Lewis XIV, and England but a province to France.
And the ill-fated Protestants of the same country had before but too
mournfully lamented at the stake that England's Queen was the wife of
the most sullen, dark, and ferocious bigot of his age.

But I have said enough, I hope, to show that the field of politics
does not furnish the proper theatre for woman's glory and fame. It is
strewed with too many brambles and thorns for her delicate and timid
nature. It presents too many temptations to wander from the path of
justice and equity, to be resisted by the modest gentleness and the
unresisting pliancy of her sympathetic and humane temperament. Let her
not then be over-ambitious in politics, lest she be brought to realize
at last the maxim which is but too true--"Corruptio optimi pessima
est." Let her ever remember that she who has the ornament of a meek
and quiet spirit, as Gisborne has well observed, enjoys a decoration
superior to all the glories of the peerage. Not only, however, has the
custom of the world generally excluded woman from political stations,
but she has been excluded likewise from the right of suffrage or of
voting. Her condition in society, her physical organization, the
bearing and nursing of children, her delicacy, modesty, weakness and
dependency on man, all concur to make such exclusion proper.[8] The
_utilitarians_ say, that no evil can result to the fair sex from this
exclusion, because their interests are involved in the interests of
the males, and consequently the former cannot be oppressed by the
latter. Thus they say almost every woman has a husband, a brother, or
a father, all of whom are interested in her welfare. She need not
consequently fear an invasion of her rights, for those in power are
interested in defending them. To a certain extent this assertion is
true. But the condition of woman in past ages, and in the eastern
nations, shows most conclusively that she may be oppressed by the
stronger sex, and that her interests therefore have not been so
completely involved in those of man as to make oppression
impracticable. Well then, under these circumstances, does it behoove
man, in the possession of _all_ the political power, to guard against
its abuse--to remember that the frailer and weaker member of our race
is placed necessarily under his protection, and lies at his
mercy--that humanity, magnanimity, and even self-interest, alike
require that her rights should be guarded, and her condition
ameliorated--that she who is the delight and ornament of society, the
Corinthian capital of our race, should not be permitted to pine under
neglect and oppression, but should be conducted tenderly to that
exalted eminence whence she may diffuse her benign influence over all
the ramifications of social intercourse. And the more I have been
enabled to read the page of history have I become convinced, that the
continued amelioration of woman's condition is one of the most
unerring symptoms of the continuing prosperity and civilization of the
world.

[Footnote 8: I do not then agree entirely with Talleyrand in the
assertion that, "to see one half of the human race excluded by the
other from all participation of government, is a political phenomenon
that, according to abstract principles, it is impossible to explain."]

But although I would say that woman is not fitted to take the lead in
politics, or to vote at elections, yet would I recommend to all men in
political life, or in any other situation, generally to consult female
friends before they act in any very important matters. Their opinions
and counsels are rarely to be despised, even in politics. The
politician ought always to be possessed of their views, though he
should not be implicitly governed by them. There is a chain of
connection running through and binding together all the events of this
world, moral, social, religious, and political. The mind of man, to
act with perfect wisdom in any department, must survey all the causes
and events, both great and small, which may have a bearing either
direct or remote on the issue at which he aims. Now, although man may
be able to generalize more extensively, and take a wider and more
comprehensive view of the events which are passing around him, yet
that very generalization and comprehension of mind, do often make him
overlook those little causes, those secret motives, those nice and
evanescent springs of action, which are frequently the real causes of
the greatest events transpiring in the political drama. "It was not
from a massive bar of iron, but from a small and tiny needle," as my
lord Bacon observes, "that we discovered the great mysteries of
nature." And thus it frequently happens, that by looking attentively
at apparently unimportant passions or small events, we are enabled to
arrive at the true causes of individual and even national
distinctions. It is in this latter department of knowledge that the
sagacity of woman is infinitely beyond that of man. She divines more
certainly than he all those secret motives of the heart, and detects
more readily those delicate, invisible springs of action which so
frequently control the course of events. She is more thoroughly
acquainted with the nature and character of that mighty influence
which woman exerts over man in every condition of life in which he may
be placed, and therefore her advice is never to be neglected. In
reading the history of any epoch, I always consider my reading as
incomplete until I can peruse the histories and the memoirs written by
females. They are almost sure to fill the chasms left by the writers
of our sex. They frequently enter some of the _penetralia_ of the mind
and heart which are inaccessible to man; they perceive the vibration
of certain chords invisible to our duller optics. Their views may
often be partial, prejudiced, and incomplete, yet when taken in
connexion with the more enlarged and philosophical accounts of other
writers, they enable the future historian to form a more perfect, more
consistent, and more philosophical picture of the whole.

{685} Historians have sometimes puzzled their brains to assign a
philosophical cause for this or that course of conduct of a great
statesman, when a woman would have told you at once that it originated
from some little family feud, or perhaps from an ardent attachment to
some sweet, coy, unobtrusive, timid creature, the bare mention of
whose name on the page of history would crimson her cheeks with the
deep blush of modesty. The historian may be puzzled to account for the
sudden and injudicious march of Mareschal Villars, at the head of the
grand army of France, towards Brussels. Reader, the true cause was
that he was anxious to see his wife, who was staying in a small town
on the road to Brussels.[9] It has been said that the course which
Cicero pursued towards the conspirators in Rome, resulted principally
from the instigation of Terentia, who had her private reasons for
hating them. And the hatred of the great orator for Clodius the
Demagogue was likewise inspired principally by his wife Terentia, on
account of her jealousy of Clodia, the sister of Clodius, who had been
anxious to marry Cicero. Now in regard to all those more impalpable
and delicate causes which take their origin in the heart, the
affections, the social relations, woman is much more sagacious than
man; she sees them when they escape his vision; and consequently her
penetration may enable her to make discoveries or applications which
man would never have thought of. Hence, I repeat again, the counsel of
woman ought ever to be taken before we enter upon important events.
Dufresnay has shown that many conspiracies even have failed because
not confided to woman. And many a man who has kept his transactions
secret from his wife, has rued the consequences. Rousseau tells us
that while travelling through Switzerland he frequently found the
views and advice of _Therese_ of the utmost importance; sometimes
rescuing him from the great difficulties that surrounded him, and
which could not have been so well overcome without her. And yet he
tells us that she was not a well educated woman. The fact is, woman
excels man, as has been well observed, in attaining her _present_
purposes; her invention is prompt, her boldness happy, and her
execution facile.

[Footnote 9: This celebrated general of Louis XIV, according to St.
Simon, often turned his army aside from the great object which he had
in view, from some such causes as these.]

Even the warnings and cautions of women, for which no good reason can
be assigned, ought not always to be disregarded. They are frequently
inferences drawn from that nice discernment and tact so characteristic
of the sex amid the little incidents of life, or from their capability
of reading the varying features of the human countenance, or marking
more distinctly the altered shades of manner, even when individuals
are attempting to wear the mask of deception and hypocrisy. Cæsar's
wife, we are told, implored him not to go to the Senate Chamber of
Rome on the fatal day of the Ides of March; and although she could
give no better reasons for her solicitude than dreams, visions, and
strange feelings, yet it is more than probable that these were
produced by the acute, the penetrating, microscopic observation of a
woman's mind upon the events and characters which surrounded her in
Rome. Brutus, Cassius, Dolabella, &c. might conceal their purposes
during their daily intercourse, from him who had led the armies of
Rome to victory in Gaul, and Britain, and Illirium, and had, by the
majesty and force of his own mind, overturned the liberties of his
country, and grasped in his single hand the sceptre of the world, but,
in all probability, they were unable to wear that countenance and
assume those manners which would impose upon the more minute
discernment of Cæsar's wife, amid the troubles, solicitudes, and
suspicions, incident to a season of revolution. Pontius Pilate would
have released the Saviour of the world, and quieted a troubled
conscience, if he had given heed to the solemn warning of his wife, to
have nothing to do with that just man, (Jesus.) Yet she could give no
better reason for her warning, than that she had suffered many things
that day in a dream, because of him.


_Conversation--Epistolary Writing._

I come now to the consideration of the relative merits of the sexes,
in that most pleasing attitude in which we generally find them
indulging familiar converse in the social circle. And here, I think,
we shall be forced to assign the palm to the fair sex. The social
talents of woman all over the world, where her education is not too
much neglected, are superior to those of man. Her conversation we
generally find more varied, more natural, more allied with the
interesting incidents and events of life than that of man. She is a
nicer, and more acute observer of what is passing around her. She
treasures up more interesting details and occurrences; she is much
better acquainted with that most interesting of all subjects, the play
of the social and amorous affections; and she studies the most
pleasing and fascinating manner of communicating her thoughts to
others; hence she becomes the ornament and the boast of the social
circle.

Some persons may imagine the conversational power to bear some
proportion to the general strength of the intellect, and that, as man
cultivates the higher powers of the mind more thoroughly than woman,
he must therefore excel her in the social circle. This, however, is
very far from being true. The beauty of conversation depends on two
things: 1st. On the character of the facts, anecdotes, knowledge, &c.
which form the staple of what is said. 2d. On the manner and style of
communicating them. Now I conceive that the subjects most generally
pleasing in promiscuous society, are not those of a deeply
philosophical or abstract character, not those which require the
greatest stretch of intellect to comprehend, but those subjects
generally which have reference to the ordinary occurrences and
transactions of life; those in which all are interested, and which all
can comprehend: those, in fine, which concern ourselves _immediately_
and particularly. Grave disquisitions and lectures on abstract
subjects, are out of place in the drawing room; those who indulge much
in them may be called learned, but they are generally considered
intolerable _prosers_. The divine who is always talking to us about
_grace_ and its operation on the heart, the lawyer who is lavish of
his profound learning on contingent remainders and executory devises,
or the physician who tries to instruct us in the mysteries of animal
life, by recounting theory after theory upon the subject, are ever
looked upon as great bores in the social circle. Not only, however, is
the character of the subject of importance in conversation, but there
must be variety. No matter how important {686} and interesting the
topic, the patience of a company will soon be worn out by even an
intelligent and fluent man who will discourse of nothing else. The
most insufferable of all bores, says the author of Vivian Grey, is the
man whose mind is engrossed with one single subject, who thinks of no
other, and of course talks of no other.

So far as the subject matter, or _materiel_ of conversation is
concerned, let us enter a little into the _metaphysics_ of the
subject, and see, upon philosophical principles, how woman becomes
superior to man in this respect.

The principle of association, or of suggestion as it is termed by the
more recent writers on the philosophy of the human mind, is the great
and controlling law of the mental frame; it is that principle which
enables us to supply all our wants, to adapt means to ends, to call up
the knowledge of the past, to look into the undeveloped events of the
future. It is this associating faculty which may be looked upon as
truly the master workman of the mind. Its agency is requisite in the
action of all our mental powers, and consequently in pointing out the
intellectual differences between the sexes, it is proper never to lose
sight of so important a modifier of mental character. Metaphysicians
tell us that there are three principles or laws, according to which
the association of ideas operates. 1st. Resemblance. 2d. Contiguity in
time or place. And 3d. Contrast. Now if we examine into these three
divisions, we shall find each one susceptible of a subdivision into
two classes, marked and distinct. Thus 1st. There may be resemblance
in the objects themselves. Or 2d. In the effects or emotions which
they excite. For example, I see a man--he is like, in face and
feature, to one I knew well in France--I think immediately of the
Frenchman: here is resemblance in objects themselves. I see a violent
hurricane--it reminds me of the desolating ravages of a Zenghis Khan,
or Tamerlane: here is resemblance in the effects, and not in the
objects themselves. I hear the cooing of the dove, and I think of the
gentleness and innocence of the child. I hear a man reviling and
blaspheming his God, and I think of midnight darkness: here is
similarity in the emotions excited by the objects. A corresponding
division may be made of contrast. Thus I see a dwarf, and he calls
instantly to my mind the largest man I ever saw: this is contrast in
the objects. I see a raging, destructive lion, and think immediately
of the meek and humble Saviour of the world: here is contrast in the
effects. I see the white and tender lily on the drooping stalk, and I
think of the fiendish passions of a Macbeth or a Richard: here is
contrast in the emotions excited by the objects. Lastly, contiguity in
time and place may be divided into casual and fixed; thus I see a man
today whom I saw yesterday in company with another: I instantly think
of that other. I hear the last _eclipse_ mentioned, I think of the
place I was in at that time, the company I was with, the anecdotes
told, &c. In the first instance we have casual contiguity in place,
and in the second in place and time both. I see the moon on the
meridian, and think of the tides in our rivers. I see a magnet, and I
think of its attraction for iron; here is necessary contiguity in
time, and in the last instance in place too. Upon this last species of
contiguity is dependent that most important of all relations, the
relation of cause and effect, and of premises and conclusions.

In unison with the division here made of the associating principles,
it is easy to explain the character of three distinct orders of mind,
which will of course appear widely different in the conversational
displays of the social circle. There is, first, the _common mind_,
associating its ideas together by palpable resemblance or contrast
among them, and by the mere casual and loose contiguity in time and
place. Secondly, _the poetical or sentimental mind_, associating
principally by resemblance or contrast in the effects produced by
objects or the emotions which they excite. And thirdly, the
_philosophical mind_, associating principally by necessary contiguity
in time and place, by cause and effect, premises and conclusions.

Such a mind as the first, is most impressed with the details and
occurrences around. It never ascends to the original contemplation of
ideas and thoughts which belong to the region of philosophy and
poetry. It may, it is true, recollect sometimes, distant and beautiful
analogies, or even philosophical associations, but it is purely
because it has heard these things spoken of by others, and not from
original conception. Such a mind has no creative power of its own; as
it receives so does it pour forth, without alteration. It has been
well compared to the cistern into which water is poured; you have
nothing to do but turn the cock and out it comes (as one of our
newspaper editors recently observed, in relation to a different
subject,) "water, dirt, sticks, bugs, pine tags and all!" Such a mind
has no _productive power_ whatever. In this flood of details, you see
no connecting principle like cause and effect, premises and
conclusions, &c.--but this thing is remembered because it is like
that. This fact is now related because it was spoken at the same time
with that, or in the same place. Such an individual as this has, as
Diderot expresses it, "une tête meublée d'un grand nombre de choses
disparates," which he says resembles a library with mismatched books,
or a German compilation garnished, without reason and without taste,
with Hebrew, Arabic, Greek, and Latin.

Such individuals as these are more pleasing and amusing to us in
conversation, when the mind is not otherwise engaged, than most of us
are willing to allow. They spread before us a promiscuous feast of
neighborhood news, and like Mathews the comedian, although there be
but one speaker, they give you the _sayings_, the _conjectures_, the
_shrugs_, and the _winks_ of all the parties concerned, and thus give
to their communications quite a dramatic effect. Barbers, midwives,
seamstresses, hostesses, &c. cultivate this kind of association to the
greatest pitch of perfection. Their professions may be said to demand
it.

Such individuals, when called into court to give testimony, are
sometimes exceedingly amusing, from the pertinacity with which they
detail all, even the most minute circumstances, and when interrupted
because of the irrelevancy or illegality of their testimony, they are
very apt to begin again at the very beginning of their narrative. In
the minuteness of their remembrances they are like Mrs. Quickly in the
play, when she wishes to make Falstaff remember the time when he
promised to marry her.[10] The _Cicerone_ of Italy have generally
memories of the same description.

[Footnote 10: This has generally been adduced by the metaphysicians
since the time of Lord Kames, as an exemplification of this minute
memory, and it illustrates so well the remarks which I have been
making above, that I cannot forbear to add it in a foot note.

_Falstaff_. What is the gross sum that I owe thee?

_Hostess_. Marry, if thou wast an honest man, thyself and thy money
too. Thou didst swear to me on a parcel gilt goblet, sitting in my
Dolphin Chamber, at the round table, by a sea coal fire, on Wednesday
in Whitsun week, when the prince broke thy head for likening him to a
singing man of Windsor, thou didst swear to me then, as I was washing
thy wound, to marry me, and make me my lady, thy wife. Canst thou deny
it? Did not good wife Keech, the butcher's wife, come in then, and
call me gossip Quickly? coming in to borrow a mess of vinegar; telling
us she had a good dish of prawns; whereby thou didst desire to eat
some; whereby I told thee they were ill for a green wound. And didst
not thou when she was gone down stairs desire me to be no more
familiarity with such poor people, saying that ere long they should
call me Madame! and didst thou not kiss me, and bid me fetch thee
thirty shillings? I put thee now to thy book oath, deny it if thou
canst.--_Sec. Part, Hen. 4, Act 2d. Scene 2_.]

{687} Individuals of this character are the little chroniclers of the
day. They are the little historians of the little events transpiring
around them. They form a sort of cement for society--they furnish a
species of connecting link between the past and the present. They
embalm for a few years the memory of those who would otherwise have
passed away and been forgotten. The smallest and greatest of the human
race love fame. The temple at Ephesus was burnt down for fame, and it
is the character which I have just been describing that gives a little
fame to classes that would never have been heard of, and in old age
such a being can tell the young around him of the deeds and
achievements of their sires and grandsires and great grandsires. Such
individuals as these are remarkable for very exact memories, and as
they are never persons of much comprehension of mind, it has been
generally imagined that good memories are rarely accompanied with good
understandings. Hence the couplet of Pope,

  "When in the mind the Memory prevails,
   The more solid power of the understanding fails."

This however is but one form which the memory assumes, and
consequently we must draw no enlarged inferences from it. Women have
generally much more of this memory than men. The sphere in which they
move, the occupations in which they are engaged, the lesser necessity
on their part for original thought and action of mind, all tend to
produce this character.

The second class of mind, according to the division made above, is the
poetic or sentimental--that species of mind which associates by the
more distant analogies and resemblances, or contrast in objects, in
their effects, or in the emotions which they excite. Imagination is
the essence of such a mind as this. It enables us to see resemblances
and contrasts where others see none. "How many are there," says Doct.
Brown, "who have seen an old oak, half leafless amid the younger trees
of the forest, and who are capable of remembering it when they think
of the forest itself, or of events that happened there! But it is to
the mind of Lucan that it rises _by analogy_, to the conception of a
veteran chief:

                  'Stat magni nominis umbra
  Qualis frugifero quercus sublimis in agro.'"

What a scene for the enjoyment of love and friendship--what a group of
delightful and beautiful images has Virgil brought together in two
lines of his Eclogues!

  "Hic gelidi fontes, hic mollia prata Lycori,
   Hic nemus: hic ipso tecum consumerer oevo."

Many have seen a starling in a cage, but it is a Sterne who in
imagination sees a captive in his dungeon, half wasted away with long
expectation and confinement. Pale and feverish, the western breeze for
thirty years had not fanned his blood. He sees him sitting upon the
ground in the farthest corner, on a little straw, alternately his
chair and bed, with a little calendar of small sticks, and etching
with a rusty nail another day of misery to add to the heap.

When this species of association is dwelt on too much the individual
is characterized by a sort of sickly, morbid sentimentality, which is
both highly unnatural, and very disagreeable. He is ever trying to
display the effects of what Mary Woolstonecraft calls a "pumped up
passion." Those writers whom Dr. Smith in his Theory of Moral
Sentiments calls whining philosophers, possess minds of this order.
They can never see happiness in one part of the world but to reflect
on the misery which is experienced in another. Is our country at
peace, happy and prosperous, than rejoice not at it, for there are
millions of human beings suffering in China, Japan, Hindostan, and
Bengal. Thompson's writings are deeply imbued with this whining
philosophy, and so perhaps are Cowper's, as was to be expected from
the state of his mind.

It is, however, the association by distant resemblances in objects, by
analogies in effects and in emotions which furnishes the mind with
perhaps the most interesting materials for social converse. Such a
mind is what the world calls _brilliant_. We soon tire of it, however,
if it does not occasionally relax, and give us a few of those details
and minutiæ, which belong to the mind of the first order in our
division. As was said of the poetry of Thomas Moore, we do not like
always to feed upon the _whip syllabubs_ we soon become hungry for
_bread and meat_.

Such a mind as the one I have just been describing, has rarely a very
accurate or exact memory. The imagination is too active for the
fidelity of the memory. Pope has well asserted, that

  "Where beams of warm imagination play,
   The memory's soft figures melt away."

Men possessing such minds as these rarely make good historians or
profound philosophers. They neither narrate with fidelity, nor can
they philosophize with ability. Their imagination gilds and varnishes
the knowledge they have accumulated. Events, as Boswell expresses it,
_grow mellow_ in their memories.[11] But for this very reason do they
become exceedingly brilliant in conversation, when they have the power
of communicating their ideas well. Mr. Stewart tells as that Boswell
himself was a striking exemplification of his own remark, "for his
stories," says Mr. S. "which I have often listened to with delight,
seldom failed to _improve_ wonderfully in such a keeping as _his_
memory afforded. They were much more amusing than even his printed
anecdotes; the latter were deprived of every chance of this sort of
_improvement_, by the scrupulous fidelity with which (probably from a
secret distrust of the accuracy {688} of his recollection) he was
accustomed to record every conversation which he thought interesting,
a few hours after it took place."

[Footnote 11: "I have often experienced," says Boswell in his tour
through the Hebrides with Dr. Johnson, "that scenes through which a
man has past _improves by lying in the memory: they grow mellow_."]

With regard to the order of mind which we have just been considering,
it may be said that although a few men may cultivate it to a much
higher pitch of perfection than it is generally found to exist among
women, yet taking the sexes together, it is rather a characteristic of
the weaker sex, at least in as much as the associations are dependent
on similarity or contrast in emotions. Women, taking the whole sex
together, have undoubtedly more imagination than men, especially
inrelation to what I would term the sentimental and romantic portions
of our nature. They have nicer discernment and tact, more feeling,
sympathy, emotion and curiosity of all descriptions, and so far as
these furnish materials for association, they are superior to our sex.
Now these are precisely the materials which are most interesting when
properly clothed in the fascinating unaffected phraseology of a well
educated lady. Moreover, although men may perhaps display more
originality generally in the species of association falling under our
second division, yet I apprehend for that very reason they have less
variety, and, as we shall soon see, less quickness and ease in calling
up their associations.

The third class of minds, according to our arrangements is the
_philosophical_ mind--that which associates principally by the
relation of _necessary_ contiguity in time and place, by cause and
effect, premises and conclusions. This is undoubtedly the mind of the
first quality, and much the rarest in the human family. Knowledge,
however, which is acquired by associations of this character, is too
abstruse and unintelligible to the great mass of mankind to be
interesting in the social circle, and persons who have this order of
mind rarely have the other two in any perfection, and consequently
their conversation is not of that attractive character which pleases
by its ease, grace, and variety. Individuals of this character very
rarely display a good memory for mere words and details. Their
knowledge is arranged under certain general principles, and when they
wish to arrive at the detail, they are obliged to reason down from the
principle to the fact which is arranged under it. Such a mind has
rather a knowledge of general principles, than of particular facts and
incidents. General abstract subjects rarely produce much impression on
the mind of the mass. This is one reason why divines, who have the
most grand and sublime theme to descant on, nevertheless often fail to
produce much effect on their audiences. Their subject, although grand,
is yet a general one. The vices against which they preach are the
vices of the human race. The awful judgment of which they speak, is a
judgment to come at some indefinite time hereafter. Mankind to be
moved and interested must be addressed specially and personally. You
must not come before them clothed in abstractions and generalizations.
Look to that celebrated sermon of Massillon, pronounced by Voltaire in
his article on Eloquence, in the _Encydopedie Francaise_, to be one of
the most eloquent effusions of modern times, and examine particularly
that portion which had so startling an effect on the audience as to
make them spring simultaneously from their seats, and you will see
that it was just at that moment that the eloquent divine dropped all
his abstractions and generalities and applied his subject to those
very persons who were listening to him. "Je m'arrête _à vous_, mes
freres, qui êtes _ici_ assemblées. Je ne parle plus du reste des
hommes," &c. And again, "Je suppose que c'est _ici_ votre derniere
heure, et la fin de l'univers; que les cieux vont s'ouvrir sur vos
têtes--Jesus Christe paraitre dans sa gloire au milieu de _ce
temple_," &c.

It is useless to say that men much oftener have minds of the third
class in our arrangement than women; not because there is any natural
difference between the sexes in this particular, but because ours is
placed in a situation requiring the cultivation of this species of
mind more than the other. Our professions and occupations exert, if I
may say so, a more effectual demand for the development of this order
of intellect, than those of woman. Men in their passage through life,
are obliged to examine into the _necessary_ connection between events;
they must adapt means to ends; they must attain their purposes by well
arranged plans, according to the relation of cause and effect. Woman,
on the contrary, from the nature of the sphere in which she moves, and
the character of the occupations in which she is engaged, is more
conversant with objects than with their _necessary_ connections and
relations. She is not obliged to arrange so many concatenated plans;
her mind is more alive to the perception of the objects around her,
and less to the _causæ rerum_. Her feelings and sympathies are most
exquisite, but she attends less to their relations and dependences.
She is in fine a creature of emotion rather than of philosophy.

It is for this reason that women rarely make good metaphysicians,
although their feelings and sympathies are of the most exquisite
character. Yet they are not in the habit of reflecting upon
them--arranging them into classes, according to their necessary
connections, and thence deducing the general principles and laws of
the mind. Mr. Stewart says that the taste for the philosophy of the
human mind is rarer among the sex, than even for pure mathematics. He
seems to think that there are but two names in the whole catalogue of
female authors, at all celebrated for deep metaphysical research--Miss
Edgeworth and Madame de Stael; and he deems it not unfortunate for the
world that the former was early diverted from such unattractive
speculations, to that more brilliant career of literature which she
has pursued with so unrivalled a reputation.[12]

[Footnote 12: In regard to Madame de Stael, it is proper to remark,
that although certainly an able metaphysician--perhaps the very ablest
that has ever appeared of her sex--yet you see throughout her writings
the character of the woman. Her isolated aphorisms and maxims are most
splendid; but when you come to examine any one of her productions as a
whole, you see the want of system and complete connection between the
parts. Her descriptions of our emotions and feelings are almost
unrivalled for pathos and beauty; but when she would put together the
different parts of the mind, and sketch out a heroine or a hero--a
_Corinne_ or her _lover_--she presents incongruous beings such as
nature never produces. Her mind, after all, was but the mind of a
woman--a mind that could furnish the very best materials in the world
for a philosopher to weave into his systems--a mind too susceptible of
emotion to philosophize on abstract principles--a mind that relied on
feeling, rather than reason, to guide it to truth. In her work on the
French Revolution, though certainly very able, you see how her mind is
warped by her affection for her father, (M. Necker.) You see how her
conceptions of the Revolution as a whole, are biassed and prejudiced
by too intense a consideration of the scenes and events transpiring
immediately around her, and concerning her family. Goethe seems to
think that Madame de Stael had no idea what duty meant, so completely
was she a creature of feeling.]

{689} Having described three distinct and separate orders of mind,
remarkable for different kinds of associations, and all widely
differing in the possession of that information suited to social
converse, I come now to compare the sexes together, in relation to the
second point essential to conversation, the power of communicating our
knowledge pleasantly and attractively to others. He undoubtedly is the
most pleasing companion in the social circle whose mind is of that
capacious, well stored kind that is capable of ranging at will through
the various classes of associations just pointed out, giving you at
one time connections and relations of abstract principles, or
philosophical deductions--at another, of analogies between objects,
effects, and emotions--and at another, interesting and circumstantial
details of the common events of every day life. "Conversation," says a
modern writer, "may be compared to a lyre with seven
chords--philosophy, art, poetry, politics, love, scandal, and the
weather. There are some professors who, like Paganini, 'can discourse
most eloquent music' upon one string only, and some who can grasp the
whole instrument, and with a master's hand, sound it from the top to
the bottom of its compass." Such individuals as these are very rare.
Perhaps Dr. Johnson,[13] McIntosh and Coleridge might be cited as
specimens in England, and Schlegel in Germany. Individuals of this
character are very rare, because in the first place, there are very
few whose minds are capable of ranging through the whole extent of
knowledge; and secondly, it does by no means follow, that those
possessing the information, might be able to communicate it to others
with that brilliancy of diction, and judgment in the selection of
matter and its quantity, which will insure complete success in the
social circle.

[Footnote 13: Johnson's style in conversation must have been too
grandiloquent and studied, to have admitted of that variety and ease
so necessary to the social circle.]

I will make a few promiscuous remarks on these two points. Men of
deeply philosophic minds, are almost sure, from the character of their
speculations, to glide imperceptibly into habits of abstraction, and
to withdraw their attention from the scenes and occurrences
transpiring around them, to the contemplation of that world of thought
in which they dwell. Their thoughts are not the thoughts of other men;
the world in which they live is not the world of others. A Newton,
while wrapt in these philosophic visions, can sit for hours in the
cold, half dressed, eyes fixed, unconscious of all around him; he can
forget to dine; he can, in fine, forget himself, his friends, and the
world in which he lives. An Adam Smith, while studying the great laws
which regulate the accumulation, distribution, and consumption of
wealth, can so far forget himself and the world, as to mimic with his
cane, a soldier, who presents arms to him through respect, and march
after him when he moves off; he can be present when toasts are drunk,
and know nothing of what is passing.[14] Minds of this order are
almost sure to neglect associations of a lighter character. They fail
to acquire that species of information which is most pleasing in
conversation. And, moreover, they are apt to have what are called
_slow_ memories; they cannot call up their knowledge quick, and utter
it with volubility. The process by which they hive their wisdom is
slow and tedious, depending on patient thought, and persevering
reflection. Such a mind has been compared, in the social circle, to a
ship of the line run a ground in a creek. It is too massive and
ponderous for the element and space in which it floats. It is said
that Newton was rather slow and dull in conversation even upon
philosophical subjects. Many an individual in Europe, of far inferior
genius, was more brilliant in conversation than himself, even upon his
own discoveries. Descartes, whose mind was of the first order, was
silent in mixed company. It was said that he received his intellectual
wealth from nature in _solid bars_, not in _current coin_.[15] Men
like these are better pleased with the contemplation of the solid
wealth in their possession, than with the means of making it glitter
and attract the gaze of the world. They value ideas more than
words--knowledge more than the _media_ of communication. They think it
better, as Spurzheim on Education says, to have two ideas with one
mode of expressing them, than one idea with two modes of expression.
Such men as these then are apt, unless stimulated by very peculiar
circumstances, to be deficient, first, in that variety requisite for
agreeable conversation, and secondly, in the style and power of
communicating their ideas to others.

[Footnote 14: It is said that Dr. Smith was one day present, when the
toast to "absent friends" was drank by the company. A friend who sat
by the Doctor, told him that he had just been toasted, whereupon he
thanked the company for the honor, and apologised for his absence of
mind, very much of course to the amusement of his friends so well
aware of his habits of abstraction.]

[Footnote 15: The character of Oliver Cromwell in this respect is well
known. He did not, during his whole parliamentary career, make one
single lucid, perspicuous speech. In fact, his speaking was almost
unintelligible; and yet his course of conduct, although that of an
usurper and tyrant, marks most generally, clearness of judgment, and
great decision of character. Of course I am not here considering his
moral character, which was detestable.]

Again, men of poetic or miscellaneous minds, possessing that varied
store of knowledge and thought so well calculated to form the staple
of conversation, may nevertheless, from various causes, be unable to
make any display in the social circle. They may write beautifully
whilst they converse badly. Addison's dulness in company is well
known. Peter Corneille, who has been called the Shakspeare of France,
it is said, did not _speak_ correctly that language of which he was so
perfect a master in his composition. His answer to his friends, when
laughing at his spoken language was, "_I am not the less Peter
Corneille!_" Virgil is said to have been dull in the social circle. La
Fontaine, whose writing was the very model of poetry, was coarse,
heavy, and stupid in conversation. Chaucer's silence was said to be
much more agreeable than his talking. And Dryden says of himself, "My
conversation is slow and dull, my humor saturnine and reserved." Thus
do we find that it is not only necessary that the mind should be
stored with pleasing and varied knowledge, in order that we may
converse well; but we must have besides the power of communicating
that knowledge agreeably to others--a power which is by no means
universally coupled with the knowledge.

Let us then for a moment examine into the character of woman in this
respect. We have already seen that she has more of the _proper
materiel_ for conversation than {690} man. If then her power and
manner of communicating be better, she may certainly be pronounced his
superior in the social circle. In the first place I would remark, that
she has in general much less professional bias than man. When men
arrive at the age of maturity, they generally engage in some one
profession or occupation, which employs most of their time and
exertion. Their intellectual characters are, to a very great degree,
modelled by their employments. Hence an inaptitude to acquire what
does not belong to one's business--an indocility upon all subjects not
strictly professional. I recollect once to have been a member of a
country debating society, in which we had divines, lawyers, doctors,
farmers, schoolmasters, &c., and upon all topics discussed, it was
easy to determine at once the profession of the speaker. You saw
immediately the professional bias and the professional language and
knowledge. Woman is in general, except so far as affected by her
husband, free from this influence, which is so unfavorable to that
varied and brilliant conversation suited to promiscuous society.

Again, the social circle is the field in which woman wins her
trophies, displays her accomplishments, and achieves her conquests.
The art of pleasing by conversation is all and all to her. The power
of colloquial display is her greatest accomplishment--her most
irresistible weapon. Hence, while man in general aims to make himself
plain and perspicuous, woman endeavors not only to be understood, but
to delight and fascinate the hearer at the same time by her style and
manner. "Man in conversation," says Rousseau, "has need of
knowledge--woman of taste." We are instructed profoundly in a _few
things_ by the conversation of an intelligent man. The conversation of
woman embraces _many things_, and though we may not be profoundly
instructed in any, yet we have a living and moving panoramic view
presented to the mind, which sooths and charms it by the beauty,
variety, and brilliancy of the parts. Rousseau was so struck with the
differences between the sexes in conversation, that he seems (I think
erroneously) to imagine a natural difference in this respect between
them. "Women," says he, "have a more flexible tongue: they speak
sooner, more easily, and more agreeably than men. They are accused of
speaking more. That is just as it should be; this should be considered
an ornament of the sex, and not a reproach. Their mouth and eyes have
the same activity, and for the same reason."

The occupations of women are generally of such a character as to allow
full scope for their conversational talents, while their work is
advancing. Knitting, sewing, &c. invite to a free use of the tongue,
while the occupations of men will generally allow of no such
indulgence. Moreover, the business of woman is oftener social; it can
be carried on in society; whereas that of man cannot, being generally
much more solitary. This difference in the occupations of the two,
produces a much greater effect on the social differences between the
sexes than most persons are aware of. Lastly, the greater _docility_
of woman, her greater susceptibility to impression, have a tendency to
generate more conversational talent than is developed in man. Woman,
as we have frequently remarked, is made physically weaker than man;
she is, therefore, dependent on him, and looks up to him as a
protector. Man is the governing member of the human family all over
the world. Woman submits to his guidance and direction. She adapts
herself to him, and endeavors to conform to his nature. Hence a quiet
submissiveness on the part of the weaker sex to control and dictation,
even when very intelligent, and able to act for themselves. I have
known intelligent women look up to their husbands for direction in
most matters, and with pleasure submit to their will, when it was
evident to the whole world that they were vastly superior in
intellectual endowments to those whose dictation and direction they
thus seemed to court. All a woman's ambition is for the promotion of
her husband. Her own elevation is generally a secondary matter,
because always derived from his. Shakspeare makes even the fiendish
acts of Lady Macbeth, to proceed from a desire to elevate her own
husband rather than herself. This condition of woman makes her more
docile and susceptible of impression. Her nature becomes more pliant
and flexible. At one period of her life she may be the wife of a
divine, at another of a lawyer, and at a third of a physician: and she
can quickly conform to these different natures with which she has to
deal. Her docility is far superior to that of man. Mr. Stewart thinks
that women learn languages even with greater quickness, and pronounce
them much better than men. He says Fox spoke French better than any
Englishman of his acquaintance, but he knew many females who spoke it
better than he.

Now this greater docility and susceptibility of impression, while it
admirably adapts the weaker to the stronger sex, at the same time
improves greatly the conversational powers of woman. She is alive to
all that is passing around; she sees what our duller eyes fail to
behold. She thus gathers more, and details it more vividly and
impressively. While we are gathering general and stale news, she
collects that which is more special and impressive. Every one who has
ever been in the habit of paying what are called morning visits, with
intelligent ladies, must have remarked the great difference between
the sexes in this respect.

Before leaving the subject of conversation, I shall take leave to make
a few remarks on the practice so prevalent among the married and
elderly gentlemen, of separating themselves from the rest of the
company at dinner parties and evening gatherings, to talk among
themselves on those topics more congenial to their feelings and
business. Such an abstraction as this leaves the young to themselves,
and frees them from a restraint which may sometimes be irksome, but is
almost always salutary. The elderly portion are in the habit of
excusing themselves, by saying the conversation of the young is too
frivolous for their attention; that their tastes have changed, and
they take now no pleasure in the gaieties, pastimes, and frivolities
of youth. But they should recollect that this division is calculated
to produce that very frivolity of which they complain. Separate the
old and intelligent from the young and thoughtless, and you
immediately give a loose to all the wild, buoyant feelings of youth.
Lycurgus could never have succeeded in Sparta in enforcing so
completely his celebrated system of laws, but for the public tables,
which brought the old and young, intelligent and simple together. The
young learned modesty in the presence of the old, and the ignorant
imbibed wisdom from the instruction of the intelligent. If our most
intelligent {691} men would always mingle in the social circle, they
would elevate the character of the topics discussed, while they would
stimulate the young to more thought and intellectual exertion. The
young would be improved by the instruction they would receive, and the
laudable ambition that would be exerted by the example of the old and
intelligent; and the latter would be compensated by the great
improvement which social intercourse produces on all our finer
feelings, tastes, and emotions, by the cultivation of talents which
would otherwise become dormant and useless, and the consequent opening
of new sources of enjoyment. But duty to the rising
generation--particularly to that portion for whom we feel the warmest
solicitude, because the weaker and more dependent--absolutely demands
this intercourse. It would elevate the intellectual character of the
sex, and thereby improve the general condition of society. Our wives
and daughters would become fit companions for intelligent husbands,
and the social circle would lose its unmeaning conversation and
reckless frivolity in the presence of age and intelligence.

The social circles of France are greatly improved by the free and
unrestrained intercourse of all ages together. There is no man in
Paris, it matters not what is his standing or intelligence, but has
social ambition; he aims at distinction in conversation, at reputation
in the social circle, no less than he does at winning trophies in the
field, or fame in the senate chamber. The consequence is, that,
frivolous as we consider that people as a nation, they far excel us in
the social circle, both in the dignity of the topics discussed, and
the ability displayed by both sexes, especially by the females, in
conversation. Women who enjoy the society and conversation of the
wittiest and greatest men of their country will themselves become
witty and clever. "I was talking," says Bulwer in his France, "one
evening with the master of the house where I had been dining, on some
subject of trade and politics, which I engaged in unwillingly in the
idea that it was not very likely to interest the lady. I was soon
rather astonished, I confess, to find her enter into conversation with
a knowledge of detail and a right perception of general principles
which I did not expect. 'How do you think,' said she, when I afterward
expressed my surprise, 'that I could meet my husband every evening at
dinner, if I were not able to talk on the topics on which he has been
employed in the morning.'" Let us then at least imitate the French in
this particular, certain that it will in the process of time be
productive of the most marked and happy result.

For the same reason that woman surpasses man in conversation, she is
superior to him in epistolary composition. Her letters are generally
more varied, more lively and impressive, more replete with interesting
facts and details, than those of our sex. A gentleman, in writing a
mere letter of friendship, is engaged in a business which rather
breaks in on his habits, and interrupts for a time the accustomed
routine of his thoughts and tastes. He is very apt to run off upon the
general news of the day, and commence prosing upon some subject which
we would find perhaps infinitely better handled in the public prints
than in his letter. He has no variety; he forgets to tell us of our
friends, and of what they are doing and saying. He forgets that we
have hearts, and thinks only of our heads. He omits to mention
trifles, because he considers them "light as air," when some of these
trifles might touch a chord that would vibrate to the heart, and fill
the soul with joy and gratitude. When Mr. Dacre writes to the Duke of
Fitzjames, in the Young Duke, and says in conclusion, "_Mary_ desires
me to present her regards to you"--this was worth all the letter
besides to the young duke; 'twas this he read over and over again, and
forgot his estates and his debts, while his heart was reeling with
gratitude for just this little kindness from _her_ whom he loved so
devotedly. With woman, letter writing is in complete unison with her
condition in society. The details of most interest to her
correspondents are precisely those with which she is most conversant.
She presents no mutilated picture; she gives that which delights. She
is apt to know, too, the little Goshen of our hearts, and to pay all
due attention to it. And she is sure to tell, as if by accident,
precisely the _sweetest_ things in the world to _us_. She writes with
ease, variety, and interest--because she pursues the course of the
celebrated Madame de Sévigné, (who has never perhaps had an equal in
our sex for epistolary composition.) "Il faut un peu entre bons amis,"
says Madame de S. "laisser trotter les plumes comme elles veulent, la
mienne a toujours la bride sur le cou."

I had intended, before concluding my remarks on the intellectual
differences of the sexes, to offer some considerations in favor of
improving the system of female education; but my number has already
expanded to a size greatly beyond my anticipations when I commenced
it. This subject I must therefore postpone for the present, and resume
it in my next, if my time and occupations will permit me.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO F----.


  And could'st thou F---- then believe
    That I had thought thy guileless heart
  Would prompt thee meanly to deceive,
    And stoop to play a treacherous part?

  No, lady no!--I saw thee move,
    Artless in unsuspecting youth;
  That heart I saw had learn'd to love
    The hallowed sanctity of _truth_.

  Could F----'s throbbing bosom beat
    Victims on victims to ensnare:
  Point to the lovers at her feet,
    And proudly count the captives there?

  No, lady no! to honor true,
    Thou would'st not--could'st not thus appear--
  Triumphs like these would seem to you,
    Too dearly purchased to be dear.

  These, these are arts alone allied
    To spirits yet akin to earth;
  The generous soul with nobler pride
    Spurns the poor trick, and trusts to worth.

  Yes, lady yes! such worth as thine,
    Which kindred worth and genius rules,
  To baser spirits may resign
    The mad idolatry of fools.

H.


{692}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MARY.

  _Tune_.--Gramachree.


  The vernal month comes on with flowers
    To deck the plains around,
  No more the frown of winter lowers,
    Or chills the fertile ground.

  The snow-white lily, nature's pride,
    Now blooms in every vale,
  The rose breathes fragrance far and wide,
    And perfumes every gale.

  The vocal thrush pours forth her note
    To hail the gladsome morn,
  And every warbler strains his throat,
    From garden, brake, and thorn.

  Come then, dear Mary, let us fly
    To join the impassioned lay,
  And pluck each flower whose modest eye
    Just opens into day.

  And whilst we view the sweetest charms
    That grace the new born year,
  I'll fold thee gently in my arms,
    And crush each budding care.

  I'll say the blush upon thy cheek
    Outvies the rose's hue,
  The lily blooming o'er the vale,
    No purer is than you.

  But soon kind nature's sweetest flowers
    Will wither and decay,
  And that bright glow which decks thy cheek,
    Like them will fade away:

  But let not this alarm thy peace,
    Nor tremble at thy doom,
  For though the flush of youth will cease,
    Thy soul shall ever bloom.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SONG.


  I will twine me a wreath of life's withering flowers,
    And bind with their brightness this aching heart,
  And wear a smile through the long, long hours,
    As if in their gladness I bore a part.

  I will seek mid the gay and festive throng,
    To check each thought of the love I cherished,
  And playfully murmur his favorite song,
    As if not a tone of its sweetness had perished.

  Tho' the flowers of feeling are fallen and faded,
    Yet the fragrance of memory may still remain:--
  And the heart by their withered leaves o'ershaded,
    May hide the wound though it nurse the pain.

  And if ever we meet upon earth again,
    He shall not know it by word or by token:
  For the eye shall still sparkle, though only with pain,
    And the lip wear a smile, while the heart may be broken.

MORNA.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

REMEMBER ME, LOVE.

By the late Mrs. ANN ROY, of Mathews county, Virginia.


    When afar thou art roaming love,
  In sunny climes where maidens' eyes
  Beam bright as their own glowing skies,
  Where lofty domes and scented bowers
  Gleam with the golden orange flowers;
  And many a column and fallen fane
  Tell of Italia's buried fame:
    Oh! then remember me, love!

    When woo'd by the proud and gay, love,
  And mirthful smiles and voices sweet,
  As angel's lutes united meet
  Thy eager ear, thy raptured glance,
  As they pass thee by in the joyous dance,
  Ah pause and think of the _lonely_ one,
  Whose bosom throbs for _thee_ alone:
    Oh! then remember me, love!

    Fame's glittering wreath allures thee, love;
  Ah, when thou bindest it round thy brow,
  And heartless crowds around thee bow;
  When stern ambition's meed is won,
  Ah, think of her who urged thee on
  To climb the proudest height of fame,
  And carve thyself a deathless name:
    Oh! then remember me, love!

    And should grief or death assail me, love,
  While thou art o'er the dark blue wave,
  And carest not to soothe or save,
  My latest sigh shall be breathed for thee,
  On my fading lips thy name shall be,
  And my dying words shall be a prayer
  To heaven that thou mayest love me there:
    Oh! then remember me, love!




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO SARAH.


  When melancholy and alone,
  I sit on some moss-covered stone
    Beside a murm'ring stream;
  I think I hear thy voice's sound
  In every tuneful thing around,
    Oh! what a pleasant dream.

  The silvery streamlet gurgling on,
  The mock-bird chirping on the thorn,
    Remind me, love, of thee.
  They seem to whisper thoughts of love,
  As thou didst when the stars above
    Witnessed thy vows to me;--

  The gentle zephyr floating by,
  In chorus to my pensive sigh,
    Recalls the hour of bliss,
  When from thy balmy lips I drew
  Fragrance as sweet as Hermia's dew,
    And left the first fond kiss.

  In such an hour, when are forgot,
  The world, its cares, and my own lot,
    Thou seemest then to be,
  A gentle guardian spirit given
  To guide my wandering thoughts to heaven,
    If they should stray from thee.

SYLVIO.


{693}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

BON-BON--A TALE.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

"Notre Gulliver"--dit le Lord Bolingbroke--"a de telles
fables."--_Voltaire_.


That Pierre Bon-Bon was a Restaurateur of uncommon qualifications, no
man who, during the reign of ----, frequented the little Câfé in the
Cul-de-sac Le Febvre at Rouen, will, I imagine, feel himself at
liberty to dispute. That Pierre Bon-Bon was, in an equal degree,
skilled in the philosophy of that period is, I presume, still more
especially undeniable. His _Patés à la fois_ were beyond doubt
immaculate--but what pen can do justice to his essays _sur la
Nature_--his thoughts _sur l'Ame_--his observations _sur l'Esprit_? If
his _omelettes_--if his _fricandeaux_ were inestimable, what
_literateur_ of that day would not have given twice as much for an
'_Idée de Bon-Bon_' as for all the trash of all the '_Idées_' of all
the rest of the _savants_? Bon-Bon had ransacked libraries which no
other man had ransacked--had read more than any other would have
entertained a notion of reading--had understood more than any other
would have conceived the possibility of understanding; and although,
while he flourished, there were not wanting some authors at Rouen, to
assert "that his _dicta_ evinced neither the purity of the Academy,
nor the depth of the Lyceum"--although, mark me, his doctrines were by
no means very generally comprehended, still it did not follow that
they were difficult of comprehension. It was, I think, on account of
their entire self-evidency that many persons were led to consider them
abstruse. It is to Bon-Bon--but let this go no farther--it is to
Bon-Bon that Kant himself is mainly indebted for his metaphysics. The
former was not indeed a Platonist, nor strictly speaking an
Aristotelian--nor did he, like the modern Leibnitz, waste those
precious hours which might be employed in the invention of a
_fricassée_, or, _facili gradu_, the analysis of a sensation, in
frivolous attempts at reconciling the obstinate oils and waters of
ethical discussion. Not at all. Bon-Bon was Ionic. Bon-Bon was equally
Italic. He reasoned _a priori_. He reasoned also _a posteriori_. His
ideas were innate--or otherwise. He believed in George of Trebizond.
He believed in Bossarion. Bon-Bon was emphatically a--Bon-Bonist.

I have spoken of the philosopher in his capacity of Restaurateur. I
would not however have any friend of mine imagine that in fulfilling
his hereditary duties in that line, our hero wanted a proper
estimation of their dignity and importance. Far from it. It was
impossible to say in which branch of his duplicate profession he took
the greater pride. In his opinion the powers of the mind held intimate
connection with the capabilities of the stomach. By this I do not mean
to insinuate a charge of gluttony, or indeed any other serious charge
to the prejudice of the metaphysician. If Pierre Bon-Bon had his
failings--and what great man has not a thousand?--if Pierre Bon-Bon, I
say, had his failings, they were failings of very little
importance--faults indeed which in other tempers have often been
looked upon rather in the light of virtues. As regards one of these
foibles I should not have mentioned it in this history but for the
remarkable prominency--the extreme _alto relievo_ in which it jutted
out from the plane of his general disposition. Bon-Bon could never let
slip an opportunity of making a bargain.

Not that Bon-Bon was avaricious--no. It was by no means necessary to
the satisfaction of the philosopher, that the bargain should be to his
own proper advantage. Provided a trade could be effected--a trade of
any kind, upon any terms, or under any circumstances, a triumphant
smile was seen for many days thereafter to enlighten his countenance,
and a knowing wink of the eye to give evidence of his sagacity.

At any epoch it would not be very wonderful if a humor so peculiar as
the one I have just mentioned, should elicit attention and remark. At
the epoch of our narrative, had this peculiarity _not_ attracted
observation, there would have been room for wonder indeed. It was soon
reported that upon all occasions of the kind, the smile of Bon-Bon was
wont to differ widely from the downright grin with which that
Restaurateur would laugh at his own jokes, or welcome an acquaintance.
Hints were thrown out of an exciting nature--stories were told of
perilous bargains made in a hurry and repented of at leisure--and
instances were adduced of unaccountable capacities, vague longings,
and unnatural inclinations implanted by the author of all evil for
wise purposes of his own.

The philosopher had other weaknesses--but they are scarcely worthy of
our serious examination. For example, there are few men of
extraordinary profundity who are found wanting in an inclination for
the bottle. Whether this inclination be an exciting cause, or rather a
valid proof of such profundity, it is impossible to say. Bon-Bon, as
far as I can learn, did not think the subject adapted to minute
investigation--nor do I. Yet in the indulgence of a propensity so
truly classical, it is not to be supposed that the _Restaurateur_
would lose sight of that intuitive discrimination which was wont to
characterize, at one and the same time, his _Essais_ and his
_Omelettes_. With him Sauterne was to Medoc what Catullus was to
Homer. He would sport with a syllogism in sipping St. Peray, but
unravel an argument over Clos de Vougeot, and upset a theory in a
torrent of Chambertin. In his seclusions the Vin de Bourgogne had its
allotted hour, and there were appropriate moments for the Côtes du
Rhone. Well had it been if the same quick sense of propriety had
attended him in the peddling propensity to which I have formerly
alluded--but this was by no means the case. Indeed, to say the truth,
_that_ trait of mind in the philosophic Bon-Bon _did_ begin at length
to assume a character of strange intensity and mysticism, and, however
singular it may seem, appeared deeply tinctured with the grotesque
_diablerie_ of his favorite German studies.

To enter the little _Café_ in the _Cul de Sac_ Le Febvre was, at the
period of our tale, to enter the sanctum of a man of genius. Bon-Bon
was a man of genius. There was not a _sous-cuisinier_ in Rouen, who
could not have told you that Bon-Bon was a man of genius. His very cat
knew it, and forbore to whisk her tail in the presence of the man of
genius. His large water-dog was acquainted with the fact, and upon the
approach of his master, betrayed his sense of inferiority by a
sanctity of deportment, a debasement of the ears, and a dropping of
the lower jaw not altogether unworthy of a dog. It is, however, true
that much of this habitual respect might have been attributed to the
personal {694} appearance of the metaphysician. A distinguished
exterior will, I am constrained to say, have its weight even with a
beast; and I am willing to allow much in the outward man of the
_Restaurateur_ calculated to impress the imagination of the quadruped.
There is a peculiar majesty about the atmosphere of the little
great--if I may be permitted so equivocal an expression--which mere
physical bulk alone will be found at all times inefficient in
creating. If, however, Bon-Bon was barely three feet in height, and if
his head was diminutively small, still it was impossible to behold the
rotundity of his stomach without a sense of magnificence nearly
bordering upon the sublime. In its size both dogs and men must have
seen a type of his acquirements--in its immensity a fitting habitation
for his immortal soul.

I might here--if it so pleased me--dilate upon the matter of
habiliment, and other mere circumstances of the external
metaphysician. I might hint that the hair of our hero was worn short,
combed smoothly over his forehead, and surmounted by a conical-shaped
white flannel cap and tassels--that his pea-green jerkin was not after
the fashion of those worn by the common class of _Restaurateurs_ at
that day--that the sleeves were something fuller than the reigning
costume permitted--that the cuffs were turned up, not as usual in that
barbarous period, with cloth of the same quality and color as the
garment, but faced in a more fanciful manner with the particolored
velvet of Genoa--that his slippers were of a bright purple, curiously
filagreed, and might have been manufactured in Japan, but for the
exquisite pointing of the toes, and the brilliant tints of the binding
and embroidery--that his breeches were of the yellow satin-like
material called _aimable_--that his sky-blue cloak resembling in form
a dressing-wrapper, and richly bestudded all over with crimson
devices, floated cavalierly upon his shoulders like a mist of the
morning--and that his _tout ensemble_ gave rise to the remarkable
words of Benevenuta, the Improvisatrice of Florence, "that it was
difficult to say whether Pierre Bon-Bon was indeed a bird of Paradise,
or the rather a very Paradise of perfection."

I have said that "to enter the _Café_ in the _Cul-de-Sac_ Le Febvre
was to enter the sanctum of a man of genius"--but then it was only the
man of genius who could duly estimate the merits of the sanctum. A
sign consisting of a vast folio swung before the entrance. On one side
of the volume was painted a bottle--on the reverse a _Paté_. On the
back were visible in large letters the words _Æuvres de Bon-Bon_. Thus
was delicately shadowed forth the two-fold occupation of the
proprietor.

Upon stepping over the threshold the whole interior of the building
presented itself to view. A long, low-pitched room of antique
construction was indeed all the accommodation afforded by the _Café_
in the _Cul-de-Sac_ Le Febvre. In a corner of the apartment stood the
bed of the metaphysician. An array of curtains, together with a canopy
_à la Gréque_ gave it an air at once classic and comfortable. In the
corner diagonally opposite appeared, in direct and friendly communion,
the properties of the kitchen and the _bibliothéque_. A dish of
polemics stood peacefully upon the dresser. Here lay an oven-full of
the latest ethics--there a kettle of duodecimo _melanges_. Volumes of
German morality were hand and glove with the gridiron--a toasting fork
might be discovered by the side of Eusebius--Plato reclined at his
ease in the frying pan--and cotemporary manuscripts were filed away
upon the spit.

In other respects the _Café_ de Bon-Bon might be said to differ little
from the _Cafés_ of the period. A gigantic fire-place yawned opposite
the door. On the right of the fire-place an open cupboard displayed a
formidable array of labelled bottles. There Mousseux, Chambertin, St.
George, Richbourg, Bordeaux, Margaux, Haubrion, Leonville, Medoc,
Sauterne, Bârac, Preignac, Grave, Lafitte, and St. Peray contended
with many other names of lesser celebrity for the honor of being
quaffed. From the ceiling, suspended by a chain of very long slender
links, swung a fantastic iron lamp, throwing a hazy light over the
room, and relieving in some measure the placidity of the scene.

It was here, about twelve o'clock one night, during the severe winter
of ----, that Pierre Bon-Bon, after having listened for some time to
the comments of his neighbors upon his singular propensity--that
Pierre Bon-Bon, I say, having turned them all out of his house, locked
the door upon them with a _sacre Dieu_, and betook himself in no very
pacific mood to the comforts of a leather-bottomed arm-chair, and a
fire of blazing faggots.

It was one of those terrific nights which are only met with once or
twice during a century. The snow drifted down bodily in enormous
masses, and the _Café_ de Bon-Bon tottered to its very centre, with
the floods of wind that, rushing through the crannies in the wall, and
pouring impetuously down the chimney, shook awfully the curtains of
the philosopher's bed, and disorganized the economy of his Paté-pans
and papers. The huge folio sign that swung without, exposed to the
fury of the tempest, creaked ominously, and gave out a moaning sound
from its stanchions of solid oak.

I have said that it was in no very placid temper the metaphysician
drew up his chair to its customary station by the hearth. Many
circumstances of a perplexing nature had occurred during the day, to
disturb the serenity of his meditations. In attempting _Des Æufs à la
Princesse_ he had unfortunately perpetrated an _Omelette à la
Reine_--the discovery of a principle in Ethics had been frustrated by
the overturning of a stew--and last, not least, he had been thwarted
in one of those admirable bargains which he at all times took such
especial delight in bringing to a successful termination. But in the
chafing of his mind at these unaccountable vicissitudes, there did not
fail to be mingled a degree of that nervous anxiety which the fury of
a boisterous night is so well calculated to produce. Whistling to his
more immediate vicinity the large black water-dog we have spoken of
before, and settling himself uneasily in his chair, he could not help
casting a wary and unquiet eye towards those distant recesses of the
apartment whose inexorable shadows not even the red fire-light itself
could more than partially succeed in overcoming.

Having completed a scrutiny whose exact purpose was perhaps
unintelligible to himself, Bon-Bon drew closer to his seat a small
table covered with books and papers, and soon became absorbed in the
task of retouching a voluminous manuscript, intended for publication
on the morrow.

{695} "I am in no hurry, Monsieur Bon-Bon"--whispered a whining voice
in the apartment.

"The devil!"--ejaculated our hero, starting to his feet, overturning
the table at his side, and staring around him in astonishment.

"Very true"--calmly replied the voice.

"Very true!--what is very true?--how came you here?"--vociferated the
metaphysician, as his eye fell upon something which lay stretched at
full length upon the bed.

"I was saying"--said the intruder, without attending to Bon-Bon's
interrogatories--"I was saying that I am not at all pushed for
time--that the business upon which I took the liberty of calling is of
no pressing importance--in short that I can very well wait until you
have finished your Exposition."

"My Exposition!--there now!--how do _you_ know--how came _you_ to
understand that I was writing an Exposition?--good God!"

"Hush!"--replied the figure in a shrill under tone; and arising
quickly from the bed he made a single step towards our hero, while the
iron lamp overhead swung convulsively back from his approach.

The philosopher's amazement did not prevent a narrow scrutiny of the
stranger's dress and appearance. The outlines of a figure, exceedingly
lean, but much above the common height, were rendered minutely
distinct by means of a faded suit of black cloth which fitted tight to
the skin, but was otherwise cut very much in the style of a century
ago. These garments had evidently been intended _a priori_ for a much
shorter person than their present owner. His ankles and wrists were
left naked for several inches. In his shoes, however, a pair of very
brilliant buckles gave the lie to the extreme poverty implied by the
other portions of his dress. His head was bare, and entirely bald,
with the exception of the hinder part, from which depended a _queue_
of considerable length. A pair of green spectacles, with side glasses,
protected his eyes from the influence of the light, and at the same
time prevented our hero from ascertaining either their color or their
conformation. About the entire person there was no evidence of a
shirt; but a white cravat, of filthy appearance, was tied with extreme
precision around the throat, and the ends hanging down formally side
by side, gave, although I dare say unintentionally, the idea of an
ecclesiastic. Indeed, many other points both in his appearance and
demeanor might have very well sustained a conception of that nature.
Over his left ear he carried, after the fashion of a modern clerk, an
instrument resembling the _stylus_ of the ancients. In a breast-pocket
of his coat appeared conspicuously a small black volume fastened with
clasps of steel. This book, whether accidentally or not, was so turned
outwardly from the person as to discover the words "_Rituel
Catholique_" in white letters upon the back. His entire physiognomy
was interestingly saturnine--even cadaverously pale. The forehead was
lofty and deeply furrowed with the ridges of contemplation. The
corners of the mouth were drawn down into an expression of the most
submissive humility. There was also a clasping of the hands, as he
stepped towards our hero--a deep sigh--and altogether a look of such
utter sanctity as could not have failed to be unequivocally
prepossessing. Every shadow of anger faded from the countenance of the
metaphysician, as, having completed a satisfactory survey of his
visiter's person, he shook him cordially by the hand, and conducted
him to a seat.

There would however be a radical error in attributing this
instantaneous transition of feeling in the philosopher to any one of
those causes which might naturally be supposed to have had an
influence. Indeed Pierre Bon-Bon, from what I have been able to
understand of his disposition, was of all men the least likely to be
imposed upon by any speciousness of exterior deportment. It was
impossible that so accurate an observer of men and things should have
failed to discover, upon the moment, the real character of the
personage who had thus intruded upon his hospitality. To say no more,
the conformation of his visiter's feet was sufficiently
remarkable--there was a tremulous swelling in the hinder part of his
breeches--and the vibration of his coat tail was a palpable fact.
Judge then with what feelings of satisfaction our hero found himself
thrown thus at once into the society of a--of a person for whom he had
at all times entertained such unqualified respect. He was, however,
too much of the diplomatist to let escape him any intimation of his
suspicions, or rather--I should say--his certainty in regard to the
true state of affairs. It was not his cue to appear at all conscious
of the high honor he thus unexpectedly enjoyed, but by leading his
guest into conversation, to elicit some important ethical ideas which
might, in obtaining a place in his contemplated publication, enlighten
the human race, and at the same time immortalize himself--ideas which,
I should have added, his visiter's great age, and well known
proficiency in the science of Morals might very well have enabled him
to afford.

Actuated by these enlightened views our hero bade the gentleman sit
down, while he himself took occasion to throw some faggots upon the
fire, and place upon the now re-established table some bottles of the
powerful _Vin de Mousseux_. Having quickly completed these operations,
he drew his chair _vis a vis_ to his companion's, and waited until he
should open the conversation. But plans even the most skilfully
matured are often thwarted in the outset of their application, and the
_Restaurateur_ found himself entirely _nonplused_ by the very first
words of his visiter's speech.

"I see you know me, Bon-Bon,"--said he:--"ha! ha! ha!--he! he!
he!--hi! hi! hi!--ho! ho! ho!--hu! hu! hu!"--and the devil, dropping
at once the sanctity of his demeanor, opened to its fullest extent a
mouth from ear to ear so as to display a set of jagged, and fang-like
teeth, and throwing back his head, laughed long, loud, wickedly, and
uproariously, while the black dog crouching down upon his haunches
joined lustily in the chorus, and the tabby cat, flying off at a
tangent stood up on end and shrieked in the farthest corner of the
apartment.

Not so the philosopher: he was too much a man of the world either to
laugh like the dog, or by shrieks to betray the indecorous trepidation
of the cat. It must be confessed, however, that he felt a little
astonishment to see the white letters which formed the words "_Rituel
Catholique_" on the book in his guest's pocket momentarily changing
both their color and their import, and in a few seconds in place of
the original title, the words _Regitre des Condamnés_ blaze forth in
characters of red. This startling circumstance, when Bon-Bon replied
to {696} his visiter's remark, imparted to his manner an air of
embarrassment which might not probably have otherwise been observable.

"Why, sir,"--said the philosopher--"why, sir, to speak sincerely--I
believe you _are_--upon my word--the d----dest--that is to say I
think--I imagine--I _have_ some faint--some _very_ faint idea--of the
remarkable honor----"

"Oh!--ah!--yes!--very well!"--interrupted his majesty--"say no more--I
see how it is." And hereupon, taking off his green spectacles, he
wiped the glasses carefully with the sleeve of his coat, and deposited
them in his pocket.

If Bon-Bon had been astonished at the incident of the book, his
amazement was now increased to an intolerable degree by the spectacle
which here presented itself to view. In raising his eyes, with a
strong feeling of curiosity to ascertain the color of his guest's, he
found them by no means black, as he had anticipated--nor gray, as
might have been imagined--nor yet hazel nor blue--nor indeed yellow,
nor red--nor purple--nor white--nor green--nor any other color in the
heavens above, or in the earth beneath, or in the waters under the
earth. In short Pierre Bon-Bon not only saw plainly that his majesty
had no eyes whatsoever, but could discover no indications of their
having existed at any previous period, for the space where eyes should
naturally have been, was, I am constrained to say, simply a dead level
of cadaverous flesh.

It was not in the nature of the metaphysician to forbear making some
inquiry into the sources of so strange a phenomenon, and to his
surprise the reply of his majesty was at once prompt, dignified, and
satisfactory.

"Eyes!--my dear Bon-Bon, eyes! did you say?--oh! ah! I perceive. The
ridiculous prints, eh? which are in circulation, have given you a
false idea of my personal appearance. Eyes!!--true. Eyes, Pierre
Bon-Bon, are very well in their proper place--_that_, you would say,
is the head--right--the head of a worm. To _you_ likewise these optics
are indispensable--yet I will convince you that my vision is more
penetrating than your own. There is a cat, I see, in the corner--a
pretty cat!--look at her!--observe her well. Now, Bon-Bon, do you
behold the thoughts--the thoughts, I say--the ideas--the
reflections--engendering in her pericranium?

"There it is now!--you do not. She is thinking we admire the
profundity of her mind. She has just concluded that I am the most
distinguished of ecclesiastics, and that you are the most superfluous
of metaphysicians. Thus you see I am not altogether blind: but to one
of my profession the eyes you speak of would be merely an incumbrance,
liable at any time to be put out by a toasting iron or a pitchfork. To
you, I allow, these optics are indispensable. Endeavor, Bon-Bon, to
use them well--_my_ vision is the soul."

Hereupon the guest helped himself to the wine upon the table, and
pouring out a bumper for Bon-Bon, requested him to drink it without
scruple, and make himself perfectly at home.

"A clever book that of yours, Pierre"--resumed his majesty, tapping
our friend knowingly upon the shoulder, as the latter set down his
glass after a thorough compliance with this injunction.

"A clever book that of yours, upon my honor. It's a work after my own
heart. Your arrangement of matter, I think, however, might be
improved, and many of your notions remind me of Aristotle. That
philosopher was one of my most intimate acquaintances. I liked him as
much for his terrible ill temper, as for his happy knack at making a
blunder. There is only one solid truth in all that he has written, and
for that I gave him the hint out of pure compassion for his absurdity.
I suppose, Pierre Bon-Bon, you very well know to what divine moral
truth I am alluding."

"Cannot say that I----"

"Indeed!--why I told Aristotle that by sneezing men expelled
superfluous ideas through the proboscis."

"Which is--hiccup!--undoubtedly the case"--said the metaphysician,
while he poured out for himself another bumper of Mousseux, and
offered his snuff-box to the fingers of his visiter.

"There was Plato too"--continued his majesty, modestly declining the
snuff-box and the compliment--"there was Plato, too, for whom I, at
one time, felt all the affection of a friend. You knew Plato,
Bon-Bon?--ah! no, I beg a thousand pardons. He met me at Athens, one
day, in the Parthenon, and told me he was distressed for an idea. I
bade him write down that '_o nous estin augos_.' He said that he would
do so, and went home, while I stepped over to the Pyramids. But my
conscience smote me for the lie, and, hastening back to Athens, I
arrived behind the philosopher's chair as he was inditing the
'_augos_.' Giving the gamma a fillip with my finger I turned it upside
down. So the sentence now reads '_o nous estin aulos_,' and is, you
perceive, the fundamental doctrine of his metaphysics."

"Were you ever at Rome?"--asked the _Restaurateur_ as he finished his
second bottle of Mousseux, and drew from the closet a larger supply of
Vin de Chambertin.

"But once, Monsieur Bon-Bon--but once. There was a time"--said the
devil, as if reciting some passage from a book--"'there was an anarchy
of five years during which the republic, bereft of all its officers,
had no magistracy besides the tribunes of the people, and these were
not legally vested with any degree of executive power'--at that time,
Monsieur Bon-Bon--at that time _only_ I was in Rome, and I have no
earthly acquaintance, consequently, with any of its philosophy."[1]

[Footnote 1: Ils ecrivalent sur la Philosophie (_Cicero_, _Lucretius_,
_Seneca_) mais c'etait la Philosophie Grécque.--_Condorcet_.]

"What do you think of Epicurus?--what do you think
of--hiccup!--Epicurus?"

"What do I think of _whom_?"--said the devil in astonishment--"you
cannot surely mean to find any fault with Epicurus! What do I think of
Epicurus! Do you mean me, sir?--_I_ am Epicurus. I am the same
philosopher who wrote each of the three hundred treatises commemorated
by Diogenes Laertes."

"That's a lie!"--said the metaphysician, for the wine had gotten a
little into his head.

"Very well!--very well, sir!--very well indeed, sir"--said his
majesty.

"That's a lie!"--repeated the Restaurateur dogmatically--"that's
a--hiccup!--lie!"

"Well, well! have it your own way"--said the devil pacifically: and
Bon-Bon, having beaten his majesty at an argument, thought it his duty
to conclude a second bottle of Chambertin.

{697} "As I was saying"--resumed the visiter--"as I was observing a
little while ago, there are some very _outré_ notions in that book of
yours, Monsieur Bon-Bon. What, for instance, do you mean by all that
humbug about the soul? Pray, sir, what is the soul?"

"The--hiccup!--soul"--replied the metaphysician, referring to his MS.
"is undoubtedly"--

"No, sir!"

"Indubitably"--

"No, sir!"

"Indisputably"--

"No, sir!"

"Evidently"--

"No, sir!"

"Incontrovertibly"--

"No, sir!"

"Hiccup!"--

"No, sir!"

"And beyond all question a"--

"No, sir! the soul is no such thing." (Here the philosopher finished
his third bottle of Chambertin.)

"Then--hic-cup!--pray--sir--what--what is it?"

"That is neither here nor there, Monsieur Bon-Bon," replied his
majesty, musingly. "I have tasted--that is to say I have known some
very bad souls, and some too--pretty good ones." Here the devil licked
his lips, and, having unconsciously let fall his hand upon the volume
in his pocket, was seized with a violent fit of sneezing.

His majesty continued.

"There was the soul of
Cratinus--passable:--Aristophanes--racy:--Plato--exquisite:--not
_your_ Plato, but Plato the comic poet: your Plato would have turned
the stomach of Cerberus--faugh! Then let me see! there were Noevius,
and Andronicus, and Plautus, and Terentius. Then there were Lucilius,
and Catullus, and Naso, and Quintius Flaccus--dear Quinty! as I called
him when he sung a _seculare_ for my amusement, while I toasted him in
pure good humor on a fork. But they want _flavor_ these Romans. One
fat Greek is worth a dozen of them, and besides will _keep_, which
cannot be said of a Quirite. Let us taste your Sauterne."

Bon-Bon had by this time made up his mind to the _nil admirari_, and
endeavored to hand down the bottles in question. He was, however,
conscious of a strange sound in the room like the wagging of a tail.
Of this, although extremely indecent in his majesty, the philosopher
took no notice--simply kicking the black water dog and requesting him
to be quiet. The visiter continued.

"I found that Horace tasted very much like Aristotle--you know I am
fond of variety. Terentius I could not have told from Menander. Naso,
to my astonishment, was Nicander in disguise. Virgilius had a strong
twang of Theocritus. Martial put me much in mind of Archilochus--and
Titus Livy was positively Polybius and none other."

"Hic--cup!"--here replied Bon-Bon, and his majesty proceeded.

"But if I _have a penchant_, Monsieur Bon-Bon,--if I _have a
penchant_, it is for a philosopher. Yet let me tell you, sir, it is
not every dev-- I mean it is not every gentleman who knows how to
_choose_ a philosopher. Long ones are _not_ good, and the best, if not
carefully shelled, are apt to be a little rancid on account of the
gall."

"Shelled!!"

"I mean taken out of the carcass."

"What do you think of a--hiccup!--physician?"

"_Don't_ mention them!--ugh! ugh!" (Here his majesty retched
violently.) "I never tasted but one--that rascal Hippocrates!--smelt
of asafoetida--ugh! ugh! ugh!--caught a wretched cold washing him in
the Styx--and after all he gave me the cholera morbus."

"The--hiccup!--wretch!"--ejaculated Bon-Bon--"the--hic-cup!--abortion
of a pill-box!"--and the philosopher dropped a tear.

"After all"--continued the visiter--"after all, if a dev-- if a
gentleman wishes to _live_ he must have more talents than one or two,
and with us a fat face is an evidence of diplomacy."

"How so?"

"Why we are sometimes exceedingly pushed for provisions. You must know
that in a climate so sultry as mine, it is frequently impossible to
keep a spirit alive for more than two or three hours; and after death,
unless pickled immediately, (and a pickled spirit is _not_ good,) they
will--smell--you understand, eh? Putrefaction is always to be
apprehended when the spirits are consigned to us in the usual way."

"Hiccup!--hiccup!--good God! how _do_ you manage?"

Here the iron lamp commenced swinging with redoubled violence, and the
devil half started from his seat--however with a slight sigh he
recovered his composure, merely saying to our hero in a low tone, "I
tell you what, Pierre Bon-Bon, we _must_ have no more swearing."

Bon-Bon swallowed another bumper, and his visiter continued.

"Why there are _several_ ways of managing. The most of us starve: some
put up with the pickle. For my part I purchase my spirits _vivente
corpore_, in which case I find they keep very well."

"But the body!--hiccup!--the body!!!"--vociferated the philosopher, as
he finished a bottle of Sauterne.

"The body, the body--well what of the body?--oh! ah! I perceive. Why,
sir, the body is not _at all_ affected by the transaction. I have made
innumerable purchases of the kind in my day, and the parties never
experienced any inconvenience. There were Cain, and Nimrod, and Nero,
and Caligula, and Dionysius, and Pisistratus, and--and a thousand
others, who never knew what it was to have a soul during the latter
part of their lives; yet, sir, these men adorned society. Why is'nt
there A----, now, whom you know as well as I? Is _he_ not in
possession of all his faculties, mental and corporeal? Who writes a
keener epigram? Who reasons more wittily? Who----but, stay! I have his
agreement in my pocket-book."

Thus saying he produced a red leather wallet, and took from it a
number of papers. Upon some of these Bon-Bon caught a glimpse of the
letters MACHI----, MAZA----, RICH----, and the words CALIGULA and
ELIZABETH. His majesty selected a narrow slip of parchment, and from
it read aloud the following words:

"In consideration of certain mental endowments which it is unnecessary
to specify; and in farther {698} consideration of one thousand _louis
d'or_, I, being aged one year and one month, do hereby make over to
the bearer of this agreement all my right, title, and appurtenance in
the shadow called my soul." (Signed) A----[2] (Here his majesty
repeated a name which I do not feel myself justifiable in indicating
more unequivocally.)

[Footnote 2: Quære--Arouet?--_Editor_.]

"A clever fellow that A----"--resumed he; "but like you, Monsieur
Bon-Bon, he was mistaken about the soul. The soul a shadow truly!--no
such nonsense, Monsieur Bon-Bon. The soul a shadow!! ha! ha! ha!--he!
he! he!--hu! hu! hu! Only think of a fricasséed shadow!"

"_Only_ think--hiccup!--of a f-r-i-c-a-s-s-e-e-d s-h-a-d-ow!!" echoed
our hero, whose faculties were becoming gloriously illuminated by the
profundity of his majesty's discourse.

"Only think of a--hiccup!--fricasseed shadow!!! Now
damme!--hiccup!--humph!--if _I_ would have been such
a--hiccup!--nincompoop! _My_ soul, Mr.--humph!"

"_Your_ soul, Monsieur Bon-Bon?"

"Yes, sir--hiccup!--_my_ soul is"--

"What, sir!"

"_No_ shadow, damme!"

"Did not mean to say"--

"Yes, sir, _my_ soul is--hiccup!--humph!--yes, sir."

"Did not intend to assert"--

"_My_ soul is--hiccup!--peculiarly qualified for--hiccup!--a"--

"What, sir?"

"Stew."

"Ha!"

"Souflée."

"Eh?"

"Fricassée."

"Indeed!"

"Ragout or Fricandeau--and I'll let you have it--hiccup!--a bargain."

"Could'nt think of such a thing," said his majesty calmly, at the same
time arising from his seat. The metaphysician stared.

"Am supplied at present," said his majesty.

"Hiccup!--e-h?"--said the philosopher.

"Have no funds on hand."

"What!"

"Besides, very ungentlemanly in me"--

"Sir!"

"To take advantage of"--

"Hiccup!"

"Your present situation."

Here his majesty bowed and withdrew--in what manner the philosopher
could not precisely ascertain--but in a well-concerted effort to
discharge a bottle at "the villain," the slender chain was severed
that depended from the ceiling, and the metaphysician prostrated by
the downfall of the lamp.




THE UNITIES.


Aristotle's name is supposed to be authority for the three unities.
The only one of which he speaks decisively is the unity of action.
With regard to the unity of time he merely throws out an indefinite
hint. Of the unity of place not one word does he say.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES IN REMEMBRANCE OF THOS. H. WHITE,

Who died in Richmond, Va. October 7, 1832, aged 19 years.


    When nations prosper, they grow proud and vain,
  And give the reins to luxury and pleasure,
  Spurn their Creator and defy his power:
  To check their pride, Jehovah from his throne,
  Scatters his judgments o'er a guilty world.
  Forth from that idol land, where on the Ganges,
  The Mother to false Gods devotes her offspring,
  Or mounts the funeral pile--o'er half the earth
  Speedeth the Pestilence. Nor cold, nor heat,
  Mountains nor seasons can its course arrest.
  Realm after realm hath bowed beneath its power,
  Till o'er the vast Atlantic to our shores
  It brings the work of death. In early life
  I fell a victim to this deadly foe.
    Thanks to that blessed volume, which hath brought
  Light, Life and Immortality to Man,
  Death has no terror to the heir of heaven--
  It is the portal to his Father's throne.
  This world is full of care, and toil, and suff'ring;
  Its joys are transient, vain and fleeting all,
  Illusive as a shadow. Happy he
  At peace with God, who quits it earliest
  For purer bliss. Rather rejoice than mourn
  That I so soon have earth exchanged for heaven.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A MANIAC'S ADDRESS TO THE MOON.


  Thou pale!--thou beautiful!--to thee I kneel,
    Watching thy wandering thro' yon dark blue sky
  In silent gaze--as if my heart could feel
    Deep adoration for thee, and was nigh
  To a bright being that had look'd on me
  Ev'n from the first days of my infancy.

  Is it not so? Near to those yellow shores
    Where roll my native streams, oh! hast thou not
  Seen my young pleasures, when our busy oars
    O'er the cool wave at dusky night would sport
  On that bright pathway where thy silvery beam
  Fell beautiful upon the glossy stream.

  When thou didst rise at evening's twilight hour,
    A mighty crescent o'er the broken tower,
  Then would I wander 'neath the crumbling wall,
    Or chase my playmates thro' the ruined hall,
  Nor fearing any Spectre-Knight would play
  His frightful gambols in thy harmless ray.

  Away--away!--and when we there did sweep
    The deep black billows of the roaring ocean,
  Still high amid the heavens thou didst keep
    Steady and bright; and with a wild emotion
  Guiarra trembling did look up to thee
  To guide him safely o'er that dismal sea,
  And kindly light his weary hands to spread
  The rattling canvass o'er his giddy head.

  These skies are foreign, and I tread the ground
    My fathers saw not: yet while thou art flinging
  Upon the hills, the woods, the vales around
    Thy gentle beam, ev'n though my heart be clinging {699}
  To other lands, still it can hold most dear
  This stranger home since it can meet thee here.

  We'll climb yon hill--we'll wander o'er yon plain--
    We'll skim yon lake: Moon! we will roam together
  Till mother earth call home her child again:
    Then part we!--part we! fair Moon!--aye, for ever!
  'Tis not for a bright thing like thee to glow
  In the deep shades where the departed go.

  Yet thou canst look upon the road that leads
    To my far dwelling place: there will be flowers
  And fresh green blades, and moss, and harmless weeds
    To point the passage. Oh! at midnight hours
  Wilt thou not smile upon those things that bloom
  All wild, all heedlessly above my tomb?

  I sit, and weave beneath thy gentle light
    A wreath of cypress and of roses bright,
  And ere it wither, or its glow be fled,
    I'll gaily bind it round my dying head.
  'Twill still the throbbing of my fever'd brow
    To wear those flowers pluck'd from the tender stem
  Where they were springing beautiful--and thou
  As beautiful wast shining above _them_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO AN INFANT NEPHEW IN ENGLAND.

By the late Mrs. ANN ROY, of Mathews county, Virginia.


  Tho' Ocean's _pride_ be thy home, my boy,
  I have heard thy laugh of infant joy;
  Tho' Albion's breezes fan thy rest,
  I have seen thee smile on thy mother's breast.

  Like the forms that float in the summer heaven,
  Fair Fancy's dreams have often given
  Thy cherub beauty to my sight
  Than those fairy tints more soft, more bright.

  Yes, I have watched in sleep thine eye,
  More darkly blue than the starlit sky,
  By thy fringed lids now hid--now beaming
  Like harebells mid a snow-wreath gleaming.

  And I've longed thy ruby lip to press,
  And I've sighed thy sunny brow to bless,
  And to teach thee thy father's land to love,
  So come o'er the wave, my island dove!

  For here the sun doth brightly beam
  Mid the feathery foam of the mountain stream,
  And o'er the lake's clear beautiful face,
  The dark trees bend with a shadowy grace.

  And in rosy bowers the Eglantine
  With the golden blossoms of Jasmine twine,
  And the fruits and flowers wear a brighter hue,
  And the heavens look on us more cloudlessly blue;

  And from each hearth at the quiet even,
  The voice of prayer ascends to heaven;
  And the wild birds carol with joyous glee,
  In our own fair land of the happy and free.

  Come list to the music of every rill,
  Which sends through our bosoms a magical thrill;
  Dream not of the depths of the dark blue sea,
  For the heavens will surely smile on thee.

  Sweet scion of Columbia's race,
  Come to thy kindred's fond embrace!
  Come to the land once thy parents home,
  Never again from her shores to roam!




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES.

BY ALEX. LACEY BEARD.


  O! there are many brilliant things
    To light this darksome life,
  And many bright imaginings
    With wild enjoyment rife.
  The flashing of the sparkling stream--
    The billows bounding free--
  The glittering of the sunny beam
    Upon the dark green sea.
  The lightning flash that rends the air--
    The meteor's dazzling light
  That fiercely gleams with fitful glare
    Amid the starless night.

  And there are many lovely things
    That grace the smiling earth--
  The gushing of a thousand springs--
    The laughing streamlet's mirth--
  The swift deer bounding through the wood--
    The merry singing bird;--
  Its sweet tones in the solitude
    Of lonely forests heard.
  The greenwood and the grassy plain--
    The silent mountain glen
  Where nature sways her wild domain,
    Far from the haunts of men.

  The mountain where the cedars high
    Bend to the passing breeze--
  The murm'ring pines that softly sigh--
    The music of the trees--
  The sparkling dew-drop on the grass--
    The river's golden sand--
  The flitting of the shades which pass
    In grandeur o'er the land.
  The whippoorwill's sad cry at night,
    Heard from some lonely dell--
  The streaming of the pale moonlight,
    Old nature's magic spell.

  The rainbow's arch that spans the sky--
    The shining stars above--
  The glancing of a kindling eye--
    The tones of one we love.
  The glowing kiss all fondly pressed
    On lips both warm and true--
  The beating of a tender breast,
    Which only throbs for you.
  These gild with sunshine and delight
    The paths of life, and throw
  Upon its darkling streams a bright,
    And never fading glow.




By what _bizzarrerie_ does it happen that Sardanapalus is discovered
in Greek literature under the name of Tenos Concoleros?


{700}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXTRACTS FROM MY MEXICAN JOURNAL.

Visit to Tescuco--Bath of Tescusingo--Otumba--Aqueduct of
Zempoala--Agave Americana--Pyramids of Teotihuacán.


DECEMBER 25, 1825. Mr. P. and myself left Mexico at half past nine
this morning for _Tescuco_. We travelled in a Mexican coach, equipped
in the usual style, and loaded with the usual encumbrances of beds,
&c. Following the road which leads towards _Vera Cruz_ as far as the
little Indian town of _Los Reyes_, we there left it to cross the dry
bed of the lake of _Tescuco_, upon the border of which we had been
riding, to the small village of _La Magdalena_; and soon reached a
pretty and well cultivated country, strewed thickly with villages and
farmhouses (_haciendas_). After passing Chiquluapa and Quautlalpa, we
again were in view of the lake, which an intervening ridge had
intercepted. On the left, less than a league from Tescuco, is the fine
_hacienda_ of Chapingo, owned by the Marquis of Vivanco. Between this
and the town, we passed what is called "El puente de los
Bergantines"--a pile of strongly cemented stone, through which the
road is cut, presenting not the slightest resemblance to a bridge. But
this is classic ground, for here Cortes is said to have launched his
vessels into the lake upon that memorable occasion which preceded the
destruction and capture of the seat of the Mexican Empire. On entering
a place so celebrated in the histories of the Conquest, the wretched
adobe-built houses near the gate of the town, might well diminish the
enthusiasm of the traveller and the antiquarian, were not his
attention caught by a large artificial pile, now in ruins, without the
gate to the right. Every thing connected with this remarkable people
is interesting, even although the remaining vestiges are too slight to
enable one to trace them distinctly and satisfactorily. Such is the
nature of this ruin; but the presumption may not be altogether
unfounded, that this was the site of an ancient temple, and perhaps
the centre of this once great city.

We arrived at two o'clock, the distance from Mexico being seven
leagues by the route we were obliged to travel, but only five across
the lake. After an introduction to the ladies of the house, to which
we had been kindly invited, we were conducted to the cock-pit, where
we were presented to our host. We found it filled with men, women, and
children, all taking a lively interest in the scene; but as we were
less ardent sportsmen, we soon left the place, eager to commence our
rambles in search of antiquities.

We were directed first to the Aduana--custom house--in the _patio_ or
court of which lay a coiled rattlesnake, tolerably well sculptured out
of a block of gray porphyry--its head, however, appeared
disproportionally large. It still wears the mark of paint, although it
has been exposed many years to the weather. Several other figures were
shown to us--one a female with a finely turned shoulder--another was
the arms of Spain, made probably shortly after the conquest--the rest
were imperfect. Thence we were conducted to a house, outside the door
of which was planted for a seat, a part of a human figure, of large
size. In the degraded position it occupied, we could form no opinion
of its excellence.

Thence we strolled to what is called the palace of the Tescucan kings.
Its site fills the western side of the _Plaza_. Traces of its great
extent are every where visible, but not clearly defined, for the
ground it covered has been long cultivated, and a part of it is
planted in _magueyes_. Several large stones still retain the position
they must have occupied in the edifice--those which no doubt formed a
corner, being squared and cut nicely, in a manner which would not be
discreditable to the workmen of the present day in Mexico. At regular
distances of about fifteen feet were placed others, the upper surfaces
of which are rounded irregularly. In an excavation distant a few paces
is a portion of a column, so covered that we could not discover its
dimensions. If a conjecture can be hazarded, these stones were parts
of corridors, supported by stone columns--possibly an excavation may
disclose apartments below. It is, however, futile to form plans upon
such insufficient data. The cutting of a ditch through the western
section of the ruins, has exposed to view stones curiously scooped
out, as if for the use of the founder; and near the centre of the
square is another of a different figure, cut apparently for the same
purpose--perhaps to mould a kettle which should rest on three corners
or feet--the bottom hollowed. We continued our investigations until
nearly dark, when we walked to the church of _San Francisco_, near by,
in the pavement before the door of which, are several of these
anciently wrought stones--some of very large dimensions--one is
circular with a carved surface, but so much worn that we could not
trace its figures.

The walls of the fortress which Cortes is represented to have
constructed for his quarters, were next shown to us. Their height is
about twenty feet--their width at the base about six or seven,
decreasing towards the top. Some pronounce this the work of a more
remote age, but the manner of its construction is sufficient evidence
to the contrary. That it is a work of the Conqueror is a more
reasonable conjecture, though even this is beset with difficulties.
The time Cortes is said to have occupied the city of _Tescuco_,
appears too short to have completed so huge a building: to this,
however, it may be said, that he possessed ample means, with so many
thousand Indians under his orders. But where was the necessity of
raising such strong walls against adversaries so feeble, when, without
so much severe labor, he {701} might have defended himself equally
well, and in the event of his being compelled to abandon it, he would
have encountered less difficulty in recovering possession of it?

Thence we proceeded some distance--the moon shone brightly--to see
other remains of an ancient structure, but being unsuccessful in our
search, we returned to the house of our kind friends, the Camperos.

The town of _Tescuco_ now contains about 5,000 inhabitants--the houses
are of one story only--with regular but unpaved streets, not very
neat. Its modern mediocrity must contrast strongly with its ancient
magnificence, if the early historians of Mexico are to be credited.
During the revolution a ditch was dug around it, in order to repel the
attacks of cavalry. It was assailed several times, and suffered some
injury. It is by no means a pretty town, but is situated amid a pretty
country, and supplied with good water.

DEC. 26. We appointed to-day to visit the mountain of _Tescusingo_.
Before setting out, we made another circuit about the town, and found
on a wall in front of one of the churches, a circular stone, the
circumference of which was curiously carved. Near the northwestern
corner of the _Plaza_ is a well constructed arch of _tetzontli_,
cemented with lime, which had been discovered in opening a ditch--the
extent and purpose of it are alike unknown. We next visited the house
of the Most Holy Trinity, La Casa de la Santissima Trinidad, to
examine an arch of stone, said to have been taken from the ruins of
the palace. Its figure is beautiful--the whole is well wrought--and
would do credit to any edifice. If an antique, of which there seems
very little doubt, it proves beyond any thing I have yet seen, the
civilized state which the Indians of Mexico had attained prior to the
conquest. The arch of three pieces, and four stones which support it,
believed to have once formed a portal in the palace, are perfect. The
latter now are the sides of an entrance to a stable, the arch lies
neglected in the yard--two stones are wanting to complete the supports
to the arch.

We continued our walk to the ruins of an extensive building, upon
which are growing numerous plants of the _maguey_. The layers of
cement are seen distinctly--very smooth and hard. An old woman who
lives near, has collected large pieces of this cement with which she
has paved the _patio_ of her house; so solid is it, that one of our
companions believed it to be stone, until he had tested it with the
hammer.

At eleven o'clock we set out in our coach for the mountain distant
near two leagues to the eastward of _Tescuco_. About a quarter of a
mile from the town, we observed two circular carved stones which we
had not time to examine. After riding a league over the plain, we
stopped at the Molino de las Flores--mill of flowers--a most romantic
spot. Great labor has been expended upon the race for conducting the
water to the mill from the natural dam of rocks, over which the stream
during the rainy season, dashes in torrents into a rugged bed. The
plain from thence to the foot of the mountain being broken by deep
_barrancas_--gullies--our carriage was unable to proceed farther. We
were, therefore, compelled to walk, against our inclinations, for the
sun was scorching, and we were aware of the labor we must encounter in
the ascent of the mountain.

A walk of two miles brought us to the foot of the mountain of
Tescusingo, the steep sides of which covered with _nopal_,[1] we began
to climb slowly. After winding about midway up on the western side,
our guide conducted us to the mouth of an apparently artificial
cavern, with an entrance about six feet high--descending a dozen steps
it takes a new direction. Having no lights we were obliged to leave it
unexplored. Continuing to ascend, we passed towards the southern
declivity, and soon met with cement, which in various parts of the
mountain denotes extensive remains of ancient edifices--with walls
constructed of _tetzontli_--and particularly with a large square stone
hollowed neatly like a drain; and a reservoir for water appeared to
have existed below it. We were now about three-fourths of the distance
up the mountain, and had attained a terrace, along which we walked to
the _Bath of Tescusingo_--the chief object of our visit. This
remarkable work is cut out of a solid rock--hard feldspar
porphyry--which hangs like a bird's nest upon the steep side, which
faces to the south. An irregular platform of seven feet and a half
diameter appears to have been first cut into the rock--the sides of
the rock forming a wall smooth on the inside, nearly two feet and a
half high, the outside left as nature made it--in the centre of this
platform a circular bath is cut out, with a diameter of four feet
seven inches, two feet deep, with two steps to descend into it. A
perforation in one part of the platform shows where the water was
admitted, and it escaped from the bath by a cleft which extends from
top to bottom. The bath was probably covered with a roof--cavities in
the rock seeming to indicate where posts once stood.

[Footnote 1: _Nopal_, a species of cactus.]

The view from this spot is the most beautiful that could have been
selected on the mountain; and warmed by the sun, and sheltered from
the winds of the north, it was, also, the most delightful. The city of
Mexico is seen distinctly, the lake of _Tescuco_ and populous plains
intervening, in the southwest; and to the south rise the snowy
mountains of _Puebla_.

From the bath, we continued our walk along the terrace, upon which
still exist traces of an aqueduct, which, at the eastern extremity of
{702} _Tescusingo_, crossed from the contiguous mountain upon an
artificial pile of stone, conveying water, we were informed, a
distance of seven or eight leagues. We were yet several hundred feet
from the top. Ascending farther, we encountered other remains of
structures, and came to a levelled surface about fifty feet square.
All these are convincing proofs of the numerous edifices which once
existed upon this mountain, but we must ever remain ignorant of their
nature and purpose. Upon the summit, which commands a fine view of the
surrounding country, is a rock of huge size, in which seats have been
cut.

In our descent on the northern side, which is very rough and steep, we
discovered accidentally a flight of seven steps cut out of a single
rock--of these, our guide, an Indian antiquarian of _Tescuco_, had
heretofore been ignorant. Many objects worthy of investigation will no
doubt reward those who should diligently extend their researches upon
the mountain of _Tescusingo_. We reached the foot without further
incident, and rejoined our carriage at the mill, much fatigued with
our ramble under a burning sun. Soon after four we were again under
the roof of our kind host.

After dinner, our friend, Don Nicolas Campero, conducted us to the
ruins which I have already mentioned to be just without the gate of
the town. Their structure and extent are marked by the revolutionary
trenches which surround them. The occasional layers of cement are
perpendicular as well as horizontal, and between them are laid
_adobes_--unburnt bricks--which compose the work. Judging from
appearances, it would not be rash, perhaps, to conjecture that this
was the site of the Great Temple, which, we are assured, was always
constructed upon eminences like this. Its distance from the palace
amply proves the extent of the ancient city of _Tescuco_ to have been
very great.

DEC. 27. After breakfast, we rode a league to see the
_ahuahuetes_[2]--cypress trees--of large dimensions, some of them are
not less than fifty feet in circumference. A large edifice, it is
believed, stood once in the midst of them. There are traces of
buildings. The regularity with which these trees are disposed, proves,
beyond a doubt, that they were planted. They are so regular, that in
order to enclose three sides of a square it was necessary to lay a few
_adobes_ only between them. Two rows of these trees form a long
street. This grove of _ahuahuetes_ is seen distinctly from the city of
Mexico, their deep green contrasting strongly with the dry and open
plain which surrounds them.

[Footnote 2: _Cupressus disticha_. The largest tree known of this
description is at the village of Atlixco, in the state of Puebla. It
is in circumference 23.3 metres, or 76½ English feet.--_Humb. New
Spain_, _l. 3. c. 8, p. 154. Ed. of 1827_.]

We employed the afternoon in revisiting the antiquities of _Tescuco_.
We were also conducted to the garden belonging to the convent of San
Francisco, where a remarkable carved stone lies neglected under a
tree. It is round and represents a man, whose nose is prodigious, in a
kneeling attitude, holding something--what it is we could not
discover--in his hands; behind him is another figure, which defied all
our efforts to decipher it.

At night, we accompanied the young ladies of the house to a ball given
by the principal merchant of the town. The room was filled with men,
women, and cigar smoke. This compelled us to make an early retreat,
for our eyes were not yet insensible to its effect.

DEC. 28. After an early breakfast, and the completion of some repairs
to our coach, we took leave of the excellent family who had
entertained us most hospitably. We now directed our steps towards
_Otumba_. Passing several small villages--some of them are very
picturesque, with their enclosures of the _cactus cylindricus_, which
grows to the height of fifteen or eighteen feet--the country became
barren and uninteresting, until we reached the fine hacienda of _San
Antonio_. Here we deviated from the direct route, but were compensated
for the loss of time by the sight of an extensive stone wall, built to
contain water for the purpose of irrigating the estate, and for the
use of the cattle. This large _presa_--or pond--was the work of the
Jesuits, who formerly owned the finest property in New Spain, and who
were sagacious and industrious in improving their possessions.
Retracing our steps, we passed the extensive buildings of _San
Antonio_, leaving immediately upon our left its beautiful wheat
fields, which the laborers were then engaged in watering. This is the
dry season, and wheat will grow only where it can be irrigated
frequently.

Beyond the village of _San Pedro_, we ascended the _tepetate_[3]
lomes--_lomas_--of the eastern side of the plain of Mexico, upon which
soil the roads are always worn deep and rough. On arriving at the
summit of a low ridge which we were crossing, the Pyramids of
Teotihuacán unexpectedly presented themselves to our view. Though
ignorant that we were so near to them, yet we could not mistake them,
their figure is still so well preserved, whilst centuries have rolled
away since their construction.

[Footnote 3: A hard white clay peculiar to the plains of Mexico,
devoid of vegetation, and very painful to the eyes under a burning
sun. The _lomas_ are the rising ground between the plains and the
mountains.]

Leaving the pyramids and village of San Juan de Teotihuacán to our
left, we travelled on two leagues farther to _Otumba_, where we
arrived at three o'clock, having been six hours on the road from
_Tescuco_. We were told the distance was only seven leagues. It is
true we once lost our way, and our kicking mules occasioned some {703}
detention, but I think another league may be safely added.

A gentleman of _Otumba_, to whom we had brought a letter of
introduction, being unfortunately absent, we were directed to the only
_meson_--public house--in the place, where we took a hasty meal in the
kitchen, having, in the mean time, sent our letter to the gentleman's
brother, who might, we thought, aid us in our research for
antiquities. But this man sent us an uncourteous answer, and we
sallied out in quest of the curate, who was absent also; but we found
what perhaps was better--a remnant of an ancient column in the
churchyard. We met a well dressed man, from whom we expected to glean
some information. He proved to be a stupid lay-priest, who knew
nothing of the existence of any antique in _Otumba_, but he undertook
to inquire at a store near the _plaza_. Those he asked were as
ignorant as himself; but our foreign appearance having by this time
excited some curiosity, several of the inhabitants collected around
us, and learning our wish to find an ancient column which we
understood to exist there, conducted us to the centre of the _plaza_,
where the object of our search was lying prostrate. It is a column of
reddish sand stone, the base, and a portion of the shaft only
remaining, the entire length of which is eight feet two inches. The
shaft is an octagon of unequal sides, and carved with diamond figures
interchained with each other. The lower part of the shaft, one foot
and a half next the base, is of a bulbous figure, also carved. The
diameter of the column is one foot and three quarters. In another
spot, a cleft fragment was shown, seven feet two inches long, said to
have formed a part of the column above described--if so, augmenting
its entire length to fifteen and a half feet, without the capital, of
which we could discover no traces. We were told that this column,
previously to the revolution, was standing in the _plaza_, supporting
the arms of Spain. During the war it was thrown down--has been broken
for various purposes, and its remains now lie neglected, an object of
interest to the curious traveller only.

All our new friends now volunteered to show us something, and we had
nearly seen nothing in the contest of each to carry us to different
places. At length, we effected a compromise, and were carried to
search a _corral_ or cattle yard for the capital of the column. We
looked in vain in yard and stable, notwithstanding one present assured
us he had seen it. We abandoned the pursuit of the evanescent block,
and were conducted by an old man (who was called Cortés, and who
affected to be of pure Indian blood, and to despise all others who
were not,) to his house, in a corner of which was worked a carved
stone--evidently an antique, but it was a work posterior to the
conquest, for it represented an armed man on horseback. Cortés then
carried us to the rear of the church, to see another carved stone, but
it was placed so high in the wall that we could scarcely distinguish
it, but enough appeared to convince us that it bore the arms of Spain.
These instances prove how cautious we must be in adopting the opinions
of the natives on antiquarian matters.

It was now dark, and we returned to our _meson_, as miserable and
cheerless a house of entertainment as traveller ever entered. We made,
nevertheless, a good supper of eggs, _frijoles_ (beans), and wine, of
which we partook in the kitchen.

On making inquiries respecting a celebrated aqueduct which we
understood to exist in the vicinity of _Otumba_, we learned that it
was distant nearly five leagues. We had intended to return to Mexico
on the morrow, but we now determined to visit this work. During the
evening, one of our lately formed acquaintances called to introduce
one of his friends, who politely offered us horses, a favor which we
gladly accepted.

DEC. 29. We rose early, and joined by three of our new acquaintances,
were soon on horseback. One of those who attended us, was manager of
two fine _haciendas_, which we visited on our way to the arches of
Zempoala. The first, Soapayuca, owned by the _Conde de Tepa_, a
Spanish nobleman, is about a league from _Otumba_. Having been burnt
during the revolution it has been rebuilt on an extensive scale. Our
road ran along the _lomes_ of the mountains, through fields of the
_maguey_. About two leagues and a half from _Otumba_, we were shown,
on our left, the plain of _San Miguel_, where Cortes is represented to
have gained his celebrated victory, in the retreat from Mexico to
_Tlascala_. A ride of three leagues brought us to the _hacienda_ of
_Ometusco_--an estate from which _pulque_ only is made, which gives to
its owner, Don Ignacio Adalid, of Mexico, a nett profit, as we were
informed, of $15,000 a year. Here we took breakfast, and after viewing
the buildings, pursued a narrow path through the _magueyes_ to the
_Arcos de Zempoala_.

These arches are sixty-eight in number, crossing a deep valley from
north to south, and are eleven hundred paces in length. The greatest
height is one hundred twenty-two and a half feet, where two arches,
one supported above the other, are thrown across the deep _barranca_.
The width above is four feet and a half, with a narrow, and shallow
channel in the centre for the conveyance of the water. This is a work
of great antiquity, constructed about the year 1540, under the
direction of a Franciscan Monk, to supply Otumba with good water, of
which it is sadly in want. Though made at an immense expense, the
aqueduct is now wholly useless, but the arches are in an excellent
state of preservation.[4]

[Footnote 4: Torquemada relates--Monarquia Indiana, l. 20, c. 63--that
a Franciscan Friar, Francisco de Tembleque, undertook and accomplished
this work, achieving an exploit "which great and powerful kings would
scarcely have undertaken to accomplish, nor would he have engaged in
such a work (although the poet says, fortune favors the bold) if he
had not been inspired by heaven, and aided especially by divine grace,
which overcomes all obstacles and provides the means of easily
surmounting the greatest difficulties." The time taken to execute this
work was 16 or 17 years, five of which were consumed on the principal
arches; "which," our author says, "may be regarded as one of the
wonders of the world." According to his statement, there are
sixty-seven arches (we counted sixty-eight) extending 1059½
_varas_--about 975 yards. The middle arch is 42½ _varas_, about 118
feet high--and 23½ _varas_, about 21½ yards wide, "which fills with
astonishment and wonder those who see so marvellous a work." There are
two other ravines, one crossed by thirteen the other by forty-six
arches. The entire length of the aqueduct was 160,496 Spanish
feet--more than fifteen leagues. Torquemada gives no dates, but this
work appears to have been constructed soon after Tembleque arrived
from Spain, which was in 1538; and our author mentions, that though
built seventy years (he wrote about 1610 or 12) it had not sustained
the smallest injury.

As a specimen of Torquemada's credulity, I extract the following "most
pure truth"--_purisma verdad_. He says that "the good Father Francisco
de Tembleque, had no other companion during this long and painful work
than a large yellow cat, which hunted in the fields by night, and at
daybreak brought to his master the fruits of his hunt, hares or
partridges, for the day's subsistence, which may seem incredible, but
it is a most pure truth: many clergy witnessed this wonderful thing,
who, passing by, stopped at the hermitage at night for the sole
purpose of seeing the fact, and of convincing themselves of the care
of the cat, for it was commonly reported through the land, how he
sustained himself and his master."]

{704} After taking a rough measurement of this magnificent work, we
retraced our steps to the _hacienda_ of Ometusco, where our kind host
showed us the entire process of making _pulque_. A good plant of the
_Agave_,[5] under the most favorable circumstances, reaches maturity
in eight years. This state is indicated by a disposition in the
central leaves to throw up a stalk, which, when permitted to grow,
rises to the height of twelve or fourteen feet, branching at the top
not unlike a chandelier. In this critical state a large incision is
made with a sharp iron bar in the heart; a large basin, as it were, is
scooped out with much care, and being then filled with dry leaves or
rubbish, is permitted to rest unmolested for about six months, when it
begins to yield juice in abundance and of good quality. On being taken
from the plant, which operation an Indian performs morning and evening
with a long gourd acting as a syphon, the _agua miel_, or honey water,
as it is then called, is of a sickening sweetness; but after being
poured into large vats--made of untanned hides, with the hair
inside--in one week it effervesces; but when poured, as in common,
upon the lees of old _pulque_, it is prepared in one or two days, and
is carried to market in hogs' skins. After yielding during six months,
from 200 to 250 gallons, and sometimes more, the plant dies, and a
young sucker is planted to succeed it. A plant ready to yield, is
worth from eight to twelve dollars, and produces three or four
_cargas_, or mule loads: a _carga_ is sold in market at four dollars.

[Footnote 5: The American aloe.]

_Pulque_ is intoxicating to those who use it too freely. The taste is
far from pleasant to me, and the odor of it is sickening; but it
improves with use, and when taken moderately is thought to be
wholesome.

The _Agave Americana_ is a most valuable plant. Independently of its
agricultural profits upon barren soils where little else would grow,
it serves a great variety of uses. From _pulque_, a strong brandy is
distilled. This and _pulque_ are the common drink of the people. The
fibres of the leaf of the _maguey_ are manufactured into coarse
cloths, which are used for bagging, as saddlecloths, and for the
_aparejos_, packsaddles; they form thread of every texture, twine, and
rope of the largest size; and the juice of the leaf is efficacious in
the cure of ulcers, especially of the galls and sores of brute
animals: the leaf itself acts in place of gutters and spouts for the
cabins of the Indians, and makes a roof to their rude dwellings: its
prickle or thorn, is a needle in case of necessity; and at certain
stages of its growth the _maguey_ may be taken as food, and was so
used during the revolution by many hungry wanderers.

Thus this plant may be the food, drink, and clothing of the Mexicans;
and from the variety of purposes to which it may be applied, the
_Agave Americana_ may safely be said to be the most valuable of the
vegetable creation.

It was dark when we returned to our lodgings in _Otumba_, having
consumed the whole day in seeing what we might have accomplished in a
few hours; but our friends were so polite, that we were obliged to
submit to their dilatory movements.

DEC. 30. Provided again with horses, we set out at an early hour for
the Pyramids, leaving our carriage to join us at _San Juan de
Teotihuacan_. After a ride of nearly two leagues, we alighted at the
foot of the smaller pyramid, which, although the ascent was steep,
rough, and overgrown with weeds, we soon surmounted. This, more
dilapidated than the larger one, still preserves its pyramidal shape,
so as easily to be distinguished. The construction seems to be of
stones thrown indiscriminately together, and, at occasional intervals,
a layer of lime crosses it horizontally. Upon its summit are the
remains of a small stone building, which bears abundant evidence of
being the work of the {705} Conquerors. It was probably a chapel,
built to fill the place of the temple which it usurped. At the
southern foot of this pyramid is a circle surrounded either by
diminutive pyramids, or by the ruins of small edifices, or perhaps
both intermingled. Near the centre of this circle is a similar ruin,
from which proceeds a regular street forty or fifty feet wide, running
north and south, and bounded on both sides by ruins of apparently
small pyramids, on which are distinct traces of the walls of houses
divided into small apartments. At the head of the street is a large
rough stone, with a circle sculptured on one side of it; beyond the
wall of this circle, on the west, we were shown a singularly cut stone
of large size. It is ten feet three inches long, five feet one inch
wide, and four feet five inches high above the ground, in which it
seems partly buried. We collected every where various wrought pieces
of obsidian.

The larger pyramid is a little distant from the street to the east of
it. As our time was limited I ascended it hastily, and found that,
except in size it differs only in one respect from the other: about
midway a terrace extends around it. The faces of both pyramids
correspond with the four points of the compass. The view from them
extends over the lake of _Tescuco_ to the city of Mexico, and beyond
the western barrier of the plain to the snow-capped mountain of
_Toluca_.

The large pyramid of _Teotihuacan_ is called _Tonatiuh Ytzaqual_, or
House of the Sun. According to _Oteyza's_ measurements[6] its base is
208 metres--682½ English feet--its perpendicular height is 55
metres--180.4 feet. The base of the other pyramid is much less than
that of the former. This is called _Mextli Ytzaqual_, or House of the
Moon: its height is 144.4 feet.

[Footnote 6: Humb. T. 2. l. 3. c. 8. p. 66.]

The construction of these pyramids is ascribed to the _Tolteck_
nation, in which event they were built in the eighth or ninth
century.[7] It has been asserted that these and the other Mexican
Pyramids are hollow; but as far as investigations have been carried,
their solidity seems established. Constructed as they are, if they
were hollow the destructive influence of so many centuries which have
elapsed since their erection, would have discovered it. The
supposition is equally ill-founded that they are mere casings or
crusts to natural eminences. So far as rains have laid them open, or
the hand of man exposed to view their interior, all is artificial. It
is idle to argue that if they were completely artificial, the
materials which form them must have been dug from some contiguous
spot, and that this has no where been discovered. Places are seen from
which the materials have been collected; and the circumjacent plain is
strewed thickly with _tetzontli_, quite abundant enough to build other
pyramids, without being reduced to the necessity of digging into the
earth.

[Footnote 7: Humb. T. 2. l. 3. c. 8. p. 67.]

At _San Juan_, about half a league from the pyramids, we rejoined our
carriage, and at 11 A. M. set out for Mexico, distant ten leagues. We
travelled rapidly over a dreary but not a bad road, and passing
_Tololcingo_, crossed the dry bed of the lake of _Tescuco_, shortening
our ride a league or so. At a _venta_, or small inn, near _Santa
Clara_, we had the good fortune to meet with an idol, dug up in the
vicinity, which we bought; it represents a naked female, her hands
crossing her breast, her nose of prodigious size, and hair plaited
down the back. The figure is about two feet high.[8]

[Footnote 8: This idol was sent to the museum of the college at
Charleston, S. C.]

We arrived at _Guadalupe_ at 3 P. M. and an hour's ride over a good
_calzada_, bordered with pretty aspins, brought us to the capital. Our
jaunt has been very delightful, and we have met with great kindness.
From what we have seen of the antiquities of Mexico, we are impressed
with a far more favorable opinion than we had entertained of the
civilized state of the Indians before the Conquest.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MR. WHITE:

The subjoined copy of an old Scotch ballad, contains so much of the
beauty and genuine spirit of by-gone poetry, that I have determined to
risk a frown from the fair lady by whom the copy was furnished, in
submitting it for publication. The ladies sometimes violate their
promises--may I not for once assume their privilege, in presenting to
the readers of the Messenger this "legend of the olden time," although
_I promised not_? Relying on the kind heart of the lady for
forgiveness for _this breach of promise_, I have anticipated the
pardon in sending you the lines, which I have never as yet seen in
print.

SIDNEY.


BALLAD.


  They have giv'n her to another--
  They have sever'd ev'ry vow;
  They have giv'n her to another,
  And my heart is lonely now;
  They remember'd not our parting--
  They remember'd not our tears,
  They have sever'd in one fatal hour
  The tenderness of years.
    Oh! was it weal to leave me?
    Thou couldst not so deceive me;
    Lang and sairly shall I grieve thee,
      Lost, lost Rosabel!

  They have giv'n thee to another--
  Thou art now his gentle bride;
  Had I lov'd thee as a brother,
  I might see thee by his side;
  But _I know with gold they won thee_,
  And thy trusting heart beguil'd;
  Thy _mother_ too, did shun me,
  For she knew I lov'd her child. {706}
    Oh! was it weal to leave me?
    Thou couldst not so deceive me;
    Lang and sairly shall I grieve thee,
      Lost, lost Rosabel!

  They have giv'n her to another--
  She will love him, so they say;
  If her mem'ry do not chide her,
  Oh! perhaps, perhaps she may;
  But I know that she hath spoken
  What she never can forget;
  And tho' my poor heart be broken,
  It will love her, love her yet.
    Oh! was it weal to leave me?
    Thou couldst not so deceive me;
    Lang and sairly shall I grieve thee,
      Lost, lost Rosabel!




  From the Baltimore Visiter.

THE COLISEUM. A PRIZE POEM.

BY EDGAR A. POE.


  Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary
  Of lofty contemplation left to Time
  By buried centuries of pomp and power!
  At length, at length--after so many days
  Of weary pilgrimage, and burning thirst,
  (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)
  I kneel, an altered, and an humble man,
  Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
  My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory.

  Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
  Silence and Desolation! and dim Night!
  Gaunt vestibules! and phantom-peopled aisles!
  I feel ye now: I feel ye in your strength!
  O spells more sure than e'er Judæan king
  Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!
  O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
  Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!

  Here, where a hero fell, a column falls;
  Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
  A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat:
  Here, where the dames of Rome their yellow hair
  Wav'd to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle:
  Here, where on ivory couch the Cæsar sate,
  On bed of moss lies gloating the foul adder:
  Here, where on golden throne the monarch loll'd,
  Glides spectre-like unto his marble home,
  Lit by the wan light of the horned moon,
  The swift and silent lizard of the stones.

  These crumbling walls; these tottering arcades;
  These mouldering plinths; these sad, and blacken'd shafts;
  These vague entablatures; this broken frieze;
  These shattered cornices; this wreck; this ruin;
  These stones, alas!--these gray stones--are they all--
  All of the great and the colossal left
  By the corrosive hours to Fate and me?

  "Not all,"--the echoes answer me; "not all:
  Prophetic sounds, and loud, arise for ever
  From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,
  As in old days from Memnon to the sun.
  We rule the hearts of mightiest men. We rule
  With a despotic sway all giant minds.
  We are not desolate--we pallid stones;
  Not all our power is gone; not all our fame;
  Not all the magic of our high renown;
  Not all the wonder that encircles us;
  Not all the mysteries that in us lie;
  Not all the memories that hang upon,
  And cling around about us as a garment,
  Clothing us in a robe of more than glory."




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES

Written in the Village of A----, Virginia.


  Sweet village of the mountain glen!
    Thy verdant shades are dear to me;
  I shun the busy haunts of men,
    And to thy peaceful bosom flee;
  For smiling nature's summer home
    Is found beside thy flashing rills,
  And when the winter-tempests come,
    She reigns upon thy rugged hills.

  Upon thy rocks the tow'ring pine,
    The hemlock and the cedar grow;
  And high the wild and flow'ring vine,
    Its tendrils round their branches throw.
  'Tis sweet to stray thy paths along,
    Beside some bright and rippling stream
  Whose waters with a murm'ring song,
    Glance gaily in the sunny beam.

  Through distant lands my feet may roam,
    In foreign climes my dwelling be,
  Unchang'd where'er I make my home,
    My heart will still abide with thee.
  Yes! still with thee, in joy or woe,
    On desert land, or stormy sea,
  In pain or bliss, where'er I go,
    My love will ever dwell with thee.

A. L. B.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

_Extracts from the Auto-biography of Pertinax Placid_.

MY FIRST NIGHT IN A WATCHHOUSE.

CHAP. II.

  This was our hero's earliest scrape; but whether
    I shall proceed with his adventures is
  Dependent on the public altogether:
    We'll see, however, what they say to this.
                                            [_Don Juan_.


We found Fenella in much trouble. That buoyant mind which the
vicissitudes of a changing and precarious profession could not sadden
or subdue, proved itself vulnerable to the weapons of ridicule.

"And so, my young deserter, you have come at last. Here have I been
grieving myself to death at the malice of Mc----, and you have felt no
sympathy in my trouble, or have been too indolent or indifferent to
give me one word of comfort. Shame on you! Is this your friendship?"

I made my excuses with the best grace I could assume, and assured her
I had just learned the cause of her uneasiness. She readily believed
me, for she was too sincere herself to doubt the sincerity of others.

"I do not know," said she, "but my annoyance at this affair may seem
overstrained. To those who call {707} themselves philosophers, it may
appear childish in me to grieve at such an attempt to render me
ridiculous. But I am a mere woman, and no philosopher; besides, my
case is a peculiar one. On the stage we have so often, I might say so
habitually, to overstep what by other women are considered the bounds
of modesty, that she who preserves the essential principle of that
great charm of the sex, is most jealous in keeping her claim to it
inviolate. The world gives us credit for but little feminine
delicacy--and the world reasons correctly in doing so. But correct
reasoning does not always reach the facts of peculiar cases. It may be
thought strange, but I know it to be true, that a woman who in the
presence of hundreds suffers herself to be embraced, kissed, and
fondled by men of gross character and disgusting manners, and who
embraces and caresses them in turn, should revolt at the idea of
permitting such liberties in private. I know this to be so in my own
case. And even were all those women whose lot is unfortunately cast
upon the stage, as licentious as both the virtuous and the vicious are
pleased to suppose them, they must indeed be debased and degraded, to
yield themselves to that indiscriminate licentiousness which the
world's censure would imply. Few know how far the enthusiasm of an
artist, his aspirations after excellence, his love of abstract beauty,
may check and overcome every prurient thought, every low born
imagination. The sculptor, when he moulds the beings of his fancy into
forms of loveliness, is alive only to the spirit of his art; his mind
is filled with the beauty of his conceptions, and is purified by the
intenseness of his desire to attain the summit of excellence, from
every grovelling idea. He is not, surely, to be classed with those
who, looking upon his works with vulgar eyes, find in them food for
lascivious thoughts, and stimulants to unhallowed passions. So it is
with acting. The actress has placed before her a mark of excellence
which she is ambitious to attain, and in striving for its attainment,
all minor considerations are thrown aside. The exhibition of a passion
must not be shorn of its accessories; and whatever is necessary to its
full development she yields to, with as little thought of grossness or
indelicacy in caressing an individual who represents her husband or
her lover, as the artist indulges when painting Eve in the undress of
nature. It would be well for such as suppose that these exhibitions
indicate a want of modesty, to know how totally the mind is absorbed
in the desire to embody the conceptions of the poet, when an actress
in Belvidera or Monimia gives a loose rein to the passions, and
regardless of the being with whom she is associated, contributes, by
the very freedom which the over-virtuous delight to censure, in
producing the delusion of the scene. In playing her part, not one
thought is given to the man whom she embraces. No--she is for the time
a fictitious character--the character of the scene, insensible to any
other feeling but that which the poet has delineated. But how
differently do the work-a-day world argue this matter. They seldom, if
ever, separate the _actress_ from the _woman_--and every action is
judged of according to the gross ideas of the vulgar minded, or the
fastidious scruples of those who measure a dramatic representation by
the rules which prevail in private society. I know full well the
invidious position which, as an actress, I occupy in the opinion of
the public; and a consciousness that in my unfortunate profession,
every step towards the achievement of excellence must be gained by a
sacrifice of personal respect, often gives me melancholy sensations.
Do you then wonder at the pain I have suffered from this malignant
endeavor of Mc----'s to render me ridiculous?"

"But still," said Nichols, "the attack in itself is unworthy of
notice. The same talent might render the proudest woman in the city an
object of equal ridicule."

"Very true, but it would not find the public disposed to laugh with
the caricaturist. The general sentiment would be against him, for he
would have outraged what every man would be ready to defend--the
sanctity of female privacy, and the decencies of social life. But such
a case is strongly contrasted with mine, and it is that which renders
it to me so peculiarly painful. The actress lives in the full glare of
public observation, and the libeller who holds her up to contempt,
invades no sanctuary which all hold sacred; he only makes her
subservient to public amusement in a new character. If her pride be
wounded, if her delicacy be shocked--she has few to sympathise with
her, for few believe she possesses either pride or delicacy, and none
deem it their duty to defend her from the attacks of her enemy."

Fenella paused, and I saw the tears glisten upon her cheek; but she
turned away her face, and hastily brushed them off, as if ashamed that
her weakness should be observed.

"You do your friends injustice," said I. "You do indeed. There are a
few who do not think thus lightly of your feelings, and who are ready
to defend you from assaults of whatever kind."

"Doubtless there are a few," said she, "who feel for me. It would be
unjust in me to doubt it. But it is the want of that _general_ feeling
of sympathy which would be excited in favor of any other woman, that I
feel most keenly. To know that in proportion as my professional
exertions are admired, my private feelings are disregarded, gives
point to the malice of Mc----, and renders that a cause of pain and
mortification which ought to be the object of contempt. But we will
say no more upon the subject. Perhaps I have said too much, for I see
that you and Nichols are distressed by my complaints. I will not
repeat them; but endeavor to display more of what Nichols calls
philosophy."

The train of our conversation was broken off by the entrance of Selden
and Cleaveland. Fenella's spirits were soon restored, and she became
as gay and fascinating as usual. Various topics were discussed, and
much pleasant _badinage_ filled up the time until tea--which Fenella
particularly patronized, in spite of the fashion--made its appearance.

"Pray, Master Pertinax," said Fenella, "how have you employed your
time since I last saw you? You have lost a deal of green room scandal,
and missed seeing some of the finest of green room absurdities, by
your long estrangement from the Theatre."

"Well, saving your presence, I have been occupied with better
things--a hard student have I been--and although the merry bells of
the Driving Club sounded their peals under my windows twice during my
{708} seclusion; although I saw their gorgeous train of _carioles_
piled with buffalo robes, and flaunting in blue and crimson trimmings,
glide merrily by; and though among the furred and feathered
_demoiselles_ who sat within them, I knew there was one whom it would
have been delightful to be near; nay more, although under a
silver-grey Chinchilla bonnet, there shone forth two lustrous black
eyes--yet did I resist the lure, and turn again to my studies. I have
declined three balls where I knew I should meet that 'Cynthia of the
minute,' with whom, at this particular time, I cannot but believe I am
most foolishly in love. I have resisted the temptation of skating, and
a special invitation from the Curling Club to witness an important
match. All these and many more allurements have failed to withdraw me
from my books."

"Bless me, what a Solomon you will become, if you persevere in your
labors! But your stoicism surprises me. Can it be possible that Marian
Lindsay's _load-stars_ failed in attraction?"

"Nonsense! I have said nothing of Marian Lindsay or her load-stars, as
you are pleased to call them. Her eyes are not _black_, nor are they
those I spoke of."

"What, a new attraction! Well, I see that I must relinquish the task
of keeping you steady. I had hopes, when I prudently endeavored to
prevent your falling in love with me, (which you cannot deny you had
more than half a mind to do,) by directing your amorous disposition
towards a proper object, that your fancy would endure at least a month
or two. Do you not now perceive what a folly I should have been guilty
of, had I suffered you to dangle, as you wished, at my apron string?"

"I do indeed. Still, I may say with honest Jack Falstaff, 'ere I knew
_thee_, I knew nothing.'"

"Yes," said she, "and I can finish the sentence with equal truth--'and
now art thou little better than one of the wicked.' But I deny your
declaration, for you have confessed to the truth of your intrigues
with the little Canadian milliner, and the blue eyed _Irlandaise_."

"I admit it; but those were unsophisticated flirtations."

"Unsophisticated! Mercy on us!"

"Oh yes," said Selden, "and he stoutly denies having ever sighed to
you, Fenella; and talks a deal of nonsense about friendship, as though
such a feeling ever existed between a lad of nineteen and a lady under
twenty-five."

"Upon that subject," replied Fenella, "we can at least keep our own
counsel."

"Come, Cleaveland," said I, "we are bound in the same direction. I
have a few words to say to you, and if you are at leisure we will
walk."

"I hope I have not driven you away," said Selden.

"Pshaw! I am not so easily driven."

Tea was over, and Cleaveland and I rose to depart. Fenella accompanied
us to the door, and said to me in a monitory tone: "Now, Pertinax, be
careful what you do in relation to the caricature. Keep out of
difficulty with Mc----. You cannot be of any service to me in that
affair, and may injure yourself by your interference. I know your
disposition to serve me; but I also know that your impetuosity is more
likely to involve you in difficulty than to bring me out of it. Be
cautious, I beseech you."

"Do not be alarmed," said I, somewhat piqued, "my _indifference_ will
be my protection."

"I do not believe that, nor do I believe that you are indifferent to
my feelings; and the caution I now give you is a proof that I do not
think so."

A pressure of the hand was my only reply to this conciliatory speech;
and we left the house.

It was early in the evening, and quite dark, as we mounted the ice in
the middle of the street, preferring the risk of being run down by
_traineaus_ or _carioles_, on that narrow pass, to stumbling against
steps, cellar doors, and other obstructions on the _trottoir_ of an
avenue, feebly lighted by here and there a dim and solitary lamp. We
pursued our way down St. Paul's street, and in passing the shop where
"Timothy Crop, Fashionable Hair Dresser and Perruquier," shone in gilt
letters, illuminated by a lamp, a glance shewed us two copies of
Fenella's effigy, displayed with most provoking prominence in a
bow-window, which was brilliantly lighted.

"Curses on that fellow," said I. "Is there no way in which this
nuisance can be prevented? You are fertile in schemes, Cleaveland;
cannot you contrive some plan, if not to stop the issue of these
libels, to revenge the insult offered to our friend?"

"Not I indeed, unless we hire _Felix Sans Pitié_[1] to thump the
artist, or get _Piquet_,[2] the retired bully, to break his right
arm."

[Footnote 1: There was a family of _Sans Pitiés_, belong to a
neighboring seignory, celebrated for their muscular frames and
pugilistic powers. They were _Voyageurs_ in the service of the North
West, or Hudson's Bay Companies, at the time when those associations
were at deadly feud, out of which grew the massacre at Red River. In
the spring, previous to the setting out of the North West expeditions,
the _voyageurs_ of these companies had their rendezvous in Montreal
for a day or two, during which they were generally intoxicated, and
scarcely an hour passed that was not distinguished by a pugilistic
combat in the old market place, which was their peculiar haunt. The
_Sans Pitiés_ when present were the champions, and challenged all
comers with nearly uniform success. I have never seen more magnificent
forms than these brothers displayed, when stripped for a fight. Their
chests and shoulders would have been fine models for a Hercules, so
muscular were they, and devoid of superfluous flesh. Their style of
hitting was peculiar, and differed entirely from the English system,
being far more rapid and eccentric. In general an English pugilist was
more than a match for the best Canadian bully; but in one instance the
youthful gladiator referred to in the text, was triumphant over a
skilful pupil of Crib. It is worthy of remark, that the English bully,
when completely _sewed up_, (to use a phrase of the prize ring)
declared in a faint voice, that he had been beaten contrary to all
rule, and that _Sans Pitié_ knew no more about boxing than a horse.
But the Canadian champion was once well beaten by an antagonist as
little skilled as himself in the arts and mysteries of the Five's
Court. I was witness to this conflict between him and an English
sailor, not half his weight. The Jack-tar completely overcame his
Herculean opponent, when it seemed to me that had his frame been made
of any material softer than iron, he must have been demolished by
_Sans Pitié's_ blows.]

[Footnote 2: Monsieur _Piquet_ was about this time a member of the
Provincial Parliament. How he got there I do not exactly know: the
station seemed rather inconsistent with the situation occupied by him
in early life. He was a man of uncommon muscular vigor; and had in his
youth been employed by the North West Company, as the _bully_ of their
expeditions. His duty was to punish any refractory subordinate by the
application of the fist. The _voyageurs_ were an ignorant and lawless
set of men, engaged by the company to navigate their _batteaux_, and
to carry the merchandize which constituted their freight, across the
portages. The goods were arranged in sacks containing about ninety
pounds each and were transported (or perhaps _toted_ would be a more
proper word in our latitude) by the _voyageurs_ where the navigation
failed. Their labors were consequently very severe; and it may readily
be believed that few but the most reckless and unworthy characters
enlisted in these expeditions. They were generally accompanied and
conducted by one or two clerks or partners, who required some strong
executive power to keep their followers in due submission. Some trusty
individual of uncommon strength and hardihood was selected to perform
this duty--and such was the situation held by _Piquet_. He was
successful in his enterprizes, and as I was told amassed considerable
wealth. At any rate, I knew him as a legislator. I was once in company
with this man, when he related some of his early adventures;
particularly one, in which, being necessitated to quell the turbulent
spirit of a refractory _voyageur_, he broke the arm of the brawler
with one blow of his fist--an achievement of which Monsieur _Piquet_
seemed not a little proud.]

{709} "Not bad ideas, but impracticable. Felix is at Red River, or
thereabouts--and Piquet is in Parliament, which should argue that his
powers of maiming are fully employed upon the laws of the province."

We had paused involuntarily before the window. The shop was thronged
with customers, and we saw the barber take down one of the caricatures
and exhibit it to an individual, who laughed immoderately as he
examined it. My blood boiled as I witnessed this scene. I had been
deeply impressed by Fenella's description of her defenceless
condition, and the absence of that general feeling of resentment in
her case, which would have existed had any other woman been the object
of such ridicule. The hearty laugh of the examiner of the picture--the
gusto with which he enjoyed the ludicrous figure before him, inspired
me with most unchristian feelings, and I could, with the greatest good
will, have tweaked his nose with the hot curling irons which the man
of hair was applying to his head.

As we moved away, I vowed that I would be revenged on the malicious
barber--that he at least should not escape. A few moments brought us
to my lodgings in the _Vieux Marché_. We sat down by a hot stove, and
after having listened to Cleaveland's description of the last party at
Madame Feronnier's, without hearing one word, I broke silence.

"Cleaveland," said I, "will you join me in a scheme which I have been
revolving since we left that infernal barber's?"

"I shall be better prepared to give you an answer, when you tell me
what you propose."

"Then you will not enlist until you know my plan."

"Not I. It is my luck to engage in so many hairbrained scrapes of my
own, that I will be led blindfold into none of your planning."

"But you must not fail me. I have set my heart on your assistance. If
I had asked it of Selden, he would have stifled me with prudent
advice. Nichols has not hardihood enough for any wicked act; and
Marryatt is so completely bewitched with his brunette beauty in the
Recolet Suburbs, that he cannot find time for any other roguery. Now
for a stirring adventure you are just the lad--first, because you like
it, and secondly, because you have the spirit to go through with it."

"Really you speak of your enterprize in the Hotspur vein, for like him
it seems you are about to

  ----'read me matter deep and dangerous,
  As full of peril and adventurous spirit,
  As to o'erwalk a current roaring loud,
  On the unsteadfast footing of a spear.'

But be it what it may, propose to me any reasonable mischief, and _je
suis à vous_."

"It is nothing very dangerous in the performance, and the consequences
must take care of themselves. I only intend to smash, and that
shortly, the bow-window of our friend the barber--to scatter his
perfumes about his own head, and give his next door neighbor, the
glazier, a job?"

"Is that all? Bless me, how reasonable! Selden himself could not have
advised a more rational and moral mode of punishing this impudent
barber.--Why, Pertinax, I did not think you capable of a conception so
brilliant. As to breaking the window and scattering the perfumery, 'we
may do it as secure as sleep'--and for the consequences, I have
nothing to say on that subject, because they come _afterwards_; and as
Father De Rocher used to tell us, questions must be considered in
their proper order: besides, all the wise ones say that _fore_-thought
is better than _after_-thought. But independent of these
considerations, it would be inconsistent in me, who never yet gave a
thought to consequences, to do so now; and some political proser in
the _Spectateur_, said the other day that consistency was a jewel."

"Then you enlist in the service."

"Yes, my Hotspur; 'it is a good plot as ever was laid--an excellent
plot. My Lord of York commends the plot, and the general course of the
action.' So here is my hand. We will take some pains to do that which
will cost Timothy Crop many panes to remedy; and if we escape the
pains and penalties therefor, all will be well."

"We must rely upon our heels for that. Give me six yards the start,
and I defy any barber in the Canadas to overtake me. We must show
Master Timothy that we have not played at cricket, or run foot races
on the wind-mill common for nothing."

"But what missiles shall we use?--have you thought of that, _Mon
Général_?"

"What can be better than these?" said I, taking up a couple of billets
of oak from the stove-pan.

"Admirable! And when shall we proceed to business?"

"Now--this very hour--we cannot wish a darker night; and the sooner we
carry our design into effect the better."

"Very true, for Shakspeare says, that

  'Between the acting of a dreadful thing
   And the first motion, all the interim is
   Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream.'

We will dream as little upon it as possible."

"_Allons donc!_ Take your billets, and let us march."

We sallied forth into the street. It was about nine o'clock, and all
was quiet. The light from Crop's window shone brightly in the
distance, and invited us to our revenge.

{710} The heavy falls of snow are a serious inconvenience in the
narrow streets of Montreal, and the manner in which it is disposed of,
gives to them a peculiar appearance. When a storm subsides, the whole
town is alive with the business of shovelling the snow from the
side-walks into the middle of the street, which in the course of a few
weeks after the winter sets in, is elevated several feet above its
natural level. On the top of this ridge vehicles of all descriptions
are forced to pass, and while guiding a _cariole_ along the height,
you nod to your pedestrian friends on the side-walks, many feet below
you, and peep, if you have any curiosity, into the windows of your
neighbor's second story. By gradual packing and freezing, this
_high_-road becomes a complete rampart of ice, along which _carioles_
and _traineaus_ are driven with alarming velocity--to a strange eye
presenting the constant prospect of their being hurled down to the
side-walk. But such accidents seldom happen. In their own awkward
fashion, the Canadian drivers are uncommonly expert, and their hardy
little horses are equally so.

We kept the side-walk until we reached the corner of St. Nicholas and
St. Paul streets, and here we stopped to confer.

"By the way," said I, "we had better decide upon the manner of running
away. Crop is a tall fellow and long in the legs. It will not do for
us to keep together. My plan is this--I will dive into the alley,
leading up to the city hotel, cross St. Peter's street and get into
the Jesuits's grounds.[3] You had better take to the opposite
side-walk, for you will be perfectly safe there, as you may turn the
left corner of St. Peter, and skim away towards the _Soeurs Gris_,
before Tim can climb to that side of the street. When we have
confounded the chase, we will rendezvous in front of the _Petit
Seminaire_, in College street. We shall be near the Mansion House,
where we may refresh ourselves with a bottle of Martinant's London
particular, and call at Fenella's on our way home."

[Footnote 3: These grounds have since been devoted to public use, and
are now intersected by Lemoine, St. Helen, and Recolet streets. They
were formerly attached to the religious establishment of the
brotherhood, the building of which faced upon Notre Dame street, and
were filled with noble elms, all of which have I believe fallen
beneath the axe. The accommodations were spacious; but the buildings,
with the exception of the Recolet church, which occupies nearly a
centre position, had been appropriated to other than monastic uses
long before my recollection. During and just after the last war they
were used as the barracks of a regiment of British infantry, and at
the grated windows which once let in the light upon the ascetic
pursuits and rigid ceremonials of these bigoted religionists--soldiers
were seen scouring their muskets or whitening their belts. More
recently, the southern portion has been occupied as a Young Ladies
Seminary, and the northern as the City Watch-house. The buildings had
become public property by the operation of some condition relative to
the decrease of the numbers of the order. One only was alive in my
time; and he was often seen in the streets, wearing a small black
skull cap, and a long black robe fastened around his body by a white
woollen girdle. The Recolet church is to this day a place of Catholic
worship, opened on stated days and uncommon occasions. Whether it has
been embellished or altered since I saw it, I know not--but at that
time it presented a melancholy appearance of decay and dilapidation.
It was remarkable for a rude carving over the entrance representing
two hands and arms issuing out of the sea, and crossing each other.
The carving was colored most unnaturally, and the waves of the sea
resembled a congregation of pewter platters.]

"I see no objection to your plan, Pertinax, only that your part of it
is the most hazardous. If Crop pursues, he will naturally stick to his
own side-walk, and you must leap in front of him from the street into
the alley."

"Oh, never fear for me--I shall be scudding through the old Jesuits's
elms, long before he will find the hole by which I make my escape.
Recollect the rendezvous at the College."

Our plan of retreat having been settled, we mounted into the middle of
the street, and were in two minutes opposite the devoted shop-window.
The lights burned brightly, and at a glance we saw that there was no
one within but Crop and a little boy. The window was filled with
bottles of _Eau de Cologne_, _Eau de jasmin_, _extrait de bergamotte_,
with pots of _pommade extraordinaire_, and the like; and there still
hung the offending caricatures. We were elevated some feet above the
window, and it presented the finest imaginable mark.

"Now," said Cleaveland, "let us separate a few paces, that we may give
our object a raking fire, and do the more execution."

We were just about to proceed to business, when the sharp sound of a
horse's hoofs rang upon the ice near the corner of St. Peter's street.
We drew back from the glare of the window to allow the horse and his
rider to pass--when, as they approached us, we perceived Marryatt,
mounted on his shaggy Shetland pony.

"Hey dey," said he, as we made our appearance--"what mischief is in
the wind now?"

"Stay a moment," said I, "and see us demolish Crop's bow window."

"Oh ho, is that the project? Well I will witness the crash, as I have
especial means of escape. I cannot say as much for you or Cleaveland.
Crop will catch one or both of you to a certainty."

"That is our own concern--but he shall have a race for it. Stay where
you are Marryatt, and witness the performance."

Cleaveland and I then approached the window, and levelling our billets
simultaneously, they fell with unerring aim in the centre of the
window, scattering pictures, pomatum and perfumery in every direction.
A second billet from each of us completed the work of destruction, and
we took to our heels. Cleaveland slipped down to the pavement on the
opposite side, and vanished in an instant. I was about ten paces from
the alley, (which entered St. Paul street on the same side with the
barber's shop,) but before I had cleared that short distance, I was
sensible that Crop was in pursuit. From the high ridge of ice on which
I stood, to the pavement was at least five feet, and on coming
opposite the alley I made a flying leap across the side-walk into its
entrance. But alas for human hopes!--I had neglected to substitute a
pair of shoes for my boots on coming out, and my boot heels were
covered with plates of brass, in conformity to a very ridiculous
fashion. I cleared the side-walk in gallant style; but I alighted on
my heels in a spot covered with the smoothest ice. The consequence
was, that my feet flew from under me, and I fell prostrate. But this
was not the worst--I struck my knee upon the ice with a force which
might have broken a joint of iron. I made an effort to rise, {711}
which was at first ineffectual. The sound of Timothy's feet struck on
my ear as he turned the corner. He was within two paces of me, and in
a second more would have stumbled over me in the dark. But the idea of
being captured gave me sudden vigor, and overcame the pain of my
bruised knee. I sprang upon my feet, and bounded away towards the
entrance of the City Hotel, turned short to the left, and crossing St.
Peter's street by another alley, kept on under the wall of Thatcher's
livery stables.

Rapidly as I had taken leave of Timothy, he had not lost sight of me
for a second, until I turned the farther corner of the stables. At
this point there had been, a few weeks previous, a gap in the
enclosure of the Jesuits's grounds, through which I had often passed;
and by means of this opening I had intended to lead the chase into
those grounds, with all the turnings of which I was well acquainted,
and where a number of old elms would serve to cover my retreat.

What was my consternation on reaching the spot, to find that the
opening had been closed! I was completely cornered, without means of
escape, except by the steep path up which I had come. Along that path
I heard the footsteps of my pursuer, as he picked his way in the dark.
Not a moment was to be lost, and my determination was instantly taken.
I again turned the corner of the stables, and ran down the path with
my utmost speed, intending to overthrow Timothy by running against
him. As I approached him, he stopped, and seeming to comprehend my
object, veered a little from the path, so as to break the force of the
shock, and grasped at me with both his hands.

And here but for my boot heels I might have escaped; but again they
failed me, I slipped, and Timothy and I were rolling on the ground
together--he clutching to hold me fast, and I struggling to get away.
By mutual consent we soon rose upon our feet--he still holding on with
the tenacity of a bull-dog, upon the collar and breast of my clothing.

I had not lived five years in Montreal without becoming sensible of
the value of _science_ in the use of the fist, and I had taken a
series of rude lessons from an Irish sergeant--Fuller not having then
appeared in Canada to teach the 'manly art of self-defence.' The
moment that we were on our feet, I attacked Timothy, in hopes that he
would loosen his hold in showing fight, and give me another
opportunity of escape. But he was a philosopher in his way, and did
not regard pugilistic _punishment_ so much as the retention of his
prisoner. He allowed me therefore to _mill_ him without mercy, dodging
to avoid my blows, but making no offensive demonstration. I pommelled
him severely, and might possibly have broken his hold by my repeated
attacks, but for the slippery place on which we stood. Several times I
lost my footing and came to the ground. At last yielding to necessity,
I relinquished the contest and walked quietly with him to the street,
determined when on better ground, to make another effort for liberty.

Instead of returning towards his shop, as I supposed he would have
done, he turned up St. Peter's street, and led the way towards Notre
Dame. I did not then perceive his object--perhaps I was too much
flurried to think of it. We paced along in a very friendly manner,
until we reached the corner of St. Sacrament street, running midway
between and parallel with St. Paul's and Notre Dame. Here the snow was
firm, and the spot inviting to my purpose, for St. Sacrament offered
me a number of places of retreat, where I might have defied the scent
of my antagonist.

At this corner therefore I made a halt, and while Timothy was
endeavoring to force me forward, I struck him a right handed blow in
the face, which made him bound from his feet and brought him down like
a shot. But true to his object he still held to my coat with his right
hand, and while I was endeavoring to disengage his grasp, he rose
again to his feet, and matters assumed their former aspect. Grown
desperate by my disappointment, I fell upon Timothy without mercy,
hitting right and left whenever I could bring him within the range of
my blows--for he avoided many of them by leaping aside. At length a
chance blow took effect on his throat and I was momentarily freed from
his hold, but I was so weakened by my exertions that I stumbled, and
again measured my length on the snow. Before I could recover myself,
Timothy had as firm a grasp upon me as ever.

Up to this time, not a syllable had passed the lips of either: but at
this juncture, Timothy opened his mouth, and to some purpose,
bellowing "Watch!" at the top of his voice. Instantly the rattles were
heard at no great distance; and Timothy repeating the call, we were
soon surrounded by half a dozen watchmen, with staves, rattles and
lanterns.

I saw plainly that the game was up with me, and yielding with a good
grace, I followed them in silence. I was much surprised to find that
we had turned the left corner of Notre Dame Street, and were entering
the decayed gate of a building which was once an appendage of the
Recolet Church, and part of the establishment of the decayed
brotherhood of Loyola. This building had recently been occupied as a
watchhouse; a fact of which I was ignorant, or master Timothy Crop
would not have led me so easily into the lion's den.

We entered the building, and found ourselves in a rude barrack-like
room, around which were the "guardians of the night," as they are
poetically termed, sitting, standing, and lying--eating, drinking, and
smoking. They were nearly all Canadians; and in their blue and grey
_capots_ with the addition of slouched hats, they might have been
taken for a gang of banditti in their cavern.

When the door closed upon us, and not 'till then, Timothy Crop
loosened his hold upon my raiment. I turned to look at him, and saw
sufficient proof that my blows, although aimed in the dark, had not
been made in vain. His visage exhibited various contusions, and
streams of _claret_ were trickling from his nostrils. But Timothy, to
do him justice, was true _game_; and he returned the smile which his
pickle brought into my face, with a triumphant expression that raised
him much in my estimation.

While we were eyeing each other an inner door opened, and the captain
of the watch made his appearance. Timothy gave me in charge, and the
man of authority conducted me with all due ceremony into his innermost
den, where he invited me to take a seat by the stove, and pointing to
a dirty straw pallet in a corner of the room, gave me to understand
that upon it I was to spend my first night in a watch-house.


{712}


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

The following translations pretend to no other merit than fidelity.
The only aim of the translator has been to give as literal a version
as the genius of the languages would permit. He has not presumed to
blend his own with the pure conception of his author, or to obscure
with ornament the inimitable beauty of his chaste, unaffected
expression; he regrets that the necessity of a measure has obliged him
more than once perhaps, to expand a thought whose concentration he
admired:--the sin, however, was involuntary.


Lib. 1. Ode v. AD PYRRHAM.

  Quis multâ gracilis te puer in rosâ
  Perfusus liquidis urget odoribus
    Grato, Pyrrha, sub antro?
      Cui flavam religas comam,
  Simplex munditiis? heu! quoties fidem,
  Mutatosque Deos flebit, et aspera
    Nigris æquora ventis
      Emirabitur insolens,
  Qui nunc te fruitur credulus aureâ:
  Qui semper vacuam, semper amabilem
    Sperat, nescius auræ
      Fallacis! miseri, quibus
  Intenta nites. Me tabulâ sacer
  Votivâ paries indicat uvida
    Suspendisse potenti
      Vestimenta maris Deo.


Translation.

  What slender youth whom liquid odors lave,
  Courts thee on roses in some pleasant cave
      Pyrrha?--for whom with care
      Bind'st thou thy yellow hair
  Plain in thy neatness? Oft alas! shall he
  On faith and changed Gods complain, and sea
      Rough with black tempests ire
      Unwonted shall admire!
  Who now enjoys thee credulous--all gold--
  For him still vacant, lovely to behold
      Hopes thee: of treacherous breeze
      Unmindful. Hapless these
  To whom untried thou shinest dazzling fair.
  Me Neptune's walls, with tablet vowed, declare
      My shipwrecked weeds unwrung
      To the sea's potent God to have hung.

       *       *       *       *       *

ADRIANUS AD ANINAVULAM.

  Animula, vagula, blandula;
  Hospes, comesque corporis!
  Quo nunc abibis in loco
  Pallidula, rigida, nudula?
  Nec ut soles dabis jocos.


Translation.

  Little rambling, coaxing sprite,
  Tenant and comrade of this clay,
  Into what distant regions say
  Pale, naked, cold, wingst thou thy flight?
  Nor wilt thou joke as wont in former day.

       *       *       *       *       *

Lib. 1. Ode xxxv. AD FORTUNAM.

  O Diva, gratum quæ regis Antium,
  Præsens vel imo tollere de gradu
    Mortale corpus, vel superbos
      Vertere funeribus triumphos:
  Te pauper ambit solicitâ prece
  Ruris colonus; te dominam æquoris,
    Quicunque Bithynâ lacessit
      Carpathium pelagus carinâ.
  Te Dacus asper, te profugi Scythæ,
  Urbesque, gentesque, et Latium ferox,
    Regumque matres barbarorum, et
      Purpurei metuunt tyranni,
  Injurioso ne pede proruas
  Stantem columnam; neu populos frequens
    Ad arma cessantes ad arma
      Concitet, imperiumque frangat.
  Te semper anteit sæva Necessitas,
  Clavos trabales et cuneos manu
    Gestans ahenâ; nec severus
      Uncus abest, liquidumque plumbum.
  Te Spes, et albo rara Fides colit
  Velata panno, nec comitem abnegat,
    Utcunque mutatâ potentes
      Veste domos inimica linquis.
  At vulgus infidum, et meretrix retro
  Perjura cedit: diffugiunt cadis
    Cum fæce siccatis amici,
      Ferre jugum pariter dolosi.
  Serves iturum Cæsarem in ultimos
  Orbis Britannos, et juvenum recens
    Examen Eois timendum
      Partibus, Oceanoque Rubro.
  Eheu! cicatricum et sceleris pudet,
  Fratrumque: quid nos dura refugimus
    Ætas? quid intactum nefasti
      Liquimus? unde manum juventus
  Metu Deorum continuit? quibus
  Pepercit aris? O! utinam novâ
    Incude diffingas retusum in
      Massagetas Arabasque ferrum.


Translation. TO FORTUNE.

  Goddess whose mandate lovely Antium sways,
  Prompt at thy will from humblest grade to raise
    Weak mortals, or proud triumphs turn
      To the sad funeral urn!
  Thee the poor rustic sues with anxious prayer:
  Thee, Arbitress of Ocean all revere,
    Who with Bithynian keel adventurous brave
      The rough Carpathian wave.
  Thee wandering Scythians, thee the Dacian boor
  Cities and nations, Latium fierce adore:
    Mothers of barbarous kings grow pale,
      Tyrants in purple quail
  Lest with insulting foot thou spurn their proud,
  Unshaken column: lest th' assembled crowd
    Laggards to arms, to arms should wake,
      And their dominion break.
  Ruthless Necessity before thy band
  Forever walks: in her resistless hand
    Wedges and spikes: the hook severe
      And molten lead still near.
  Thee Hope attends, and spotless Faith so rare,
  Robed in pure white: nor then departs whene'er,
    With vestments changed and hostile lower,
      Thou leav'st th' abodes of power.
  But shrink the faithless herd and perjured quean:
  Friends too skulk off, the casks drained dry, unseen:
    Too treacherous equally to brook
      Adversity's hard yoke. {713}
  Guard Cæsar bound 'gainst Britain's distant land,
  Limit of earth--preserve the new-formed band
    Of Youths, by Eastern realms to be
      Feared, and by the Red Sea!
  Alas! I blush for public crimes and rage;
  For brothers too: what have we, hardened age,
    Eschewed? what vice untried disdained?
      When have our youth restrained
  Their hands through fear of Heav'n? what altars spared?
  Grant to reforge, on anvil new-prepared,
    From civil strife our blunted swords,
      'Gainst Scythian and Arabian hordes!

       *       *       *       *       *

Lib. 3. Ode iii.

  Justum, et tenacem propositi virum
  Non civium ardor prava jubentium,
    Non vultus instantis tyranni
      Mente quatit solidâ, neque Auster,
  Dux inquieti turbidus Adriæ,
  Nec fulminantis magna Jovis manus:
    Si fractus illabatur orbis,
      Impavidum ferient ruinæ.
  Hâc arte Pollux, et vagus Hercules
  Innixus, arces attigit igneas:
    Quos inter Augustus recumbens
      Purpureo bibit ore nectar.
  Hâc te merentem, Bacche pater, tuæ
  Vexêre tigres, indocili jugum
    Collo trahentes: hâc Quirinus
      Martis equis Acheronta fugit.

Translation.

  The upright man tenacious of design,
  Nor civil rage commanding acts malign,
    Nor tyrant's frown,[1] in fierce career,
    Shakes in his firm resolve with fear:
  Nor Auster, restless Adria's stormy king,
  Nor Jove's strong hand upraised the bolt to wing.
    Should Heaven's burst vault sink on his head
    The wreck would strike him undismayed.
  Pollux, and wandering Hercules, sustained
  By arts like these, the starry summits gained,
    Mid whom reclining Cæsar sips
    Rich nectar with empurpled lips;
  Thee, Bacchus, thus deserving virtue's prize
  With yoke on neck indocile to the skies
    Thy tigers bore--thus Rhea's son
    On steeds of Mars 'scaped Acheron.

[Footnote 1: _Glance_ would perhaps be more expressive. Translator.]

       *       *       *       *       *

Lib. 2. Ode xvi. AD GROSPHUM.

  Otium Divos rogat in patenti
  Prensus Ægoeo, simul atra nubes
  Condidit Lunam, neque certa fulgent
        Sidera nautis;
  Otium bello furiosa Thrace,
  Otium Medi pharetrâ decori,
  Grosphe, non gemmis, neque purpura ve-
        nale, nec auro.
  Non enim gazæ, neque consularis
  Summovet lictor miseros tumultus
  Mentis, et curas laqueata circum
        Tecta volantes.
  Vivitur parvo bene, cui paternum
  Splendet in mensâ tenui salinum;
  Nec leves somnos timor aut Cupido
        Sordidus aufert.
  Quid brevi fortes jaculamur oevo
  Multa? quid terras alio calentes
  Sole mutamus? patriæ quis exul
        Se quoque fugit?
  Scandit æratas vitiosa naves
  Cura; nec turmas equitum relinquit,
  Ocior cervis, et agente nimbos
        Ocior Euro.
  Loetus in præsens animus, quod ultra est
  Oderit curare, et amara lento
  Temperet risu. Nihil est ab omni
        Parte beatum.
  Abstulit clarum cita mors Achillem:
  Longa Tithonum minuit senectus:
  Et mihi forsan, tibi quod negârit,
        Porriget hora.
  Te greges centum, Siculæque circum
  Mugiunt vaccoe; tibi tollit hinnitum
  Apta quadrigis equa: te bis Afro
        Murice tinctæ
  Vestiunt lanoe: mihi parva rura, et
  Spiritum Graioe tenuem Camenoe
  Parca non mendax dedit, et malignum
        Spernere Vulgus.

Translation. TO GROSPHUS.

  For ease, to Heaven the seaman prays,
  Caught in the wide Ægean seas
    When black clouds wrap the sky,
  Nor moon nor well known star to guide
  His barque along the treacherous tide,
    Shines to his practised eye.
  For ease the Thracian fierce in fight
  And Parthian graced with quiver light,
    To Heaven incessant sigh.
  Ease, which nor gold, nor gems can buy,
  Nor robes of Tyria's costly dye.
    For wealth or power can quell
  No wretched tumults of the breast,
  Nor cares, aye fluttering without rest,
    Round sculptured domes, dispel.
  Well does he live in humble state,
  Whose father's salt-stand--his sole plate,
    Shines on his frugal board.
  Nor fears to lose disturb his rest,
  Nor sordid avarice goads his breast
    To gain a useless hoard.
  Why daring aim beyond our span,
  Through distant years at many a plan
    When life so brief we find?
  Why long 'neath other suns to roam?
  What exile from his native home
    Has left himself behind?
  Fell care ascends the brazen poop,
  Nor yet forsakes the horseman's troop,
    Outstrips the stag and wind.
  Pleased with the present--ills beyond,
  The man who loves not to despond,
    To trace will wisely shun:
  And when they come with tempering smile
  The bitter of his cup beguile
    Or sweeten ere 'tis done. {714}
  In youth the great Peleides sunk,
  With tardy age Tithonus shrunk,
    For nought is wholly blest.
  So time perhaps extends for me
  The hour he still denies to thee,
    Of choicest gifts possest.
  Thee--numerous flocks and herds surround,
  Thy neighing coursers paw the ground,
    For princely chariot meet.
  Rich fleeces steeped in murex bright
  Invest thy limbs with purple light
    And flow around thy feet.
  To me content, veracious heaven
  A little farm to till has given
    In independence proud,
  A gentle breath of Grecian muse
  Its airy visions to infuse
    And scorn the envious crowd.




CRITICAL NOTICES AND LITERARY INTELLIGENCE.


_Visit to the American Churches, by Doctors Reed and Matheson; 2 vols.
New York: Harpers._--This work is excellent in its way--being a fine
addition to the already numerous commentaries of the English upon our
country. The writers, in the present instance, were delegated, about
two years since, by the dissenting churches in Great Britain, to visit
the United States, for inquiry into our religious condition and
character, and were favorably received by our countrymen. They have
shown themselves peculiarly free from unworthy prejudice, and have
gleaned, with indefatigable zeal, and surprising accuracy, a mass of
secular as well as religious information in relation to the United
States. The book consists of six hundred closely printed pages,
abounding with acute comment, and replete with valuable statistical
details. It has a value, too, particularly its own, as exhibiting the
real views of two well-educated English clergymen upon the
_religious_, more especially than upon the political and social aspect
of our land. The volumes are well written, and likely to do much good
in England as well as in the United States. Our readers will remember
Doctor Reed as the author of _No Fiction_, and _Martha_, both of which
publications were favorably noticed in a former number of the
Messenger.

_The Black Watch, by the author of the Dominie's Legacy; 2 vols. E. L.
Carey and A. Hart._--This is perhaps the best of all the writings of
this author. The _soubriquet_ of "The Black Watch" is familiar in the
anecdotary annals of our country. We all remember its celebrity at
Crown Point, and among the wild doings at Lake George. We should be
pleased, did it not interfere too much with our arrangements, to give
an extract from this novel in our present number. We must, however,
confine ourselves to a general recommendation.

_Magpie Castle; 1 vol.: by Theodore Hook. E. L. Carey and A.
Hart._--This is one of the finest trifles we have had the pleasure of
looking into for many years. Hook is a writer more entirely original
in his manner of thinking and speaking than many of his literary
brethren who possess a greater reputation.

_The American Journal of Science and the Arts, by Benjamin Silliman,
M.D., L.L.D. &c. Vol. XXVII--No. 11. New Haven: Hezekiah Howe &
Co._--We are glad to see that this admirable Journal is no longer in
immediate danger of decline. It is the only work of the kind in the
United States, and it would be positively disgraceful to let it perish
from a want of that patronage which, in the opinion of all proper
judges, it so pre-eminently deserves. We perceive a suggestion in the
New York American on this subject--an appeal to the lovers of sound
knowledge, calling upon them for their aid in behalf of the Journal,
and urging them not to let slip any opportunity of speaking a word in
its favor. To this appeal we take pleasure in cordially responding. We
positively can call to mind, at this moment, _no work whatever_, more
richly deserving of support; and it _must_ be supported, if only for
the justice of the thing--it _will_ be supported, we believe, for the
credit of the country. The present number, among many well written
articles of pure science, contains not a few of universal and
practical interest to the people. We beg leave also to call the
attention of our readers to the very interesting paper entitled "An
Ascent to the summit of the Popocatepetl, the highest point of the
Mexican Andes, eighteen thousand feet above the level of the sea." We
have been nearly tempted to extract the entire article.

_The Manual of Phrenology; 1 vol. 350 pp. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea &
Blanchard._ This is a summary of Dr. Gall's system, and a translation
from the fourth Paris edition. We might as well make up our minds to
listen patiently.

_Recollections of an Excursion to the Monasteries of Alcobaca and
Batalha, by Beckford, the author of Vathek,_ have been recently
published in London. We have had occasion before to speak of the
author of Vathek, and, without having seen this his last production,
we have taken up an idea that it must bear a family resemblance to
that heterogeneous, tumid, and blasphemous piece of _Easternism_, by
which Mr. Beckford has acquired so much notoriety. We hope not,
however, for the writer's sake, who is undoubtedly a man of genius and
fine imagination. However this matter may eventuate--whether we prove
to be true prophets, or false--one thing is certain: the work of which
we are now speaking, as indeed any book whatever from the same pen,
will be read with eagerness; and this for no better reason which we
can discover, than that the world have habituated themselves to mix up
in their fancy the mind and writings with the former fine house and
furniture of Mr. Beckford--the gorgeous nonsense of Vathek, with the
vast and absolute magnificence of the Abbey of Fonthill. We predict
for the book a rapid sale in this country. The notices which we have
seen merely speak of it as a charming specimen of a book made up from
nothing at all. It is said, however, to give a faithful picture of
monastic life, and a sprightly view of Portugal in 1794.

P. S. It appears that we have not been altogether mistaken in our
pre-supposition touching this book. The _Recollections_ consist of
little more than a glowing description of monastic epicurism and
_gourmandise_.

_The Wife and Woman's Reward_, by the Hon. Mrs. Norton, editress of
the London Court Journal, has been republished by the Harpers. We have
merely glanced at the book, and can therefore say very little about
it. Mrs. Norton's name however is high {715} authority. She has
written some of the most touching verses in the language, imbued with
poetry and passion; and since we saw her lately at breakfast in
Frazer's Magazine, we have fallen positively in love with her, and
intend to look with a favorable eye upon each and all of her future
productions.

_The Brothers, a Tale of the Fronde; 2 vols. New York: Harper and
Brothers._--This novel is from the pen of Mr. Herbert of New York, one
of the editors of the American Monthly Magazine. Detached chapters of
it have appeared from time to time in that journal, and gave
indication of the glowing talent which is now so apparent in the
entire work. As an historical novel, in excellent keeping, written
with great fluency and richness of diction, we know of (nothing?) from
the American press possessing higher claims than _The Brothers_ of Mr.
Herbert.

_Letters to Young Ladies; by Mrs. L. H. Sigourney._ W. Watson of
Hartford, has just published a second edition of this little volume.
It contains 200 pages, and consists of twelve letters on subjects
appertaining to the female character. Mrs. Sigourney blends a strong
and commanding good sense, with the loftier qualities of the poet. She
has written nothing which is not, in its particular way, excellent.

Hilliard, Gray & Co. have just published _The Comprehensive
Pronouncing and Explanatory Dictionary of the English Language, with
Pronouncing Vocabularies of Classical, Scriptural and Modern
Geographical Names, by J. E. Worcester; 1 vol. 12 mo._ Also--_An
Elementary Dictionary for Common Schools, &c. &c.; by the same._ The
latter of these two works is merely a condensation of the former; and
is in so much to be preferred, as it omits references and
authority--giving, in cases of doubt, what is deemed upon the whole
the proper pronunciation. The Comprehensive Dictionary was first
published in 1830. Several editions have been since printed. It
contains 6000 words more than Walker.

Matsells, of Chatham, New York, has published _A Few Days in Athens,
being a translation of a Greek M.S. discovered in Herculaneum; by
Frances Wright._--We have been sadly puzzled what idea to attach to
this very odd annunciation--the book itself we have not yet been able
to obtain. What it is, and what it is not, must deeply concern every
lover of Fanny Wright, pure Greek, and perfect independence.

We perceive that J. N. Reynolds' Voyage of the United States' Frigate
Potomac--Dr. Bird's Infidel--Tocqueville's Democracy in
America--Professor Longfellow's Outre-Mer--and John P. Kennedy's
Horse-Shoe Robinson--all of which we noticed favorably in the
Messenger--are highly praised in the London Literary Gazette.
Outre-Mer sells in that city for nearly $5--Horse-Shoe Robinson, and
the Infidel, for $6 50 each.

A superb work has appeared in Paris--_Descriptions of the French
Possessions in India_, viz: Views of the Coromandel and Madras
Coasts--Sketches of the Temples, Gods, Costumes, &c. of the
inhabitants of French India. The book is richly ornamented with
lithographic plates of exquisite finish, and altogether the
publication is worthy of the government under whose direction it has
been gotten up.

The July number of the London New Monthly Magazine contains a portrait
of Mrs. Hemans (from the bust by Angus Kecher,) engraved on steel by
Thompson. This is the only likeness of Mrs. Hemans ever published.
There is also an article by Willis entitled _The Gipsey of Sardis_.
Since the secession of Campbell in 1831, Samuel Carter Hall has edited
the New Monthly--the editorship of Bulwer only enduring for a short
interval.

_Robert Gilfillan_, of Edinburg, the Scottish lyrical writer, has
published a second edition of his songs. Some of them are said to be
of surpassing beauty.

Mr. Hoskins' _Travels in Ethiopia above the Second Cataract of the
Nile_, are very highly spoken of. The work is a large quarto; and the
expense of getting it up has been so great, as to leave its author no
chance of remuneration. It contains ninety illustrations, by a
Neapolitan artist of great eminence. The risk attending the
publication of so valuable a book, will operate to deter any American
bookseller from attempting it.

The new number of Lardner's Cyclopædia is _A History of Greece, vol.
1, by the Rev. C. Thirwall, M.A., Fellow of Trinity College,
Cambridge_. There will be three volumes of it. Alas, for our old and
valued friend, Oliver Goldsmith! The book is said to be faithful--but
very stupid.

_Anecdotes of Washington, illustrative of his patriotism and courage,
piety and benevolence_, is the title of one of the last of the "_Books
for the Young_." It is a Scottish publication.

Sir James Mackintosh has just issued _A View of the Reign of James II,
from his accession to the enterprize of the Prince of Orange. The
History of the Revolution in England in 1688_, a late work by the same
author, sold for three guineas: it was reprinted by the Harpers. The
present book is said to be nothing more than a part of the former work
in a new dress.

The Honorable Arthur Trevor has issued a volume of _The Life and Times
of William III, King of England, and Stadtholder of Holland_.

_Irving's Crayon Sketches, Parts I and II_, have been reprinted in
Paris by Galignani. _Fanny Kemble_ has been also reprinted there.

Captain Ross, the hero of the North Pole, is losing ground in public
favor. Singular discrepancies are said to have been discovered in his
last volume, between his map and his text.

_Sketches of American Literature_, by Flint, are in course of
publication in the London Athenæum. They are not very highly spoken
of--being called abstruse and dull.

The finest edition ever yet published of Milton's Paradise Lost, is
that of Sir Egerton Brydges, of which the first volume is already
issued. It contains the first six books--an engraving from Romney's
picture "Milton Dictating to his Daughter," and a fine vignette, "The
Expulsion," by J. M. W. Turner, R.A. The edition will be completed in
six vols.

The Right Hon. J. P. Courtney has in press _Memoirs of the Life,
Works, and Correspondence of Sir William Temple_.

James, the author of Darnley, has completed the _Life of Edward the
Black Prince_.

Lady Dacre, who wrote the _Tales of a Chaperon_, has published _Tales
of the Peerage and Peasantry_. The work is ostensibly _edited_ by Lady
Dacre, but there can be no {716} doubt of her having written it. Every
lover of fine writing must remember the story of _Ellen Wareham_ in
the Tales of a Chaperon. Positively we have never seen any thing of
the kind more painfully interesting, with the single exception of the
Bride of Lammermuir. The Tales in the present volumes are _The
Countess of Nithsdale_, _The Hampshire Cottage_, and _Blanche_.

Willis' _Pencillings by the Way_ are regularly republished in the
Liverpool Journal.

The _Canzoniere of Dante_ has been translated by C. Lyell with
absolute fidelity, and of course with correspondent awkwardness.

Barry Cornwall's _Life of Edmund Kean_ is severely handled in
Blackwood's Magazine for July.

The seventh Bridgewater Treatise has appeared in two volumes. It is by
the Rev. W. Kirby, the naturalist, and treats of _The History, Habits,
and Instincts of Animals_. The article on the Bridgewater Treatises in
the London Quarterly (we believe,) is one of the most admirable essays
ever penned--we allude to the paper entitled _The Universe and its
Author_.

A second edition of _Social Evils_, by Mrs. Sherwood, has appeared.
Mrs. S. is now well advanced in years.

A political novel is also in press--_Mephistopheles in England, or the
Confessions of a Prime Minister_.

_The Life of Edward, Earl of Clarendon_, is in preparation by Lister,
author of Granby.

Joanna Baillie is about to issue three new volumes of _Dramas on the
Passions_. She is, in our opinion, the first literary lady in England.

The London Quarterly Review is especially severe on Fanny Kemble's
Journal--while an article on the same subject in the last New England
Review is as particularly lenient. The paper in the Quarterly is from
the pen of Lockhart.

Dr. Bird is preparing for the press a new novel under the name of _The
Hawks of Hawk's Hollow_. The adventures of a band of refugees, who
during the revolutionary war infested the banks of the Delaware, will
form the groundwork of the story.

_Halleck's Poems_ are in press, and will speedily be published. This
announcement has been received with universal pleasure. As a writer of
light, airy and graceful things, Halleck is inimitable.

Mr. Simms, author of the _Yemassee_, has in preparation a novel
founded upon incidents in the war of the revolution in South Carolina.
He will thus find himself at issue with Mr. Kennedy in Horse-Shoe
Robinson. De Kalb, Marion, Gates, and a host of other worthies will
figure in the pages of Mr. Simms.

We are looking for _The Gift_ with great anxiety. This annual will
have few, perhaps no rivals any where. Its embellishments are of the
very highest order of excellence; and a galaxy of talent has been
enlisted in its behalf. It is edited by Miss Leslie, and will be
issued from the press of Carey and Lea early in September.

In conclusion. Charles Kemble is reported to have said that Fanny's
is, beyond doubt, the best and truest book ever published, with the
exception of Byron and the Bible.




TO READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.


It has been our custom, hitherto, to offer some few _Editorial
Remarks_ explanatory, complimentary, or otherwise, upon each
individual article in every Messenger. For this we had many reasons
which it will be unnecessary to mention in detail. But although, in
the infancy of our journal, such a course might have seemed to us
expedient, we are _now_ under no obligation to continue it. We shall
therefore, for the future, suffer our various articles to speak for
themselves, and depend upon their intrinsic merit for support.

In our next will appear No. VIII of the Tripoline Sketches: No. III of
the Autobiography of Pertinax Placid: and many other papers which we
have been forced for the present to exclude. Many poetical favors are
under consideration.

We avail ourselves of this opportunity again to solicit contributions,
especially from our Southern acquaintances. While we shall endeavor to
render the Messenger acceptable to all, it is more particularly our
desire to give it as much as possible a _Southern_ character and
aspect, and to identify its interests and associations with those of
the region in which it has taken root.

As one or two of the criticisms in relation to the Tales of our
contributor, Mr. Poe, have been directly at variance with those
generally expressed, we take the liberty of inserting here an extract
from a _letter_ (signed by three gentlemen of the highest standing in
literary matters) which we find in the Baltimore Visiter. This paper
having offered a premium for the best Prose Tale, and also one for the
best Poem--_both_ these premiums were awarded by the committee to Mr.
Poe. The award was, however, subsequently altered, so as to exclude
Mr. P. from the second premium, in consideration of his having
obtained the higher one. Here follows the extract.

"Among the prose articles offered were many of various and
distinguished merit; but the singular force and beauty of those sent
by the author of the _Tales of the Folio Club_, leave us no room for
hesitation in that department. We have accordingly awarded the premium
to a Tale entitled _MS. found in a Bottle_. It would hardly be doing
justice to the writer of this collection to say that the Tale we have
chosen is the best of the six offered by him. We cannot refrain from
saying that the author owes it to his own reputation, as well as to
the gratification of the community, to publish the entire volume, (the
Tales of the Folio Club.) These Tales are eminently distinguished by a
wild, vigorous, and poetical imagination--a rich style--a fertile
invention--and varied and curious learning.

  (Signed)

  JOHN P. KENNEDY,
  J. H. B. LATROBE,
  JAMES H. MILLER."

We presume this letter must set the question at rest. Lionizing is one
of the Tales here spoken of--The Visionary is another. The _Tales of
the Folio Club_ are sixteen in all, and we believe it is the author's
intention to publish them in the autumn. When such men as Miller,
Latrobe, Kennedy, Tucker, and Paulding speak unanimously of any
literary productions in terms of exalted commendation, it is nearly
unnecessary to say that we are willing to abide by their decision.

In every publication like ours, a brief sentence or paragraph is often
wanted for the filling out a column, and in such cases it is customary
to resort to selection. We think it as well, therefore, to mention
that, in all similar instances, we shall make use of _original_
matter.


{717}


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 {718} 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 {719} 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 {720} 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!!

{721} 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 {722} 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 {723} 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 {724} 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.


{725}


  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 {726} 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 {727} 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 {728} 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_, {729} 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 {730} _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_ {731} 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 {732} 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 {733} 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 {734} 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."


{735}


  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.

{736} 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
{737} ----, 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 {738}
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, {739} 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 {740} 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.


{741}


  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 {742} 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 {743} 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 {744}
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, {745}

  "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 {746} 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 {747} 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. {748} _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.


{749}


  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 {750} 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. {751} 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 {752}
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 {753} 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 {754} 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 {755} 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? {756}
        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.]


{757}


  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 {758} 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 {759} 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 {760} 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 {761} 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 {762}
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 {763} 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! {764}
    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.


{765}


  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 {766} 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 {767} 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 {768} 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, {769}
  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 {770}
  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, {771} 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_.


{772}


  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 {773} 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 {774} 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, {775} 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.]


{776}


  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 {777} 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 {778} 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
{779} 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 {780} 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.


{781}


INDEX

To Volume I of the Southern Literary Messenger.


PROSE.

A

Abolition of Southern Slavery--how regarded in New England 87

Adams' and Everett's Eulogies on La Fayette, reviewed 307

Address, Mr. Garnett's, on Associations to promote Education 282

Address, Mrs. Sigourney's, on Female Education 169

Address, President Olin's Inaugural, reviewed 15

Address, President Vethake's Inaugural, reviewed 585

Adventures of Harry Humbug, Esq. 772

Advice to Law Students 33, 34

Advice from a Father to his only Daughter 187

Affectation, Thoughts on 365

Alleghany Levels, described 97

Ambitious Lawyer, Memoir of an 645

American Churches, Visit to, by Doctors Reed and Matheson, notice of
      714

American Literature, its impediments 220

American Novels, recent--The Insurgents 478

Anecdotes of Patrick Henry 332

Annals of Education, recommended 205

Athens, a few days in, by Fanny Wright, notice of 715

Aunts, my two 189

Autobiography of Pertinax Placid, extracts from 617, 706


B

Bancroft's History of the U. S. vol I. reviewed 587

Bashful Gentleman 429

Bathmendi, a Persian Tale, from the French of M. Florian 377

Beauties of the Court of Charles II. by Mrs. Jameson, reviewed 312

Belford Regis, by Miss Mitford, noticed 651

Berenice, a Tale, by Edgar A. Poe 333

Black Watch, the, noticed 714

Blackbeard, a Philadelphia Story, notice of 595

Blackstone, Judge, a Poet 315

Blackstone's Commentaries, a note to 227
    Remarks on that note 266
    Reply to the remarks 388

Bon-Bon, a Tale, by Edgar A. Poe 693

Browne, P. A.--Hints to Geological Students 162, 300
  Essay on the Mineral Wealth of Virginia 91
  Law Case, involving a question in Hydraulics and Hydrostatics 44

Bryant's Poems, notice of 250

Buffon, his theory of the Earth's origin 302

Bulwer, his Pilgrims of the Rhine reviewed 53
  Last Days of Pompeii 241
  Convicted of Plagiarism 246

Burnet, Thomas, his theory of the Earth 301

Butler, Mrs. (once Miss Kemble) notices of her Journal 459, 524


C

"Calavar, an American Novel," reviewed 315

"Cavaliers of Virginia," reviewed 385

Caucus System, its effects 218
  Etymology of "_Caucus_" 455

"Celebrated Trials of all Countries," notice of 458

"Celebrated Women," Madame Junot's Memoirs of, noticed 458

"Chances and Changes," reviewed 649

Chotank, Recollections of 43

Christian Education, Essay on 432

Churches, American, Drs. Reed and Matheson's visit to, noticed 714

Circumstantial Evidence, its danger illustrated by a narrative 142

Classics, thoughts on the study of 213

Classmates, My, a Tale 106

Colonial Manners, a picture of the Maryland House of Burgesses in 1766
      138

Common Schools of New England, their benefits 86, 87
  Some particulars of their organization 275

"Confessions of a Poet," notice of 459

"Conquest of Florida," (Soto's) notice of 648

Contrast (the) or a Fashionable and Unfashionable New England Wife 290

Conversation Parties, Soirées, and Squeezes, by Oliver Oldschool 547

Cooper, James Fenimore, Letter to his Countrymen, reviewed 648

Cottage in the Glen, a Tale 78

"Court of Charles II," Beauties of, by Mrs. Jameson, reviewed 312

Courtship and Marriage 349

Crayon Miscellany, No. 1, reviewed 456
  No. 2 646

Criticism--see "Literary Notices."

Crockett's Tour, notice of 459

Cupid's Sport, a Tale, No. 1 102
  No. 2 741

Cyclopean Towers in Augusta County, Virginia--described 98


D

Dagger's Springs, an account of 518

Dancing, Waltzing, &c. by Anthony Absolute 512

Dandyism, ridiculed, by Oliver Oldschool 251

Dargle, the (in Ireland) described 203

Davidson, Miss, review of her Poems 51

Deaf and Dumb Asylum--Review of Gov. Tazewell's Report on 134
    Remarks on that Review 201

Dew, Professor, his Dissertation on the Sexes, &c. 493, 621, 672

"Diary of an Ennuyée" by Mrs. Jameson, reviewed 18

Diary of a Revolutionary Officer, extract from 341

Dictionary, Worcester's, notice of 715

Discourse on the Progress and Influence of Philosophy, by Professor
      George Tucker 405

Dissertation on the Characteristic Differences of the Sexes, and
      Woman's Position and Influence in Society 493, 621, 672

District School, The, notice of 777

Doom, The, a Tale 235

Door-Latch, The 770

Dream and Prediction, remarkable, fulfilled 658

Duel, The 641

Dyspeptic Man 71


E

Early Adventures 761

Editorial Remarks 1, 63, 125, 190, 254, 321, 387, 531, 533, 652

Education, Christian, Essay on 432
  Of Infancy 279
  Address on, by Mrs. Sigourney 169
  Address on Associations for promoting it, by Mr. Garnett 282
  Lectures on the obstacles to, by the same 725
  Edgeworth's Practical, noticed 459

Eloquence, Pinckney's, account of 94
  Essay on 165

English Poetry, Essays on 397, 557

Ennuyée, Diary of, reviewed 18

Epicurus, his Geogony 301

Eulogy on Lafayette, by M. De Boinville 93
  By Messrs. Adams and Everett, reviewed 307

Evidence, Circumstantial, its danger illustrated 142

"Example is better than Precept," an Essay 39

Extemporaneous Speaking, Essay on 7

Extracts from my Mexican Journal 276, 435, 700
  from a Novel that never will be published 46
  from a Journal of a Voyage to Europe 3
  from the Autobiography of Pertinax Placid 617, 706


F

Family Library, Classical, notice of 779

Fashionable and Unfashionable N. England Wife 290

Fashionable Parties and late hours, by M. M. Noah 357

Father's Advice to his only Daughter 187

Female Education, Mrs. Sigourney's Address on 169

Few Days in Athens, by Fanny Wright 715

Fine Arts, Essays on the 376, 454, 477

Florian's _Bathmendi_, translated 377

Fourth of July, a rural celebration of it described 156

France, Letters from, by a Sister. See "Leontine's Letters from
      France."

Free Governments, their influence on the Mind 389


G

Gallantry, comparative, in the Northern and Southern States 84, 218

Gallopade and Waltz, strictures on, by Oliver Oldschool 426

Garnett's Address, on Associations to promote Education 282
  Lectures on the obstacles to Education, &c. 725

Gazetteer of Virginia, notice of 257

Geology, hints to Students of 162, 300

Gift, The, notice of 780

Glimpse at Basil Hall 206

Grave of Forgotten Genius, a Tale, by an Undergraduate 469

Grayson Griffith 605

Guy Rivers, extract from, illustrating the evils of maternal
      indulgence and neglect in childhood 280


H

Hall, Captain Basil, a Glimpse at 206

Hamilton, _La Belle_, in Charles II's Court--her charms described 313

Hans Phaal, a Tale, by Edgar A. Poe 565

Heinroth on the Education of Infancy 279

Historical and Philosophical Society of Virginia--its collections 123
  Anniversary Meeting 255, 257
  Selections from its papers 353, 354, 356
  Professor George Tucker's Discourse before 405

History of the U. S. by George Bancroft, reviewed 587

Halloway and Hopkins, eminent lawyers of Virginia when a Colony,
      notices of them 353

Hook's Magpie Castle, reviewed 714

Hope and Memory, an Allegory, by Paulding 31

Hopkinson, Judge, his letter to the Editor 322

"Horse-Shoe Robinson," a Novel, by Mr. Kennedy, reviewed 522

Hospitality in New England 166

House Mountain in Virginia, described 472

Hutton, his theory of the Earth's Origin 304

Hydrostatics and Hydraulics, question of, in a Law Case 44


I

Illoray De Courcy, a Novel, notice of 459

Impediments to American Literature 220

Improvisation 7

Indian Feats of Legerdemain 657

Indian Lover, a Tale 393

Indian Mother, a Tale 223

Infancy, Heinroth on the Education of 279

Infancy, evils of neglecting it 280

"Infidel," (The) "or the Fall of Mexico," a Romance, reviewed 582

Influence of Free Governments on the Mind 389

"Insurgents," The, a Novel, reviewed 478

Interesting Ruins on the Rappahannock 9

Ireland, History of, by T. Moore, reviewed 478

Irving, Theodore, History of the Conquest of Florida, reviewed 648

Irving, Washington, Tribute to him, from the North American Review 650

Italian Sketch Book, notice of 594


J

Jameson, Mrs. her Diary of an Ennuyée, reviewed 18
  "Visits and Sketches" 250
  "Court of Charles II" 312

Jonathan Bull and Mary Bull, a political apologue 342

Journal, my Mexican, Extracts from 276, 435, 700

Journal of a Voyage to Europe, Extracts from 3

Journal of Medical Science, notice of 778


K

Kennedy, John P. his oration in memory of Wm. Wirt, reviewed 16
  His Novel, Horse-Shoe Robinson, reviewed 522

King Pest the First, a Tale, containing an Allegory 757

Knowles, James Sheridan, notice of his Tales 18

Kosciusko, Life of, reviewed 596


L

Lacon, Extracts from 72, 124, 358

La Fayette, Eulogy on, by M. De Boinville 93
    By Messrs. Adams and Everett, reviewed 307

"Last Days of Pompeii," reviewed 241
  Proved to contain a Plagiarism from Fairfield's "Last Night of
      Pompeii" 246

"Last NIGHT of Pompeii" _versus_ the "Last DAYS of Pompeii" 246

Latin and Greek Classics, thoughts on the study of 213

Law Case, involving a question of Hydrostatics 44

Law Students, Mr. Wirt's Letter to one 34
  Lecture to, by Professor B. Tucker 145
  Valedictory to, by the same 601

Lazarus Rust's lament for his name 170

Leaf from a Young American Tourist's Journal (in Italy) 83

Legerdemain, Extraordinary Indian Feats of 657

"Leisure Hours," notice of 189

Leontine's Letters from France 232, 304, 373, 487, 535, 663, 765

LETTERS--from Mr. Wirt, on Law Studies 34
  from New England, by a Virginian 85, 166, 217, 273, 421
  from France, see "Leontine."
  on the U. States, by a Young Scotchman 482, 602
  from Judge Hopkinson to the Editor 322
  from a correspondent in Shepherdstown 324
  from Larry Lyle to that correspondent 388
  from the Reviewer of Messrs. Adams' and Everett's Orations 388
  from R. H. Wilde, on being charged with Plagiarism 252
  from Mr. Paulding to the Editor 1

Leucippus, his system of Cosmogony 301

Lionel Granby 516, 541, 632, 661

Lionizing, a Tale, by Edgar A. Poe 515

Literary Intelligence 715

LITERARY NOTICES.
  A Winter in the West, by a New Yorker 459
  Adams' and Everett's Orations on the Death of La Fayette 307
  Address (Inaugural) of President Olin, at R. M. College, Va. 15
  Address of President Vethake, at Washington College, Va. 585
  American Quarterly Review 595
  American Journal of Science, &c. (Silliman's) 714
  American Republication of Foreign Reviews 651
  Amir Khan, and other Poems, by Lucretia Maria Davidson 51
  Bancroft's History of the United States, vol. i. 587
  Beauties of the Court of Charles the 2d, by Mrs. Jamieson 312
  Belford Regis, by Miss Mitford 651
  Blackbeard 595
  Bryant's Poems, new edition 250
  Bulwer's Last Days of Pompeii 241
  Bulwer's Pilgrims of the Rhine 53
  Butler, Mrs. Frances Anne's Journal 459, 524
  Calavar, a new American Novel 315
  Cavaliers of Virginia, an American Novel 385
  Celebrated Trials of all Countries 458
  Chances and Changes, a Domestic Story 649
  Classical Family Library 779
  Confessions of a Poet 459
  Conquest of Florida (Hernando Soto's) by Theodore Irving 648
  Cooper, James Fenimore's Letter to his Countrymen 18
  Crayon Miscellany, No. 1 456
    No. 2 (containing Abbottsford and Newstead Abbey) 646
  Crockett's Tour to the North and Down East 459
  Diary of an Ennuyée, by Mrs. Jameson 18
  Dictionary, Worcester's 715
  District School 777
  Early Naval History of England 780
  Edgeworth's Practical Education 459
  Few days in Athens, by Fanny Wright 715
  German work on America 596
  Gift, The 780
  Highland Smugglers 459
  Horse-Shoe Robinson, by the Author of Swallow Barn 522
  Illoray De Courcy, a Novel 459
  Infidel, The, or the Fall of Mexico, a Romance 582
  Influence, a Moral Tale 458
  Italian Sketch Book 594
  Knowles' "Magdalen" and other Tales 22
  Kosciusko's Life 596
  Language of Flowers 459
  Last Days of Pompeii 241, 246
  Leisure Hours, or the American Popular Library 189
  Letters to Young Ladies, by Mrs. Sigourney 715
  Life of Napoleon Bonaparte, by Henry Lee 458
  Literary Journal 124
  Lives of English Pirates, &c. 459
  London Quarterly Review 458
  Madame Junot's Memoirs of Celebrated Women 458
  Magpie Castle, by Theodore Hook 714
  Manual of Phrenology 714
  Mephistopheles in England 776
  Moore's History of Ireland 595
  New England Magazine 777
  No Fiction 458
  North American Review 457, 650
  Outre Mer, or a Pilgrimage beyond Sea, by Professor Longfellow 594
  Pencil Sketches, 2d series 595
  Phrenology, Manual of 714
  Pilgrims of the Rhine 53
  Poems, by a Collegian 117
  Promessi Sposi, or the Betrothed Lovers, a Milanese Story 520
  Recollections of an Excursion to the Monasteries of Alcobaca, &c. by
      Beckford 714
  Scraps, by John C. McCabe 386
  Silliman's Journal of Science and the Arts 714
  Sketches, by Mrs. Sigourney 22
  "Stories about General Warren" 749
  Speece's Poems 118
  The Brothers, a Tale of the Fronde 715
  Tocqueville's American Democracy 596
  Valerius, a Novel, by Lockhart 459
  Vathek, by Mr. Beckford 118, 270, 386
  Visit to the American Churches, by Drs. Reed and Matheson 714
  Visit to Texas 119
  Visits and Sketches, by Mrs. Jameson 250
  Voyage of the Potomac Frigate round the Globe, by J. N. Reynolds 594
  Washington's Writings and Life, by J. Sparks, vol. 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6
      591
  Western Journal of Medical Science 778
  Wife and Woman's Record, by Mrs. Norton 714
  Wirt's Life and Character, Oration on, by J. P. Kennedy 16
  Wood, Mrs. Jean 209

LITERATURE, American, Impediments to it 220
  Southern 1

Loss of Breath, a Tale, _a la_ Blackwood, by Edgar A. Poe 735

Love and Authorship, by Knowles 22

Luxury, Essay on 163


M

Magpie Castle, by Theodore Hook, reviewed 714

Mahomet, his Cosmogony 301

Maid of Malines, a Tale by Bulwer 54

Manual of Phrenology 714

Manufacturing Establishments, Nurseries of Vice 273

March of Mind 154

Married Man, Recollections of 770

Marrying Well, a Moral Tale 345

Martineau, Miss 319

Maryland House of Burgesses in 1766, picture of its manners 138

McCabe, J. C. notice of his "Scraps" 386

Mechanician and Uncle Simon, by Nugator 186

Memoirs of Celebrated Women, by Madame Junot--notice of 458

Memory, an Allegory 216

Memory and Hope, an Allegory, by Paulding 31

Mephistopheles in England, notice of 776

Mexican Journal, Extracts from 276, 435, 700

Mineral Possessions, and the Cultivation of Geological Inquiry--their
      National Importance 484

Mineral Wealth of Virginia, by P. A. Browne 91

Misfortune and Genius, a Tale 36

Morella, a Tale, by Edgar A. Poe 448

Museum (Littell's) of Foreign Literature--noticed 251

My Classmates, a Tale 106

My First Night in the Watch-house--from the Autobiography of Pertinax
      Placid 617, 706

"My Life"--notice of 651

My Name--a lament of Lazarus Rust 170

My Tongs--a dream 746

My Two Aunts 189


N

Napoleon, Lee's Life of--noticed 458

Naval History of England, notice of 780

New England--Remarks on 84

New England--Letters from, by a Virginian 85, 166, 217, 273, 421

New England Magazine, notice of 777

Norfolk--Proceedings at, of the Sons of Liberty in 1776 354

North American Review--Notices of 457, 650

Nose, Tale of a--by Pertinax Placid 445

Nose, Account of a Prodigious 468

Note to Blackstone's Commentaries 227
  Remarks on it 266
  Reply to the "Remarks" 388

Novel that never will be Published, Extract from a 46

Novel-Reading--its effects described 39

Nugator's several Contributions 9, 46, 181, 455, 580


O

Observations on the National Importance of Mineral Possessions, and
      the Cultivation of Geological Inquiry 484

Olin, President's, Inaugural Address at Randolph Macon
      College--review and extract 15

Oliver Oldschool, on Dandyism 251
  On the Waltz and Gallopade 426
  On Conversation Parties, &c. 547

Orations--review of J. P. Kennedy's, on Mr. Wirt 16
  Of Messrs. Adams' and Everett's, on La Fayette 307

Ormond, the Second Great Duke of 313, 314

Orpheus, his Cosmogony 301

Ossory, Lord and Lady--characters of 313

"Outre Mer," reviewed 594


P

Paris, a Scene in (1827)--by a Virginian 381

Patriarch, The--a Tale, by Mrs. Sigourney 28

Patrick Henry, Anecdotes of 332

Paulding, James K.--Letter to the Publisher 1
  Allegory of Memory and Hope 31

"Pencil Sketches," by Miss Leslie, notice of 595

Pertinax Placid's Autobiography, extracts from 617, 706

Peter's Mountain 641

Philosophy, its Progress and Influence on Morals and Intellect, by
      Professor George Tucker 601

Phrenological Examinations of Dr. Powell 204

Pilgrims of the Rhine, notice of 53

Pinckney's Eloquence, characterized 94

Poems, by a Collegian, reviewed 117

Poetry, English, Essays on 397

Pompeii, Last DAYS of, reviewed 241
    Its Author convicted of Plagiarism 246
    Last NIGHT of 246

Popular Instruction, Associations for in N. England 273
  Mr. Garnett's Address on 282

Potomac Frigate, its Voyage round the Globe 594

Powell, Dr. Wm. Byrd--Description of the Sweet Spring Valley 42
  Phrenological Examinations 204

Prairie Dogs, Republic of, described by Irving 456

Prairies, a Storm on 534

"_Promessi Sposi_" or the Betrothed Lovers, a Milanese Story, reviewed
      520


R

Reclaimed, the, a Tale 668

Recollections of Chotank 43

Recollections of an Excursion, &c. by Beckford--notice of 714

Recollections of a Married Man 770

Red Sulphur Springs 519, 544

Remarkable Dream and Prediction Fulfilled 658

Reminiscences of a Western Traveller 336

Reporter's Story, or the Importance of a Syllable 73

Reviews and Criticisms, see "LITERARY NOTICES."

Revolutionary Officer's Diary--surrender of Charleston 341

Richmond (City) account of, from the Virginia Gazetteer 258

Robinson, John (A.D. 1694,) his _Anatomical_ Description of the Earth
      341

Romance of Real Life, a narrative 271

Root, Mrs., Female Seminary in Prince Edward 519

Ruins on the Rappahannock 9


S

Sale in Lower Virginia, description of one, by Nugator 580

Sally Singleton, a Story, by Nugator 46

Sandfords (the) a Tale 552

Sardanapalus 699

Scene in Paris, in 1827, by a Virginian 381

Scene in Real Life 430

Scenery, Virginia, Sketch of 348

"Scraps," by John C. McCabe, reviewed 386

Seasons (the) sketched 176

Servility, remarks on 6

Sexes, their Characteristic Differences 493, 621, 672

Shadow, a Fable 762

Shakspeare, some curious relics of 253

Shipwreck, Story of one 351

Sigourney, Mrs. her "Sketches" reviewed 22
  Address on Female Education 169

Silliman's Journal of Science, &c. notice of 714

Sister, Letters from a--see "Leontine."

"Sketches," by Mrs. Sigourney, notice of 22

Sons of Liberty at Norfolk, their Proceedings in 1776 354

Soto's Conquest of Florida, by Theodore Irving, notice of 648

Southern Literature 1

Speaking, Extemporaneous, Essay on 7

Speece's Poems, notice of 118

"Stories about General Warren," reviewed 749

Storm on the Prairies--from the MSS. of D. D. Mitchell 534

Story from Voltaire, translated 10

Study of the Latin and Greek Classics, thoughts on 213

Surrender of Charleston, from the Diary of a Revolutionary Officer 341

Sweet Springs, the Valley of, described 42

Swimming, a Feat of 468


T

Tale of the West 437

Tam O'Shanter, &c. group of, in statuary, by Mr. Thorn 140

Tazewell, Governor--Review of his Report on a Proposed Deaf and Dumb
      Asylum 134
    Remarks on that Review 201

Texas, a visit to, reviewed 119

Thorn, the Sculptor, his group of Tam O'Shanter 140

Time, the Consoler, from Voltaire 11

Tocqueville's "American Democracy," noticed 596

Township System of the Northern States, its advantages 86

Tucker, Prof. Beverley, Lecture to his Law Class 145
  "Note to Blackstone's Commentaries" 227
  "Remarks" on that Note 266
  His Reply to the "Remarks" 388
  Valedictory to his Class 601

Tucker, Professor George, Discourse on the Progress of Philosophy, and
      its Influence on Morals and Intellect 405

Tripoli Sketches of the History and Present Condition of 65, 129, 193,
      261, 325, 461, 654, 717
  Shaler, William, Consul General of the United States for the Barbary
      Powers, concludes Treaty with Algiers 655
    Spirited conduct in protecting his servants 724
    Death of 724
  Algiers. Turks under Barbarossa establish themselves in Algiers 70
    Description of the City 719
    Attacked by Charles the Fifth in 1541 71
    War with Tunis 720
    The Dey plunders American vessels on account of the delay in
      paying tribute 653
    Conduct of Great Britain and France towards Algiers 653
    Dey compels the American Consul to pay arrears of tribute unjustly
      demanded and declares war against the U. States 654
    American squadron sent against Algiers under Decatur 655
    Algerine ships of war taken by the American squadron 655
    Treaty dictated by Decatur and Shaler 655
    British fleet under Lord Exmouth visit Algiers and make treaties
      for Sardinia and Naples 720
    American squadron under Shaw visit Algiers 719
    Dey rejects the treaty with the United States 718
    Writes a letter to the President proposing renewal of former
      treaty 718
    Lord Exmouth's second visit to Algiers 718
    Demands abolition of slavery 718
    Reference made by the Dey to the Sultan 718
    British and Dutch expedition against Algiers 719
    Bombardment of the City, and submission made by the Dey to the
      demands of the British 719
    Reflections 720
    American squadron under Chauncey arrive at Algiers 721
    Receipt of answer from the President of the United States to the
      Dey's letter 721
    Dey accepts the treaty 722
    British and French squadron sent to demand abolition of slavery
      723
    Refusal by the Dey to comply 723
    Invasion of the British Consul's house 724
    Fleet sent to demand apologies 724
    Success of that expedition 724
  Hamet Prince of Tripoli, account of 131
    Deprived of the throne by his younger brother Yusuf 132
    Discovered at Tunis by the American Consul Eaton 194
    And persuaded to attempt the recovery of his dominions, goes to
      Malta 195
    And thence to Derne 196
    Obliged to fly to Egypt 198
    Found by Eaton among the Mamelukes in Egypt 262
    Makes treaty with Eaton 262
    Expedition of Hamet and Eaton to Derne 263
    Carried from Derne by the American squadron to Syracuse; sum voted
      for his support by the American Congress; returns as Bey to
      Derne 331
    Expelled by his brother; takes refuge in Egypt and dies there 389
    His son 389
  Tunis taken by Barbarossa 70
    Taken by Charles the Fifth 71
    Treaty with the United States; disagreement with the United States
      389
    Tunisian Ambassador sent to Washington 390
    Difficulties between the United States and Tunis on account of
      prizes taken by an American privateer 655
  Hamouda Bey of Tunis, character of 193
    death, 465
  Morat Rais, high Admiral of Tripoli, a Scotch Renegade 133
    Enmity to the United States 133
    Banished at the demand of the American Consul 465
  Fezzan, a desart country of Africa, description of 464
    Conquered by the Pasha of Tripoli 464
  Yusuf, Pasha of Tripoli, murders his eldest brother Hassan Bey 131
    Rebels against his father 132
    Seizes the throne of Tripoli and expels his brother Hamet 132
    Makes a treaty with the United States 132
    Declares war against the United States 133
    Attempts to negotiate a peace on condition of tribute being paid
      328
    Makes peace 330
    Energy in repairing his losses 463
    Conquers Fezzan 464
    His sons rebel against him 464
  Eaton, William, Consul of the United States at Tunis 193
    His plan to replace Hamet on the throne of Tripoli 194
    Returns to America 197
    Goes to Egypt 198
    Finds Hamet and makes a treaty with him 262
    Expedition from Alexandria 263
    Reaches and takes Derne 265
    Evacuates Derne 331
    Death of 332
  Melle-Melle, Tunisian Ambassador in the U. States, anecdote of 463
  Tripoli, anciently called Oea 58
    Taken by the Saracens 69
    Taken by the Spaniards 70
    Given to the Knights of St. John 71
    Taken by Dragut 71
    Hamet Caramalli the Great kills the Turkish garrison and makes
      himself Pasha 130
    Trade of 130
    Treaties with foreign powers 131
    Seized by the Turks and held for two years 132
    Yusuf becomes Pasha and makes a treaty with the United States 132
    War with the United States 133
    Blockaded by the American squadron 133
    Bombarded 198
    Attack on by a Sardinian squadron 723
    Attacked by a Sicilian squadron 723
  Mohamed D'Ghies, Prime Minister of Tripoli, friendly to the
      Americans 133
    Kindness to the American prisoners in Tripoli and endeavors to
      negotiate a peace with the United States 328
  Lear, Tobias, sent as Consul General of the United States in Barbary
      325
    His influence over Commodore Barron 329
    Concludes peace with Tripoli 330
    Ordered to quit Algiers 654
  Exmouth, Lord, visits Algiers with a fleet and negotiates treaties
      of peace for Sardinia and Naples 723
    Second visit to Algiers 723
    Bombardment of Algiers 723
  Sardinians attack Tripoli 722
  Sicilians attack Tripoli 724
  Abællino, American privateer, enters the Mediterranean and takes
      several British vessels 655
    Philadelphia frigate strikes on a rock at the entrance of the
      harbor of Tripoli 197
    Burnt by the Americans 197
  Decatur, Stephen, burns the Philadelphia frigate in the harbor of
      Tripoli 197
    Commands a squadron sent against Algiers in 1815; takes two
      Algerine ships and makes treaty with Algiers 655
    Obtains indemnifications from Tunis and Tripoli 656
  Hall, Captain Isaac, carries Gen. Eaton to Alexandria 198
    Assists in the capture of Derne 265


U

United States, Bancroft's History of, Vol. I--reviewed 587

United States, Letters on, by a Young Scotchman 482, 602

Unities, the, in Aristotle 698


V

Valedictory to the Pupils of a Female School 172

Valedictory to the Law Class at William and Mary College 601

"Valerius," by Mr. Lockhart, notice of 459

Valley of the Sweet Springs described 42

Variety 252, 321

Vathek, notices of 188, 270, 386

Village Pastor's Wife 359

Virginia Historical and Philosophical Society--see "Historical," &c.

Visit to the Virginia Springs 474, 544, 613

Visit to the Virginia Springs, Another 772

"Visit to Texas," reviewed 119

"Visits and Sketches," notice of 250

Visionary, the, a Tale, by Edgar A. Poe 637

Voltaire, Story from, translated 11

Voyage to Europe, Extract from a Journal of 3


W

Waltz and Gallopade, ridiculed 426

Warren, General, Stories about 749

Washington's Birth Night--Celebration of, at Williamsburg, in 1779 3
  His Life and Writings, by Jared Sparks, reviewed 591

Werner's System of Geogony 303

West, a Tale of the 437

Western Scenery 139

Western Traveller, Reminiscences of 336

Wheeling Fort, attacked on the Indians in 1777 356

Whiston, William, his account of the Earth's Origin 302

White Antelope, or the Indian Lover, a Tale 393

Wilde, Richard H.--His Letter on being charged with Plagiarism 252

Willis, Nathaniel P., vindicated 88
  His Impressions of London 366

"Winter in the West," notice of 459

Wirt, William, Oration in memory of, reviewed 16
  His Letter to a Law Student 34

Wolfe, Charles, his description of "The Dargle" 203

Woman, her Position and Influence in Society 493, 621, 673

Worcester's Dictionary, notice of 715

       *       *       *       *       *

POETRY.

A

Age of Reptiles 612

A. L. B., Lines to him 492

Album, Lines in, 12, 177, 272, 369, 467, 611, 667, 748

Ann, Lines to 466

Answer to "My Life is like the Summer Rose" 452

Answer to Willis's, "They may talk of your Love in a Cottage" 612

Anticipation 161

Apostrophe of the Æolian Harp to the Wind 396

"Arnold and Andre," an unpublished Drama, scene from 555

Autumn 453

Autumn Woods 179


B

Ballad 705

Barlow's Monument, Lines on 369

Battle of Breed's Hill 185

Beauty of Time 161

Beauty without Loveliness 208

Bible, Lines to the 371

Blackstone's "Farewell to his Muse" 208

Broken Heart 404

Brown, Mrs. D. P., Lines to her Infant Daughter 13
  To her Children, on the New Year 14

Byron's Last Words 177


C

Cantilena Amatoria 776

Cemetery, the, from the Russian 63

Changes of Nature 240

Christiana, Lines to 755

Claudia, To 776

Coldness of Character, Lines on being accused of 635

Coliseum, the, a Prize Poem, by Edgar A. Poe 706

Collegian, Poems by, Extracts from 117

Columbus before the University of Salamanca 12

Content's Mishap, by Pertinax Placid 450

Coquetry, Lines on, to Miss C. 369

Creation of the Antelope 216

Curse of the Betrayed One, a Fragment 763


D

D----, Lines to, by a Young Lady 160

Dandy Chastised 96

Davis, Warren R., Lines to his Memory 317

Death among the Trees, by Mrs. Sigourney 51

Death of the Motherless, by the same 372

Declaration, the 180

Desart Grief, by Lucy T. Johnson 771

Despair, Lines to 200

Diamond Chain 611

Dirge, by Mrs. Willard 539


E

Elegy, by Frederick Speece 636

Eolian Harp's Apostrophe to the Wind 396

Epigram Francaise, and Translation 186

Epigrams 317, 320, 612

Epitaph on a Young Lady 319

Estelle, Verses to 539

Eugene Aram, Paraphrase of a Figure in 604

Exile, The 317

Extempore, on hearing Mr. Wickham in the House of Delegates 208


F

F----, Lines to 691

Farewell to Rosa 540

Fated City 100

Friends of Man, by Mrs. Sigourney 755

From my Scrap Book 180

From my Mother's Note Book 318


G

Genius of Columbia to her Native Muse 50

Girl of Beauty 667

Grave Seekers 101


H

Happy Love 208

Heart, The 184

Hector and Andromache, parting of--_translated by William Munford_ 768

H. W. M. Lines to 634

Hope, Address to 370

Hopes and Sorrows 371

Hymn to the Stars 101


I

"I met Thee by Moonlight alone" 764

Ianthe, Lines to 186

Impromptus 183, 198

Infant Nephew in England, Address to 699

Intemperance, by Mrs. Sigourney 13

Invocation 453

Invocation to Religion 161

Irish Peasant Wife's Song, by Mrs. Norton 206

Italian Extravaganza, and Translation 452


J

James Gibbon Carter--lines on his death 660

_Jeu de Mots_--on a Name 319

Josephine 775

Julia Bruce, the blind, deaf mute--Lines on by Mrs. Sigourney 635


K

Kiss, The--_a la Moore_ 199


L

La Fayette, by Mrs. Willard 538

Last Gift 396

Last Indian, by Larry Lyle 402

Lawyer's Farewell to his Muse 316

"Let Ocean swell with angry spite," 452

Lines to ---- ---- of the United States Navy 49
  on Finding a Billet from an early Friend 62
  placed with a Rose on a Lady's Cheek 96
  to ----, by L. 101
  written in the Village of A---- in Virginia 706
  to ----, by Powhatan 164
  by the late Dr. Drake 177
  by Alexander L. Beard 699
  to a Lady 186
  on Poesy and Religion 660
  to Mrs. B. G. S. by E. A. S. 764

Love, Mutual, but Hopeless 199


M

Maniac's Address to the Moon 698

Marguerite, Lines to 465

Mary, Lines to 635, 692

Miniature, The--by George P. Morris 317

Miss Martineau, Lines on 319, 320

Moonlight 370

Musings, by the author of Vyvyan 14, 50, 99

My Child, Verses to--by Pertinax Placid 467

My Daughter's Lullaby 537

"My Life is Like the Summer Rose," by Wilde 13
  Answer to it 452

My Native Home, by George Watterston 644

My Native Land, by Lucy T. Johnson 466

My own Opinion, _a la_ Shakspeare 272

My Sisters, Lines to 604

My Wife, Lines to 199


N

Napoleon 453

Napoleon's Grave, by R. H. Wilde 231

Nature and Art 437

Nugator, Verses by 82, 539


O

"O Give me that Oblivious Draught!" 320

Ocean, The 671

Ocean Hymn, by Mrs. Willard 538

Ode, on a Fine Night at Sea 179

Old Parish Church, by Nugator 539

"One who will understand me," Lines to 369


P

Parody on Bryant's Autumn 185
  on Roy's Wife, by Warren R. Davis 207
  on the Song in Marmion "Where shall the Lover rest," &c. 612

Parting 178

Passage of the Beresina 207

Peasant Women of the Canaries 184

Picture of Old Virginia, by Nugator 82

Pirate's Wife, Song of 771

Poems of Mrs. Jean Wood 209

Power of Faith 40

Prayer 272


R

"Remember me, Love!" 692

Richmond Theatre, the burning of 666

Rosalie Lee (Young Rosalie) 332

Ruins of Jamestown--Lines on Viewing 178


S

Sappho's Ode "To the Beloved Fair," a Stanza of it in Sarah--Lines to
      692
  Gaelic 454

Sea, a Sonnet on the--by A. L. Beard 260

Sea Bird's Revel, by Giles McQuiggin 764

Serenade 12

Sigourney, Mrs.--her Poems 12, 51, 371, 372, 635, 755

Sleep 77

"Sleep on, thou Dear Maiden!" 604

Song 254, 692

Song, by the author of Vyvyan 62

Song of the Pirate's Wife 771

Song of the Seasons, by Larry Lyle 232

Sonnets 49, 99, 116, 185, 260, 636

Speece's Poems 118

Spider, The 317

Spring, by Eliza 492
  by "a Prisoner" 492
  by "Roy" 492

Stanzas 49, 116, 119, 660

Stray Leaves 332

Susquehannah and Lackawanna, Lines on seeing their junction--by Mrs.
      Sigourney 371

Sybil's Leaf 199


T

"The Dial marks the Sunny Hour" 604

The Declaration 180

"The Dove of my Bosom lies bleeding" 644

The True Foundation 320

"There's nae Laddie Coming," by Hogg 200

"There is a Thought that still obtrudes" 540

"Thou Arch Magician!" 467

Thoughts, by E. A. S. 756

Thoughts on Seeing the Evening Star 319

Translations from Horace 712
  from Adrian 712

True Consolation 186

True Riches and Glory 372

"Trust Not," by A. L. B. 320

Truth and Falsehood 320


U

Unfinished Poem, extract from 370

Unreasonable Wishes--to Miss S. S. 494


V

Victim of Disappointment 724

Visit to an Ancestral Vault 200


W

Wanderer, The--by A. L. Beard 392

Washington and Napoleon, Contrasted 90

"We parted, not as Lovers part" 452

What I Love 452

"Where is my Heart" 453

White, Thomas H., Lines in Memory of 491, 698

Wilde, R. H.--Pieces by him 13, 99, 186, 187, 231, 318

Willard, Mrs.--her contributions to the Messenger 538, 539

Winter Scenes, at Williamsburg 403

Wood, Mrs. Jean--Poems by 209


Y

Young Rosalie Lee 332

Young Child, Lines to 101

Young Lady, Lines to 177