Part 3

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

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

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

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

M.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE POWER OF FAITH.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

S.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

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

BY W. BYRD POWELL, M.D.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

RECOLLECTIONS OF "CHOTANK."

_Olim meminisse juvabit._--VIRGIL.

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

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