Part 3

Behold my Muse, Colossus like, bestride The fallen honors of each beau and lover-- Ghosts of departed songs, that here have died, How many of ye now do o'er me hover?

Methought I heard ye then, as first ye threw Your soft imaginings in dreamy numbers, And o'er my soul the sweet enchantment flew Like music faintly heard in midnight slumbers.

* * * * *

When whim, or chance, or spite, _my_ leaf shall tear, Grant me in turn, ye fates! some gentle poet-- One who shall lie with such a grace, you'd swear That if indeed he lied, he did'nt know it!

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A PRODIGIOUS NOSE.

MR. WHITE: Your facetious correspondent PERTINAX PLACID, seems so deeply versed in what may be called _nasal music_, that I am very sure he would have recorded, in his late communication, and in far better style than mine, the history of a NOSE. Permit me, therefore, to furnish him with a few "memorabilia," of this extraordinary protuberance, (_nose_ it could not properly be called,) against his next narrative of a nasal concert.

It was the property of a Virginia gentleman, long since dead, who had attained, at a very early age, the enormous weight of some seven or eight and twenty stone. It had no resemblance to that of Slawkenbergius--as delineated by Sterne--nor to Dan Jackson's, so frequently and fondly described by Swift--nor to that of the sensual Bardolph, so famous in dramatic annals, for the phosphorescent quality of shining in the dark, ascribed to it by his friend Falstaff. In short, such was its unique conformation, that it would have defied the skill of Dr. Taliacotius himself, even with the choice of any part of the human body, to manufacture any thing at all like it. Although it approached more the bulbous kind of nose, than any other, and in shape, strongly resembled the nose of the Hippopotamus, or river horse, it was so disproportionately small, when contrasted with the two tumuli of flesh between which it was deeply imbedded, that it was quite invisible to any person taking a profile view of the face, which seemed to be literally noseless. Add to this, the projection of an upper lip of double the usual thickness, which so nearly closed the two apertures through which the proprietor breathed, as to render it perfectly manifest to all beholders, that to sleep in any other way but with his mouth at least half open, was utterly impracticable. This accordingly, was his invariable habit; and the consequences can be much more easily imagined, (difficult as it was,) than described. To relate every tale that I have heard of his snoring achievements, would certainly bring into some suspicion the veracity of those from whom I heard them. In tender regard, therefore, for their character, I will repeat only two; but by these alone, both you and your readers may judge pretty well of the rest.

The first was, that on a memorable occasion, when his crater was in full blast, his nasal explosions actually burst open a bran new door, although the bolt of the lock was turned. At another time, it is related of him, that arriving late at night at his favorite tavern in Alexandria, he was conducted into a room, furnished with two beds, in one of which was a little Frenchman, fast asleep, who had gone to rest without any expectation of receiving a fellow lodger. Into the empty bed the fat gentleman soon entered; and being a precious sleeper, he remained but a few minutes awake. Much, however, and most startling work was always to be done, before sound sleep ensued; for a prelude was to be performed, which might aptly be compared to the fearful sounds of a man in the agonies of death by strangulation, from the rupture of a blood vessel. This being almost enough to awaken the dead, we may readily suppose that the little Frenchman was instantly aroused,--aroused too, in the utmost extremity of such terror as would probably be caused in any one, at the idea of a murder being committed in his room. This conviction flashed upon his mind, with all its accompanying horror, at the moment he awoke. In the twinkling of an eye, he sprang out of bed--not exactly "in puris naturalibus," but certainly in a dress very unsuitable for company, and rushed headlong down three flights of stairs, crying out at the top of his voice, "murder! mon dieu! murder! murder!" As may well be imagined, this produced a general rush of the lodgers from their apartments, and in costume similar to his own.--The females were screaming in their highest key--the men, in their far harsher tones, were roaring out, "what's the matter? what's the matter?" while the little Frenchman reiterated still more loudly his piteous cries of "murder! mon dieu! murder! murder!" A scene of such indescribable confusion ensued, that some time elapsed before the equally terrified tavern keeper, who had joined the throng, had the least chance of unravelling the mystery. At last, however, sufficient quiet was restored to enable him to understand from the little Frenchman, why he had fled from his room with such precipitation. An irrepressible burst of laughter had nearly suffocated the poor landlord, before he could gain sufficient breath to explain to his guests, that the whole cause of their dreadful alarm, was nothing more than the fat gentleman's tuning and preluding upon his nasal instrument, as was his invariable custom, preliminary to the much deeper sleep that always followed; and which was indicated by a combination of such unearthly sounds, that they might reasonably thank their stars that the preparation they had received was no worse.

DEMOCRITUS, JR.

SWIMMING.

Some of our readers will doubtless remember an allusion in the tale of "The Doom" to an individual who performed the feat of swimming across the James, at the falls above this city. A valuable correspondent, who was the bold swimmer alluded to, writes us as follows:

"I noticed the allusion in the Doom. The writer seems to compare my swim with that of Lord Byron, whereas there can be no comparison between them. Any swimmer 'in the falls' in my days, would have swum the Hellespont, and thought nothing of the matter. I swam from Ludlam's wharf to Warwick, (six miles,) in a hot June sun, against one of the strongest tides ever known in the river. It would have been a feat comparatively easy to swim twenty miles in still water. I would not think much of attempting to swim the British Channel from Dover to Calais."

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

"THE GRAVE OF FORGOTTEN GENIUS."

BY AN UNDERGRADUATE.

Anxious thought that wished To go, yet whither knew not well to go, Possessed his soul and held it still awhile: He listened and heard from far the voice of fame, Heard and was charmed, and deep and sudden vow Of resolution made to be renowned, And deeper vowed to keep his vow.--_Pollock_.

The summer of 18--, was the fourth which I had spent at C---- College, and with it, ended my collegiate life. The scenes, which my long residence there had made sacred to the memory, were now becoming still more sacred as the time of my departure drew near. Every object, which was at all associated with meeting-scenes and parting-adieus, had become a magician's wand,--recalling the absent and the dead--towering hopes, now buried in the tomb, and anguish, which, thus recalled, is but the bliss which the dreamer enjoys, when he wakes and feels himself secure from the precipice, from whose edge a moment before he was plunging into a gulph below. No scene was to me so sacred as the student's grave-yard; for in it, I often mourned over the woes and ills of life, and almost unconsciously wished for a fate like the young men's who slept in its repose. There were then only four graves--three were side by side, having tomb-stones, epitaphed to the memory of those whose ashes reposed beneath them. The fourth stood alone--over it was a rude stone, on which was visible no tribute to him, whose remains were there. His was a destiny which often made me look upon the unlettered stone with the deepest sympathy. One only thing seemed to be known of this grave--one tribute only did time pay to his memory--for to the pilgrim who passed by and hastily inquired "who sleeps there?" naught was ever replied but the simple, yet eloquent elegy, "that is the '_Grave of the Forgotten Genius_.'" In this unconscious elegy, there was that which made me look upon it, almost as the grave of a brother.

It was here that I often retired during the last days of my stay at C---- College. Here I could enjoy an uninterrupted revery, and call before me the spirits of the dead and weep o'er the destiny of forgotten genius; yet, even then, I sometimes thought their fate the happiest which could fall to the lot of man. Perhaps they have prayed for the gift of oblivion. Perhaps they have wished not to be remembered. Their last desire may have been,

"Silent let me sink to earth With no officious mourners near: I would not mar one hour of mirth Nor startle friendship with a tear."

A few days before my departure from the college, I was walking thoughtfully through the grove, which surrounded this little grave-yard, when suddenly I beheld a stately figure, standing near the unepitaphed grave. He stood for a moment--then approached the gravestone--seemed to take something from it, and pressing his hand to his forehead for a moment, look fixedly at the stone. He arose--hastily left the grave and directed his course towards a little village below. Here was a mystery! Is this a relative--a brother of the "forgotten genius," who has at last come to pay a tribute to his long neglected memory? I ran to the grave. Behold! the name of him who had so long been forgotten! The mysterious stranger had discovered the name of the being who was buried there, which had been almost covered by the moss that had collected upon the stone, and which till then I had never observed.

At twilight I was again in the grove, and again saw the same figure approach the grave. He stood over it, and I distinctly heard these words, "hapless being! Would that I had been here to ease thy dying agony. Yet 'tis well! I grieve not! Thy spirit is at rest."

I did not hesitate, but immediately approached the stranger, who seemed a little surprised, but by no means disconcerted.

"Stranger," I said, "thou grievest not alone! Pardon me for intruding upon thy grief. I wish only to add my sympathy to your anguish."

"Thou'rt welcome!" said the stranger, "I thank thee for thy sympathy: but tell me? Is the tale of him, who sleeps in that grave still known?"

"It is only known that he was once a student of C---- College, and that his tomb has long been called the 'Grave of the Forgotten Genius'" I replied. But the stranger seemed not to hear me--made no answer and approached again to the grave, and by the light of the moon which now shone brightly, read the name "Walter ----," exclaiming, "yes 'tis my younger brother, who died fifteen years ago." "And were none of his friends" I inquired, "at his side during his last illness?"

"Alas" said he, "his spirit was gone, ere the news reached them, that he was sick!" and then after a short silence the stranger continued. "But come with me to yonder village? I will there give you all the information you want." I immediately gave my assent, and after the stranger had again stood silently over the grave seemingly engaged in supplicating the favor of heaven, we approached the village. We entered the village inn,--the stranger left me for a moment, but soon reentered the room in which he had left me, bearing in one hand a small manuscript, and in the other a purse. "This manuscript" said he, "will give you the tale of him, who is now known only as the Forgotten Genius. This purse contains one hundred and fifty crowns, half of which you must cause to be applied to the erection of a monument over my brother's grave, and the other half to be deposited in the county treasury, the interest to be applied to the cultivation of the grove around the student's grave-yard."

"It is now late" said the stranger, "my duty calls me one hundred miles hence before to-morrow evening. I must rest a little, and continue my journey."

I then pressed the stranger's hand. Neither spoke. The tears flowed down the stranger's cheeks, and I felt that I was parting from a brother; without the least hope that I should ever see him again, I retired to my room, but it was only to give vent to the excess of my feelings. I continued walking through my apartment until dawn, and on going out, was informed that the stranger had just set out on his journey. I rushed to my room again, full of doubt and grief--opened the manuscript which had been given to me by the stranger, and read as follows:--

* * * * *

Walter Dunlap was born in Chestatee Village, which is situated on one of the tributary streams of the Tennessee river, and surrounded by those beautiful vallies, so numerous on both sides of the Cumberland mountains. His father had been the first, and was at his birth the principal merchant in Chestatee Village. He was not wealthy, yet his economy had enabled him to afford means for the education of his sons at one of the first colleges in the east. The procurement of this had been his whole ambition, and it may well be imagined, that any evidences of talent and genius in his sons, would please him much. In his infancy, Walter displayed in his slightest actions, a nobleness, a generosity, and a dauntlessness which at once won the heart of his father, and Walter had not been placed under the instruction of a tutor more than six months, ere he was far in advance of those who had spent years in the school-room. Already did the fathers and mothers of Chestatee Village hold up Walter to their children as a model for their imitation. He had not passed his twelfth year before he was sent with an elder brother to a college three hundred miles distant from his paternal home.

We arrived at C---- College full of hope and expectation, for the writer of this narrative was the next elder brother of Walter. We looked only for that continual flow of spirits and sprightliness, which the changing and novel scenes of our journey had excited, and were therefore illy prepared to meet the rigid confinement and discipline of a college-life. At first we sat out with ardor, and Walter especially, seemed delighted with the prospect of pleasure which lay before him. Yet the most ardent and ambitious, are not always the most successful students. A sudden prospect of an adventure, full of romance and chivalry, seldom fails to bewitch their imagination, and those who before were first and most ardent in the pursuit of knowledge, are often, by a single incident of mirth and pleasure converted into ring-leaders of insubordination, unwilling to reap the advantages of a liberal education, and constantly contriving means of interrupting the peace of those around them. There were such at C---- College, and it was not long ere Walter was ranked among the most ungovernable members of the institution. Six months had not elapsed, ere he was represented to his father, as one who was no longer fit for the station he occupied, and was thus privately dismissed. These were the circumstances: Walter and myself were placed under the guardianship of a distant relative who was connected with the institution, and he was to supply us with whatever money we needed. The frequent applications which Walter had made to his guardian at last caused a prompt refusal, which greatly displeased Walter. He went to the apartment occupied by his guardian, and took the sum for which he had applied. This act he did not attempt to conceal, for he was not yet able to distinguish between right and wrong,--so that it could not have entered into his mind that he was then committing a crime, which was subject to the severest punishment. His guardian, offended at the indignity which he thought had been offered him, reported the child who was placed under his peculiar protection, to the president of the college, for _theft_. Thus was the thoughtless, the generous and noble Walter, beloved by all his companions, implicated and deemed guilty of an act, among the basest in the catalogue of crimes. This news might well astonish the too confiding father of Walter. He was scarcely able to think, or to speak, when he received the request which the faculty had made. It was a journey of several days, yet this did not stop the weeping father, who hastened to the college to examine in person the nature of the offence. On his arrival, he too was convinced of the guilt of his son. In vain did his youthful eloquence attempt to make a distinction between taking that which was his own, and that which was another's. His father's rigid justice could not comprehend the distinction, which though incorrect, was perfectly natural. Well do I remember the sad and woe-worn countenance of our parent. Never have I seen, during a lapse of almost twenty year's observation, a father lament so bitterly over the fate of his son.

"My son," said he to me, as he was about to set out with Walter, to leave me to solitude and tears, "act honorably for my sake," and as we shook hands, tears came to relieve the agony which oppressed us. Walter, too, who till now had been firm and unmoved, boldly informing his companions of his situation and defending his actions, embraced me tenderly, and then more than at any other time during my life, when my feelings were only suggested by nature, did my heart respond to the thrilling lines

"The word that bids us sever, It sounds not yet, no, no, no!"

We parted! Months passed on and not a word from Walter. At last a letter came from my father. It breathed still the same feelings and anguish which he felt at our separation. "Walter," said he, "still remains inexorable! He is ruined, and I am not able to control him. You, my son, you alone can cheer my heart and recal me from the woe which Waller has caused me." At the end of one year from the time I had separated from my father, he informed me that he had just sent Walter to live with an uncle, who resided on the Elk--a river whose banks were then but thinly settled, where he hoped the retirement of his situation and the good counsel of his uncle, would work a reformation in the feelings and principles of Walter.

"If this fail," he concluded, "I am at an end--my last hope is destroyed and my heart is broken." More than two years had elapsed since my departure for the college, and for the first time was I summoned to my paternal home. I returned, and oh, how changed was the scene! I had left my father's a house of constant happiness, but now scarcely a smile was familiar to the face of a person in the family. My father was absent in mind, and talked of forsaking business. I remained two months, and used all my endeavors to recal his thoughts to the objects around him, and in some measure succeeded. I again returned to C---- College--where I remained two years longer, not forgetting to write often to my father in such a style as to make him forget that subject which weighed so heavily upon his spirits; nor did I forget Walter, to whom I often wrote, although my letters were never answered, and had reason to hope that they were not only agreeable to him, but gladly received. The last year of my collegiate life ended! I flew to my home, in obedience to the urgent request of my father, who still spoke of the disgrace and ruin of Walter, who had just returned. I was greeted with the sincerest joy--and Walter, as my father informed me, wept for the first time since our separation four years before, and I felt, that I had been restored to a long lost brother. He, indeed, seemed to be suddenly wrested from the gloom which had so long surrounded him, and we rambled over the hills, sacred to the memory of school-boy sports, again mingled together in the society of youthful friends, and were again as happy and as joyous, as we were, ere we experienced the pestilential influence of a college.