Part 5

Now all this is doubtless very pretty, and very imposing! It has, however, I acknowledge, some small mixture of truth in it; and if it were offered merely by way of apology for our slavery, and as a set-off against the gross caricatures of it which are sometimes drawn by the _ultras_ of the other side, and especially by our northern abolitionists, I should hardly choose to criticise it too nicely. Indeed I am happy to believe myself, that bad as the system unquestionably is, it is yet not without some alleviating concomitants, which materially soften its natural horrors, and may properly serve to make us endure it with more patience, while we must. But if the Annotator intends to go further than this, and to prove by these remarks, (as I understand him to do,) that it is _right_ and _lawful_; then I must protest against the reasoning as utterly vain and irrelevant. For, granting all his premises, (though there are certainly some rather strange and startling propositions among them; yet granting them all for the sake of argument,) I really cannot perceive how the conclusion follows from them. For if I grant that there must be _a working class_, does it follow that we have a right to determine by compulsion, or by positive law, who shall compose that class? The decree of Divine Providence, as quoted by the Annotator himself, is that "_man_," (that is, that all men,) shall work for his bread. What right, then, has any one portion, or set of men, to slip their own necks out of "the brazen collar," (as he calls it,) of toil; and fasten it immoveably and inexorably upon another? Is not this at once evading and altering, as it were, the counsel of the Creator of all? And if I grant, also, that the slave is happier than the free laborer, does it follow that his master may lawfully hold him as such? Does the question of right depend simply, or at all, upon the degree of happiness which the laborer enjoys? And have I, then, a right to make _any_ man work for me, according to my will and pleasure, provided I take care to feed and clothe him well, and make him as happy as any laborer can expect to be? Would the Annotator think it exactly right to have such a principle carried home to himself? But he would perhaps say, that I must not take quite so great a range as that, but be satisfied to take my man from "_the working class_." But who compose this working class? All those, I presume, who have been reduced by the various misfortunes of human life, to the hard necessity of laboring for others, for their daily bread. But would any one of this class consent to have the principle of compulsion brought to bear against him, and surrender forever all hope and chance of "escaping to the upper air" of a higher class? Certainly not. Then I must yet further take care, I suppose, to see that my man whom I am to force to labor for me, on the Annotator's principle, shall be _black_. So the question of right turns at last upon the color of the skin. Admirable logic indeed!

But the Annotator thinks that he has found something like an argument to prove the lawfulness of our slavery, in the text of his author, who happens to say (on another point,) that, "by the law of England, all single men between twelve years old and sixty, and married ones under thirty years of age, and all single women between twelve and forty, not having any visible livelihood, are _compellable_ by two justices to go out to service in husbandry, or certain specified trades." "This," says he, "is as much as to say, they who can only live by labor shall be made to labor. What more do we? They compel him to choose a master. We appropriate his labor to a master to whom use and a common interest attach him, and who is generally the master of his choice. The wages of both are the same"--to wit, victuals and clothes. And he adds afterwards, "It is here; on this very point, of the necessity of forcing those to labor who are unable to live honestly without labor, that we base the defence of our system." This is pleasant indeed; but does not the Annotator perceive that he has entirely mistaken _the principle_ of the English law, which is not, as he states it, that "they who can only live by labor shall be made to labor;" but that those who can only live by labor, _and yet will not labor for themselves_, and are, therefore, likely to become chargeable to the parish, shall be made to labor _for a time_, and _for wages_, until they have learned, in this way, to work freely and willingly, for their own support. But, according to _this_ principle, it is easy to see that hundreds and thousands of our slaves would be entitled to their freedom at once; for it cannot be pretended that many of them at least would not be both able and willing to labor for themselves; and if all, or the larger part of them, would not, it can only be because their very slavery itself has incapacitated them for voluntary toil. But can we, then, plead a defect of theirs which is the consequence of our own act, to justify that act, in this way? Surely this ground of defence must be abandoned at once, as wholly untenable, and even dangerous in the highest degree. At any rate, there is no reason to charge the English law with countenancing our system. The English law says that a freeman who can, and will not, work to support himself shall be made to do so; in order that others may not be called upon to support him. Our law says that all slaves shall be made to work for their masters, whether they are able and willing to support themselves, or not. Is the principle of both laws the same, or entirely different?

But the Annotator finds an excellent reason why our mode of compelling all slaves to work, should even be preferred to the English one of compelling freemen to do so in particular cases; and it is curious enough. I must give it in his own words: "That such compulsion," says he, "is often necessary, all reason and experience prove. But to a people jealous of freedom, it is a delicate question whether such a power can be safely trusted to the municipal authority. To make it effectual it must be a power dangerous to liberty. It could never be carried into effect but by a degree of rigor which must bow the spirit of the laborer, and effectually disqualify him for the political functions of a sovereign citizen." This is truly excellent. So, then, it would be dangerous to our liberty to have such a law as that of England which allows, in certain cases, a freeman who is likely to become a freebooter, or at least a hanger-on upon the community, to be compelled to work for himself; and not at all dangerous to that same liberty to compel one half of our population to work for the other! It would, forsooth, "bow the spirit of the laborer," (as if the vagabond had any spirit to bow,) and "disqualify him for the political functions of a sovereign citizen;" and so to prevent that occasional disqualification of a few, we must systematically disqualify hundreds and thousands from performing those same functions of freemen, which are so important and interesting to the whole body politic! A notable expedient indeed to preserve the purity and lustre of our liberty, from all possible danger of destruction or decay!

Upon the whole, I must say that, in my judgment, the Annotator has failed entirely either to invalidate Blackstone's argument against the lawfulness of slavery in its origin, or to advance any principles whatever which can legitimate it, as it exists in our state, at the present time. I must not, however, by any means, be understood as meaning to convey the idea that I consider it as altogether indefensible before the tribunal of an impartial world. On the contrary, I still hold, as I have always done, that under the peculiar circumstances in which we find it amongst us, it is justifiable, or rather excusable, upon the soundest principles of the law of nature; and, more particularly, upon the principle of necessity and self-defence. By the law of nature, I may take away the life of another when I cannot otherwise defend my own. Of course, I may take away his liberty in a like case; and, _a fortiori_, I may continue my custody of his person, when he has been committed to my charge, however wrongfully, by one in whose act I had no participation; and when I cannot release him without hazarding my own safety, and his too. To apply this principle to the subject before us; our fathers have fastened this enormous evil upon us in the beginning without our concurrence or consent; and we now find and feel it to be too great and complicated for us to think of removing it at once. To emancipate our slaves on the spot, would indeed, in all human probability, be followed by the ruin of both parties; and would at least be an experiment too tremendous in its aspect, and too uncertain in its issue, to be rashly tried. In this state of things, therefore, we may, I conceive, most rightfully and properly, continue to hold them, as we would hold prisoners of war, whose persons, we have seen, we may lawfully confine while it is necessary for us to do so in order to protect ourselves from their hostilities; but whom, at the same time, we must sincerely and earnestly desire to liberate, and send back to their own country, as soon as we can.

A VIRGINIAN.

The Western Monthly Magazine concurs with us in our opinions of Vathek. The editor says, "Vathek is the production of a sensual and perverted mind. The events are extravagant, the sentiments pernicious, and the moral bad. It has nothing to recommend it but ease of style and copiousness of language."

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE.

"I'll make thee famous with my pen, And glorious with my sword."

It is said, and truly said, that "Truth is often more incredible than fiction." It is natural too, that we should take a deeper interest in the fortunes of creatures of flesh and blood, who have actually lived and suffered, than in the imaginary sorrows of beings that are themselves but figments of the writer's brain.

Why then do we so rarely meet with any narrative of facts which engages our feelings so deeply as a well wrought fiction? May it not be that in all histories of a romantic character there is, from the very nature of the thing, a degree of mystery which we cannot penetrate; and that the innumerable little incidents, which adorn the pages of a romance, and so aptly illustrate the characters of the parties, are hidden by the veil of domestic privacy? It might be allowable to supply these; but the attempt to do so, is always offensive to the reader. We are disgusted at seeing truth alloyed by fiction, and the fiction always betrays itself. Let a characteristic chit-chat be detailed, and we find ourselves wondering who it was that took notes of the conversation. We read the scene between Ravenswood and Miss Ashton at the haunted fountain, and never ask, whether she rose from her grave, or he emerged from the Kelpie's flow, to describe it to the writer. But such a narrative concerning real persons, would inevitably disgust us; and no writer of any tact would ever attempt it. None above the grade of Parson Weems ever did. There is no wilder romance than his life of Marion. But who reads it? We feel that it profanes the truth of history with fiction, and we throw it away with disgust. Yet it comes nearer to Schiller's masterpiece, "The Robbers," than any thing else. Is it less interesting because the prompting impulse of the hero is virtuous, not criminal? No; but there is just truth enough to keep us always mindful of the falsehood.

The great art, and the great charm of Walter Scott, is that he never _describes_ his characters. He brings us _into their society_, and makes us _know_ them. But how shall I make known the persons of whom I wish to speak? I can say that HE was generous and brave, sincere, and kind, and true, and that SHE was fair and gentle, and pure and tender. These are but words, and have been repeated till they have lost their meaning. I can say that both loved; but how can I show the passion flashing in the eye, and glowing in the cheek--and how can I give it breath in their own burning words? _I_ heard them not. _None_ heard them. I can say that the hand of destiny was upon them, and tore them asunder, to meet no more. I can even use the words of one whose strains he loved, to tell

"That neither ever found another To free the hollow heart from paining;"

but how can I develope the mysterious means by which this destiny was accomplished? How could I speak, but in their own words, uttered only to the midnight solitude, the deep yearnings of their hearts--and the noble enthusiasm which made it the task of his life to render glorious the name of him she had honored with her love? Could these details be given truly, what a romance of real life would they form! Let the reader judge from the following lines found among his papers, when the damps of the grave had at last cooled the fever of his brain.

'Tis sweet, when night is hushed in deep repose; And hides the Minstrel's form from every eye; To breathe the thoughts that speech can ne'er disclose, In all the eloquence of harmony.

The mellow strain pervades the silent air, And mingles with the sleeper's blissful dream: The Lover hears the song of maiden fair; The humble saint, an Angel's holy hymn.

Then sweet to know that she, for whom alone, Pours the wild stream of plaintive melody, Recalls the voice of Love in every tone; Approves its truth, and owns its purity.

Borne on the breeze that cools her glowing cheek, But fans the ardor of her fevered breast; Lifts the loose lock that floats upon her neck, Sports round her couch, and hovers o'er her rest:

Borne on that breeze, it greets her listening ear With tales of raptured bliss and tender wo; And tells of Joy and Grief, of Hope, Despair, And all that love, and Love alone can know.

Her fair companions hear the soothing sound, But mute to them the voice that speaks to her; Burns the warm blush, unmarked of all around, And darkling falls, unseen, the silent tear.

But not unseen of all; for to his eye, By Fancy's magic light she stands revealed; Her bosom struggling with the half-breathed sigh, By the strong pressure of her hand repelled.

The Tear that in the moon-beam sparkles bright; The pensive look; the outstretched neck of snow; The Blush, contending with the silver light, Whose cold pale gleam would quench its fervid glow;

He sees and hears it all. The music's stream Extends a viewless chord of sympathy, Thought answers thought; and, lost in Fancy's dream, Each breast responsive swells with sigh for sigh.

Then O how sweet! warmed by the sacred flame, Of mutual--true,--but fruitless--hopeless love, To run the high career of deathless fame, And mid the world's admiring gaze to move

Reckless of all but her. By midnight lamp, To turn, with heedful eye, the learned page; To shake the Senate, or to rule the Camp; To brave the tempest's blast, or battle's rage!

What is the thought that prompts his studious zeal? That mans his breast in danger's fearful path? That nerves his arm to grasp the gory steel, Despising toil and hardship, wounds and death?

It is that she the impassioned strain will love, That gives her charms in deathless verse to shine; Her favoring smile his steadfast faith approve; Her raptured tears bedew each glowing line.

It is that she will cherish the renown Of noble deeds achieved her name to grace; And prize the heart that beat for her alone, In glory's triumph, and in death's embrace.

'Tis that a grateful nation's loud acclaim May pour his praises on her favoring ear; 'Tis that the twilight splendor of his name The widowed darkness of her heart may cheer.

O! ever lovely, loving and beloved; Constant in absence; constant in despair! By time unwearied, by caprice unmoved; Thy lover's faith and fame thine only care!

Tho' known to none but thee thy minstrel's name, Or who the fair that caused his tender pain; All undistinguished by the voice of fame, The bard who sung; the maid that waked the strain.

Yet may'st thou catch the unconscious sympathy Of some soft nymph, who, from her lover's tongue, Hears, with averted look and blush and sigh, Her heart's fond secret in this artless song.

But were I skilled to weave the immortal verse, Which after ages with applause would read; Thy praise in fitting accents I'd rehearse, And with unfading bay would crown thy head.

Then should my Laura's charms survive the tomb, In strains like that the fairy bulbul sings, When all unseen he wakes the midnight gloom, Hovering o'er beauty's grave on viewless wings.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXTRACT FROM A LADY'S ALBUM.

And must I stain this virgin leaf, So fair, so pure, and so like thee! It grieves me--but it is thy will; And that is always law to me.

'Tis said that those who feel the most Can best describe love's potent spell-- That what the heart most deeply feels, The tongue most eloquently tells.

Alas! it is an erring rule-- It is not true! it is not true! Strong Passion's voice was ever low; And lower yet as Passion grew.

When fiercest winds o'er ocean sweep, The sea is quell'd--no billows roll Their foaming crests upon the deep. Thus Passion treads the very soul Low in the dust, and bids it weep In silent anguish--and 'tis still As the aw'd slave who bows before a despot's will.

Then think not I can tell my love In well-set phrase, with fitting smiles; He loves not--Oh! believe it true-- Who knows and practices such wiles.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE PRAYER.

Oh! mother, whither do they lead This wretched form, this drooping frame? What means the white rose in my hair? These jewels sure are not a dream. Of wither'd leaves 'twere better far The bridal chaplet had been wove-- Oh! mother, lead me back again; _I cannot love--I cannot love!_

Look not for love--it is in vain! Within this heart no more it dwells: Unclasp the volume if thou wilt, And ponder on the truth it tells. Ah! dearest mother, do not seek To warm to life a thing that dies, Nor re-illume the flame, when once The shrine, in hopeless ruin lies.

Not to the altar, mother--no, I cannot kneel and speak that vow-- Oh! let me rend these hated gems, And tear the white rose from my brow. Nay, let the dark grave be my couch, Of cypress leaves my bridal wreath, And I will wed,--yes, gladly wed, And clasp my welcome bridegroom, _Death!_

OCTAVIAN.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SELECTIONS FROM MY PORT FOLIO.

MY OWN OPINION--_A la Shakspeare_.

There are, who say she is not beautiful. "Her forehead's not well turned," cries one. "The nose Too large"--"Her mouth ill-chiselled," says a third. With these, I claim no fellowship. For me, ('tis an odd taste, I know, and now-a-days, When people _feel_ by _rule_, such taste is thought Exceedingly romantic--yet 'tis true,) I look not with this mathematic eye On woman's face; I carry not about The compass, and the square--and when I'm asked, "Is that face fine?" draw forth my instruments, And coolly calculate the length of chin, Th' expanse of forehead, and the distance take Twixt eye and nose, and then, twixt nose and mouth, And if, exactly correspondent, it Should not prove _just so much_, two and three-eighths, Or, one four-fifths, disgusted, turn away, And vow "'tis vile! there is no beauty in't!" Out, on this mechanic disposition! Look you! _That man was born a carpenter._ He hath no heart--he hath no soul in him, Who thus insults the "human face divine," And tests its beauty with a vile inch-rule, As he would test the beauty of a box, A chess-board, or a writing-desk! Oh no! It is not in the feature's symmetry (For choose of earth the most symmetric face, Phidias shall carve as perfect--_out of stone_,) That the deep beauty lies! Give me the face _That's warm--that lives--that breathes--made radiant_ _By an informing spirit from within!_ Give me the face that varies _with the thought_, That answers to the heart! and seems, the while, With such a separate consciousness endued, That, as we gaze, we can almost believe _It is itself a heart_--and, _of itself_, Doth feel and palpitate!

And such is her's! One need _but look on_, to converse with her! Why I, without a thought of weariness, Have sat, and gazed on her for hours! and oft, As I have listened to her voice, and marked The beautiful flash of her fine dark eye, And the eloquent beaming of her face, And the tremulous glow that, when she spoke, Pervaded her whole being,--I have dreamed A spirit held communion with me then, And could have knelt to worship!

P. H.

_Augusta, Georgia_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM NEW ENGLAND.--NO. 4.

BY A VIRGINIAN.

_Albany, N. Y. July 27th, 1834._

It is a Southern opinion, that the large factories which have grown up in the North, within the last seventeen years, are of a very demoralizing tendency: that so many persons--_such_ persons too--cannot be housed together, and allowed the free intercourse unavoidable where the restraint is not for crime, without a large result of licentiousness and vice. I have long thought thus: and must confess I entered New England with a sort of _wish_ (arising from my hostility to the protective system,) to have the opinion confirmed. In some places, I heard and saw confirmation strong: but in most--and those the chief seats of manufactures--my inquiries resulted directly otherwise. The laborers there, it seems, are as moral as any other class of the population. The females watch each other's deportment with the most jealous vigilance: a slip is at once exposed, and punished by expulsion; even a slight indiscretion is sure to draw down remonstrance, and if that fails, complaint to the ruling power. The boys and girls are allowed a reasonable part of the year to attend the common-schools; and are encouraged at all seasons to frequent Sunday schools. Lectures, occasional or in courses, are delivered, of which the operatives are eager hearers: and social Libraries, with habits of reading, sometimes produce among them strengthened and well stored minds. Wherever these good effects appear, be it observed, the proprietors and superintendents (generally men of fortune, as well as intelligence) have taken the greatest possible care to produce them. And where the unfavorable appearances occurred, there seemed to have been a corresponding neglect on the part of owners and agent.