BOOK VI.

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

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE DOOR-LATCH.

RECOLLECTIONS OF A MARRIED MAN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

G.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

DESART GRIEF.

BY LUCY T. JOHNSON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Elfin Moor, Va. September 1835_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SONG OF THE PIRATE'S WIFE,

ON HER PASSAGE FROM CORUNNA TO NEW YORK.

Air--"Meeting of the Waters."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ELIZA.

_Maine_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ANOTHER VISIT TO THE VIRGINIA SPRINGS

OR THE ADVENTURES OF HARRY HUMBUG, ESQ.

_A new version of an old story_.

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

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

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

_Facilis descensus Averni_, &c.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

(_To be continued_.)

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

JOSEPHINE.

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

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

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

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

E. A. S.

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

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

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO CLAUDIA.

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Augusta, Ga._

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

CANTILENA AMATORIA.

BY GILES McQUIGGIN.

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

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

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

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

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

CRITICAL NOTICES.

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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