Part 17

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

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

Lib. 1. Ode v. AD PYRRHAM.

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

Translation.

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

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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.

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Lib. 1. Ode xxxv. AD FORTUNAM.

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

Translation. TO FORTUNE.

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

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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.]

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Lib. 2. Ode xvi. AD GROSPHUM.

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

Translation. TO GROSPHUS.

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

CRITICAL NOTICES AND LITERARY INTELLIGENCE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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