Part 2

In the Desert south of this regency, is a large tract of habitable country called Fezzan. The greater part of its surface is indeed a sterile waste of sand, but there are many small spots containing clay enough to render them capable of producing dates and some other articles for the support of men and beasts. The labor of cultivation is however very great, as it seldom or never rains, and there being neither springs nor rivers, the water necessary for moistening the earth can only be procured from wells. Almost the only articles of export are dates and salt, which latter is procured in great quantities from the borders of stagnant pools, and carried to the coast of the Mediterranean, and to the negro countries south of the desert. It is inhabited principally by a black race, differing in feature however from the negroes; there are also many Arabs and some Moors, making in all perhaps seventy thousand of the poorest and most miserable of the human species. The sovereignty had long been hereditary in a family originally from Morocco, which acknowledged its dependance on Tripoli; but the Sultan of Fezzan, like the Arabs, seldom paid his tribute when he could avoid it; and the expense of collecting, had indeed of late years, amounted to more than the sum obtained. Such a territory and such inhabitants would scarcely seem to offer any inducements to conquest; but the position of Fezzan renders it important to Tripoli, as through it passes the principal route from the coast to the interior of the continent; and Yusuf was well assured that the Sultan obtained a large revenue by exactions from his subjects, and from the numerous caravans which traversed his dominions. He was therefore anxious to have his share, and was the more enraged at the insolence of this Prince in withholding it, as he was supported and encouraged in so doing by an alliance with the Waled Suleiman. At length in 1811, Yusuf seized a moment when the Suleimans were absent on a foray in the Egyptian territory, and sent an army of Tripolines and Magarra Arabs to Fezzan, under one of his most attached and experienced generals, named Mahomet el Mukni, who was well acquainted with the country, from having visited it several times to receive the tribute. These troops rapidly passed the Gharian mountains, which separate Tripoli from Fezzan, and appeared unexpectedly before Morzouk, the capital of the latter kingdom; this town, built of mud, and defended only by a wall and castle of the same material, was easily taken, the Sultan and his family, with many of the principal inhabitants, were put to death, the rest submitted to the invaders, and the whole country was soon in their possession. The neighboring Arabs overawed by this success, flocked to Mukni's standard, and having received a reinforcement of Tripoline troops, he marched to intercept the Waled Suleimans on their return from Egypt; they were met, defeated, and almost exterminated. Abdi Zaleel, one of the grandsons of Safanissa, was made prisoner, and retained for some time by the Pasha as a hostage for the fidelity of the few whose lives were spared. As a reward for the generalship displayed by Mukni, Yusuf appointed him Governor of Fezzan, with the title of Sultan while in that territory; he was required however, to transmit a large amount of tribute, and also to make an annual inroad into the negro countries lying south of the Desert, for the purpose of bringing away slaves, who were afterwards sent to Tripoli, and thence to the markets of Smyrna and Constantinople.

By these means the power of the Pasha was much strengthened, and his revenues increased; but his sons grew up to manhood, and he began to receive from them the same ungrateful treatment which he had displayed towards his own father. His eldest, Mohammed, who as heir to the crown, bore the title of Bey, and commanded the troops, is universally represented as one of the most complete monsters which even Africa has produced. He first excited the jealousy of his father in 1816, by the purchase of a large number of muskets, which were probably intended for the purpose of arming his followers and dethroning the Pasha; for this he was ordered to go to Bengazi, and there take the command of some troops destined to act against a tribe of refractory Arabs. In this expedition he was entirely successful; that is to say, he exterminated the rebellious tribes, laid waste the country which they had infested, and sent a number of heads, of both friends and enemies, to adorn the gates of his father's castle. On his return to Tripoli, he probably considered these eminent services as entitling him to the immediate possession of the throne, and with that view he made an attempt on Yusuf's life; it failed, and he was again sent to the Eastern Provinces, to act against another tribe who had refused to pay tribute. Mohammed however, immediately on his arrival, joined the rebels, and plundered the country which he was ordered to defend. Yusuf was therefore obliged to send an army against him under his second son Ahmed, who dispersed his brother's forces and drove him into Egypt. The instances of treachery and cruelty practised on each side during this war, are too shocking to be related. The principal inhabitants of whole towns were murdered; hostages were beheaded at the moment stipulated for their return; promises of pardon confirmed by appeals to the common faith of both parties were shamelessly broken, and those who trusted to them sacrificed in cold blood. The result of the whole was the promotion of Ahmed to the situation of Bey, and the establishment of the rebellious Mohammed as Governor of Derne.

Notwithstanding these proofs of Yusuf's perfidy and ferocity, he became popular with Europeans; and those who were introduced to him, generally came away favorably impressed with regard to his character, and were inclined to attribute his excesses more to his situation than to his disposition. He spoke Italian fluently, and seemed to be well acquainted with what was going on in the world: his court was splendid; his apartments furnished with elegance and taste; he drank the best champaigne which France produced, and his manners are said to have been such as to entitle him to be considered a gentleman any where. The celebrated Portuguese, Badia Castilho, whose travels and adventures under the name of Ali Bey, are so well known, seems to have been charmed by the frankness and amenity of the Pasha of Tripoli. Captain Beechy, who was sent by the British Admiralty in 1822, to survey the shores of the great Syrtis, speaks with gratitude of the readiness with which facilities were afforded him for the prosecution of the work. Lyon, Denham and Clapperton, although they all experienced many vexations in their journey through the Tripoline dominions, yet seemed to ascribe them rather to the malignity and knavery of the officers of the government, than to any ill intentions on the part of the chief. To those who were not his subjects, the "good old-gentlemanly vice" of avarice seems to have been his principal failing. His own habits were expensive, and his sons, by their prodigality, kept his coffers always empty.

To the American officers and Consuls, he has been most scrupulously attentive, and has several times shewn his anxiety to prevent any difficulties from arising with the government of the United States. On all public occasions, there has been a struggle for precedence between the British and French Consuls; those of other European nations not venturing to advance any claims for themselves. The United States have been fortunately represented in Tripoli by determined men, who, while they ridiculed the etiquette in the abstract, determined to admit no inferiority in a country where it was considered as essentially important; they have therefore uniformly maintained their rights, the Pasha shewing a disposition to aid them as far as he could.

A serious affair, however, occurred in September, 1818, which was very near producing a rupture between Tripoli and the United States. Mr. R. B. Jones, the American Consul, while on a shooting excursion in the vicinity of the city, was attacked by two negroes, and beaten. The negroes were discovered to be the slaves of Morat Rais the Admiral, and there was reason to believe that they had been set on by the Scotch renegade, who always remained the bitter enemy of the United States. Investigations were made, by the results of which this suspicion was confirmed, and Morat finding himself in danger, sought an asylum in the British Consulate. Mr. Jones demanded the public punishment of the slaves, and the banishment of the Admiral from the Regency, during the pleasure of the President of the United States. Yusuf made every endeavor to evade the latter, offering instead to bastinado the slaves as long as Mr. Jones might please, or to strike off their heads if that were required. He urged that the British Consul was entitled to protect all fugitives, by the immemorial custom of the place, and that to drag him from his asylum would be to involve Tripoli in a war with Great Britain. The British Consul, on his part, insisted that Morat was a subject of Great Britain, and as such, liable only to be tried by him. Mr. Jones refused to listen to any of these representations, and was preparing to leave the place with his family, when Yusuf yielded. The slaves were publicly bastinadoed, and their master banished from Tripoli for life. Three years after, however, Mr. Jones was induced by the representations of the Pasha, to request that the President would permit him to return, which was in consequence granted.

Many changes had in the mean time taken place in Tunis. In the month of September, 1813, Hamouda Bey, while taking a cup of coffee, after a long day's fast in the Ramadan, fell down and expired. It has been already stated, that he was not the rightful heir to the throne, according to the European laws of succession, for Mahmoud and Ismael, the sons of Mahmed an elder brother of his father, were still alive, retained as state prisoners in the palace. On the death of Hamouda, his brother Othman assumed the crown, and held it for nearly two years; but he had a powerful enemy in the Sapatapa Sidi Yusuf, who was anxious to govern himself, and considered that the aged Mahmoud would be a more convenient representative of royalty. The troops were accordingly corrupted, and on the 19th of January, 1815, Othman was murdered by the hand of Mahmoud himself, who, having also despatched Othman's two sons, assumed the title and power of Bey, without opposition. The Sapatapa, the contriver of this last revolution, soon received the just reward of his villainy: he was anxious to enjoy the title, as well as the power of a sovereign of Tunis, and prepared to dispose of Mahmoud and his family. His plans were, however, revealed, and on the night on which they were to have been executed, he was himself murdered as he was retiring to his apartment in the palace of Bardo, after having spent the evening in business with the Bey, and in playing chess with his eldest son Hassan. His immense property was confiscated, and his body was dragged by the infuriated populace through the streets, with every mark of indignity. Mahmoud held the throne without any serious difficulty until his death, in 1824. His brother Ismael had no children, and was not a person likely to give him any apprehension. He is represented as having been a merry inoffensive old gentleman, fond of punning, a great lover and judge of wine which he called vinegar, out of respect for the Koran, and an inveterate newspaper politician. It is difficult to imagine an African Prince of this character. On the death of Mahmoud, his eldest son, Hassan, succeeded, who is the present Bey.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MARGUERITE.

Where is my friend? I languish here-- Where is my own sweet friend? With all those looks of love so dear, Where grace and beauty blend!

I miss those social _winter_ hours With her I used to spend, Now cheerless are my _summer bowers_-- Where is my own lov'd friend?

Our sweetest joys, like flowers may rise, And all their fragrance lend, Yet my sick heart within me dies-- Where is my own sweet friend?

The winding brooks, like distant lute, Their murmuring whispers send; The echoes of my soul are mute-- Where is my own dear _friend_?

M.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO ANN.

I will not cross thy path again While Earth shall stand or Ocean roll, For thou hast rent the bond in twain That fetter'd long my struggling soul.

For me the world no more can bring A smile to love, a frown to fear; The bird that soars on wildest wing, Hath stronger ties to chain him here.

To-morrow's sun shall sink to me Beneath lone ocean's caverns deep-- To-morrow's sun shall glide from thee, Behind yon forest's waving sweep.

And thou shalt mark his farewell beams O'er lov'd familiar objects play; But will they rouse the fairy dreams That once endear'd the close of day?

I shall not heed, in climes afar, Thy name--'twill be a sound unheard, And time and distance doubly mar The fitful dream that thou hast stirr'd.

I shall not long remember thee, Mid' prouder schemes and objects strange; Thy scorn hath set the captive free, And boundless now shall be his range.

And while a sunder'd path shall own My bosom now, as cold as thine, To me thy doom shall rest unknown, As thou shalt nothing know of mine.

If o'er thee pale disease should creep And mark thee for an early grave,-- No mourning voice shall cross the deep, No tear shall swell the eastern wave.

If long and blest thy life should be, And fall like leaves when frost is come,-- Unconscious all, the sullen sea Will bear no echo from thy tomb.

Unknown must be thy smiles or tears: Yet sometimes, at the farewell hour, The book of fate unclasp'd appears, And half imparts a prophet's power.

Try to forget! The time may be When Fancy shall withhold her sway, And blissful dreams no more for thee Shall sport in sunset's golden ray.

Try to forget! Thy calm of pride May sink to waveless, waste despair, Like her whose homeward glance descried Heaven's shower of flame descending there.

Try to forget! Thy peace of mind May change to passion's blasting storm; When spirits of the past unbind The shroud from Pleasure's faded form.

Pray to forget! When chill disdain Shall haply tell that love is fled, And thou shalt gaze, but gaze in vain, On eyes where Passion's light is dead;

Then turn thee not to former days-- Remember not this hour of pride That banish'd one, who but to raise, To shield, to bless thee, would have died.

The shaft that flies from Sorrow's bow When Fate would sternest wrath employ, Is far less steel'd with present woe Than poison'd with remember'd joy.

_Norfolk, September 13, 1834_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MY NATIVE LAND.

BY LUCY T. JOHNSON.

I return'd to my own native land, And I sought for the spot I had loved, Where the rose and the lily had bloom'd 'neath my hand, And my footsteps in childhood had roved.

I saw--but I wept at the change Long years had thrown over the scene;-- It was there--but the desert's wild, desolate range Was mark'd "where the garden had been."

I look'd for the cottage of white, As it stood half conceal'd, half disclosed, By the rose tree and vine which encircled it quite, Near the sod where my fathers reposed.

It was gone--but the chimney was there, The sad relic of long vanish'd years; And the thorn and the brier now embraced, or were near, Where my kindred had buried their cares.

I look'd for the valley and stream, Where the bower and grove intertwined; Where the wild hunter boy oft indulged in his dream Of delights he was never to find.

The valley and stream--they were there, But the shade of the green wood had pass'd; The stream was a wild where the serpent might _lair_, In that vale's ever shadowless waste.

I look'd for the mountain and hill, Where the hunter delighted to stray, And where at the twilight, the lone whippoorwill Had pour'd forth his anchorite lay.

They were there--but the hunter was gone, And the sound of his bugle was hush'd; And the torrent was there--but the light-footed fawn Drank not at its fount as it rush'd.

I look'd for the friends I lov'd best; The friends of my earliest choice; They had gone to that bourne where the dead are at rest, Or cold was each care-stricken voice.

The living were there--but were chill'd By the imprint of age and its cares; They met me--just met me--and heartlessly smiled, For their friendship had fled with their years.

Adieu to thee--"land of the leal," Fair land of the blue-vaulted sky; Tho' I go--yet the heart thus inspired to feel, Shall remember thee oft with a sigh.

_Elfin Moor, Va. January 14, 1835_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MY CHILD.

BY PERTINAX PLACID.

Why gazest thou, my eldest born, my best beloved boy, Upon thy father's clouded brow, as if it marr'd thy joy-- As If it chill'd thy little heart, such sadden'd looks to see, And gave a mournful presage of thy own dark destiny?-- Why dost thou stop thy frolic play, and with inquiring eye, Looking up into my thoughtful face, breathe something like a sigh? Thy little hand upon my knee, thy neck thrown gently back, And thine offer'd kiss, to tempt my tho'ts from their dark and dreary track. Yes, that childish kiss can win me back to momentary peace, And thy soft embrace can bid awhile my bosom's sadness cease-- For in my spirit's wanderings, when the past with pain I tread, Or pry into the future with mingled hope and dread, Still thou, my child, in all my tho'ts, sad tho' they be, hast part, And of thy after-life I muse, with a father's anxious heart. Even now thou smilest winningly, to bid me smile again, And thy looks of joy and innocence revive the heart, as rain Revives the drooping, wither'd flower, in Autumn's chilly day, When winds and storms its summer leaves, one by one have rent away. Oh many a sad and heavy hour my heart has felt for thee, And many a prayer my lips have breath'd that heaven thy guide may be, Throughout the giddy maze of life, and from sorrow keep thee free. Not from those griefs that all must feel, who tread this path of care, And that weigh on every bosom doom'd the fate of man to bear-- But from the deep regret I feel for many a wasted hour, And from the gnawing of remorse, unbridled passion's dower: That thou may'st early learn to check thy fancy's treacherous glow, Nor paint too fair the face of things, the dark reverse to know-- Nor, fed by Hope, too long believed, when she has taken wing, Look round thee on the human face as on a hated thing. Oh never may'st thou deem the world what it has seem'd to me, The field of strife where Virtue falls 'neath fraud and treachery: And may'st thou by no sad reverse, man's darker passions know, Nor prove, when fortunes change, that _friends_ can deal the heaviest blow, That he who shared thy inmost soul, may prove thy deadliest foe. Even now, upon thy gentle face, too plainly I behold The impress of thy future life--thy destiny foretold. That noble brow, so fearless, that eye so bold and free, Bespeak a soul undim'd by aught of wrong or perfidy-- The dreaming pauses 'midst thy play, as if of sudden thought, The speaking glances of thine eye, when with hope and gladness fraught-- These tell a tale of after times, when I no more shall guide The wand'rings of thy youthful feet, or lead thee by my side-- When the fondness of a father's love thou never more canst know, And I shall in an early grave sleep tranquilly and low. That eager glance, that buoyant step, that shout so full of glee, Tell me that thou in manhood's throngs wilt bear thee manfully-- That thou wilt trust to those who swear, in love or friendship, truth, And mourn, like me, the illusion o'er, the errors of thy youth. Then be it so--speed on thy race, thro' sunshine and thro' shade: Fair be thy young imaginings--for ah, they all must fade-- And may'st thou, when the visions pass, that o'er thy slumbers bend, When life grows dark, and hearts grow cold, find thou hast still a friend, Whose faith the terrors cannot shake of life's most stormy hour, True to the last, be fortune thine, or when misfortune lower. But still, should keen adversity, rend every human tie, Bear thy proud soul above the wreck, the tempest's rage defy. Look on my face again, fair boy, the clouds have passed away-- I trust thee to that _better guide_, who checks us when we stray. And if the thorn must wound us still, whene'er we pluck the rose, His wisdom, which inflicts, can teach to bear life's many woes. Come then, and kiss thy father, boy,--his brow no more is dark; Smile once again, pursue thy play, and carol like the lark.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO ----.

Thou _arch_ magician! [emphasise the arch! I would not--for an office--have it said That I apostrophized another]--march Where'er I will, thy strategy has spread For me, alas! such ambuscades and toils, I fear thou seek'st to add me to thy "spoils."

'Tis, by my holidame! no more a jest To cope with thee, than him, whose subtle schemes Cheat an enlightened people's greatest, best-- While thou art tickling in their downy dreams, Some half score maidens, putting them in mind To play the devil--just as they're inclined.

* * * * *

With woman's eyes thou hast my heart assailed, Yet I withstood them. Lips and teeth in vain Coral and pearls outshone--form, features failed To bind me captive in thy treacherous chain; I know not why, but fancy some bright shield Hath saved me scathless from the well fought field!

* * * * *

Perhaps it was her eyes--their flashing light Must have reminded me of quenchless fire: It may have been her teeth--their dazzling white Might hint Tartaric snows than Andes higher, Where shriek the damned from every frozen clime, Warning poor tempted souls to flee from crime.[1]

Perhaps her lips foretokened coals as red-- Perhaps her faultlessness of form might tell Of ruined Arch-angelic beauties, led By Love or Pride's seduction, down to hell-- But how 'twas possible I can't divine, To look upon her foot and think of thine!

[Footnote 1: A _hot_ region has no terrors for the Laplanders. None but a very _cold_ place of punishment is adapted to their imagination.]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES

Written in an Album, on pages between which several leaves had been cut out.

What leaves were these so rudely torn away? Whose immortality thus roughly foiled? What aphoristic dogs have had their day, And of their hopes been suddenly despoiled?

Whose leaf was this? and what the bay-wreath'd name Which here its glowing fancies did rehearse? What was the subject which it doomed to Fame? Whose knife or scissors did that doom reverse?

Here gallant knights, imagining the wings Of the famed Pegasus sustained them, soaring, Fiddled, thou false one! on their own heartstrings, Whilst thou thy soul in laughter wert outpouring!

A score of petty minstrels might have lain, And, like the Abbey Sleepers, found good lying In this brief space--but none, alas! remain, Thou'st sent their ashes to the four winds flying!