Part 9

I do not know how to advise you about the study of law. I once looked into it, and though it may be a garden teeming with the elegancies of Poestum, I could not bear that rough dragon of pedantry, Coke, who guarded its threshold. It is a sort of hustle-cap game, between judges and lawyers, and a perilous mystery wherein common sense cannot trust itself, without that peculiar and dogged impudence, which bears all the vulgarity, without the courage, of effrontery. Now there is philosophy in every thing, and if you will acquire decent effrontery I will call it, for your sake, dignity and learning; and I will even believe that it requires some mind to understand a plain statute, and some genius to pervert it. Yet I cannot look with a sarcastic eye on the hallowed relics of the legal institutions of antiquity. Go back, my dear boy, to the redundant fountains of ancient literature--and you will find that Plato and Tully, have long ago, looked up for the pure seat of law only to the bosom of God, and that the Norman gibberish and dog-latin, which were quoted to burn witches and sustain kings, though they may make you a lawyer skilled in precedents, can never make you the scourge of knavery, the fearless champion of innocence, nor the enlightened advocate of your country's rights. Old Sir Roger L'Estrange wrote a mournful valedictory, when he left the riots and Apician nights of the Inns for the labors and stolid gravity of the bar, and, amid many sarcasms on the profession, he has thus happily sketched the character of an honest lawyer.

"He can prosecute a suit in equity without seeking to create a whirlpool where one order shall beget another, {30} and the poor client be swung around (like a cat before execution,) from decree to rehearing--from report to exception, and _vice versâ_, till his fortunes are shipwrecked, and himself drowned, for want of white and yellow earth to wade through on. He does not play the empiric with his client, and put him on the rack to make him bleed more freely; casting him into a swoon with frights of a judgment, and then reviving him again with a cordial writ of error, or the dear elixir of an injunction, to keep the brangle alive, as long as there are any vital spirits in the pouch. He can suffer his neighbors to live quiet about him without perpetual alarms of actions and indictments, or conjuring up dormant titles to every commodious seat, and making land fall five years purchase, merely for lying within ten miles of him."

Devote most of your leisure hours to the study of Virginian antiquities, for it is a noble field, and one which glows into beauty beneath cultivation. Williamsburg itself is a hoary and whitened monument of ancient pomp and power, and there still dwells around it the trembling twilight of former greatness. There is something distinctive, learned, and patriotic, in the character of a home antiquary, which will lift you far above the little pedants, who have dipped the wing in Kennet, or tasted of the shallow learning of Athenian Stuart. Do you not remember the indignant, yet pathetic lines which Warton wrote in a blank leaf of Dugdale's Monasticon, and the spirited scorn with which he repels the sneers of ignorance and dulness? The antiquary is neither a visionary, nor an enthusiast, for his pursuits teach the holiest love of country, and call into action the softest and gentlest affections of the human heart, while his guileless life occasionally shines forth with the chastened light of virtue and learning. Virginia is a land whose thrilling history beggars all romance--every fragment of which, like a broken vase, will multiply perfume. Who knows aught of that gallant band, who so fearfully revenged the massacre of 1622?--the bold patriots who resisted the illegal restrictions on trade--the intrepid spirits who, led by Bacon, anticipated by a century our national æra, or that chivalric corps, who, under Vernon, rotted on the pestilential shores of Carthagena? Who dwells with the patriot's pride, on that unconquerable strength of infant freedom which made historic Beverley the Hampden of the colony? Or who troubles himself to inquire into the blood-stained life of that Westmoreland Parke, who seized the throne of Antigua, and who died in the last dyke of a bootless though fiercely fought field? Who cares to remember the enlightened and learned botanist Clayton, whose modest book, written in the purest Latin, gained for himself and country, a once proud though now forgotten fame? And who will believe that the wise, pious, and eloquent Bishop Porteus was born, and gambolled away his boyhood on the sunny shores of the majestic York-river? They are all forgotten! and we neglect the vivid and truthful romance of our own beautiful land, to learn the nursery tales of fickle Greece, and factious Rome. In the shifting of the social scene, naught has been left to remind us of the busy drama once acted in Virginia, and even garrulous tradition now doubts its existence, while our feet hourly trample on the sepulchered silence of all that once adorned, dignified, and elevated human nature.

I do not wish to give you a learned essay on books, nor to advise you what authors to read. Your taste is now matured, and that faculty will see that justice is done to its delicacy. The great object of study is to teach us _how_, and not _what_ to think; and the principal art of authorship is the power of pilfering with judgment from the ruins of ancient lore. But trust not to this poor and suspicious honor. Rely for success on the daring emprise of your own genius, and should it fail to lift you from the earth, descend not to the dunghill of pedantry. Be a poet for the women--a historian for the men--and a scholar for your own happiness. Confirm your taste by satiating memory with the beauties of the Spectator, and let Horace hourly talk you into the dignity and elegance of the sensible gentleman. Be accurate, rather than extensive, in your knowledge of history, and a recollection of dates will give you victory in every contest. Learn the technicalities of geometry; for this will satisfy the groping mathematician, while the world will take your pedantry for wisdom, and your crabbed words for learning. There has been, and ever will be, an everlasting conflict between the radiant course of genius, and the mole-hill track of diagrams and problems. Strength of mind is claimed as the attribute of mathematical study, while we forget that any other study, pursued with the same strictness of attention, will equally fashion the mind into system and method, while it will be free from the slavish obedience and indurated dulness, which result from the memory of lines and proportions.

You know, my dear boy, my notions concerning your dress. Express nothing in fancy; and without being the Alpha or Omega of fashion, be neither fop nor sloven, and dress for the effect of general and not particular dignity, and never wear a striped cravat. Do not ape eccentricity of manner and opinion, and take the world in a laughing and good humored mood. I detest a beardless Cato, for I never knew one of them, who could stand fire. Talk to women about every thing but prudence and propriety, and they will think you as wise as you are well bred; for they cannot bear the restraint of advice, or the judgment of criticism. Tasso makes his heroine taunt Rinaldo with gravity and sedateness, and when she calls him a "Zenocrates in love" the volume of her eloquence exhibits the bitterest venom of female invective.

Chalgrave is now still, solitary, and deserted; and were it not for Lucy's cheerful voice, I should look on myself as a living tomb. Your pup Gildippe tore off the cover of my Elzevir Horace, an offence deserving a halter, yet she is pardoned for your sake. Tell me not of Sir Isaac Newton's diamond, for he never destroyed a jewel so rare, and so highly prized--ask Col. H. if a colt is best broken in a snaffle-bit--and tell him 'tis downright superstition to worm a genuine pointer. I send the pistols made by Wodgen and Barton, and carrying a ball of the most approved weight. Do write to me, and never forget that you are a Granby.

I am, my dear boy, Yours truly, CHARLES GRANBY.

P. S. Translate the Ode to Fortune for me! Old Schrevelli said that he had rather be the author of that poem, than the Emperor of all the Austrias, and there was more sense than enthusiasm in his noble preference.

{31} P. S. Never scrape your bullets with a knife--but use a flat file. Do not play the flute; and never write verses on a "flower presented to a lady," on "a lady singing," or on "receiving a lock of hair;" for of all puppyism, this is the smallest accomplishment.

P. S. Never buy a gaudy handkerchief! Do not say _raised_, _disremember_, _expect_ for _suspect_; and never end the common courtesies of conversation with the frigid Sir! "Thank ye _Sir!_" Drink tea instead of coffee, for 'tis more patrician; and do not render yourself suspected by pronouncing criticisms on wines.

The postscripts were multiplied through a full page, which presented a striking picture of all the odd conceits--incongruous notions, and broad feeling which tortured my kind uncle's tranquil brain, and I arose from the perusal of his letter with mingled emotions of love, respect, and laughter. Lucy's epistle was like that of all girls, full of small news, long words, and burning sentences of love and sentiment, and inquiring in a postscript of the health of Arthur Ludwell, as her mother was greatly interested in his welfare. Frederick gave me a learned dissertation on the origin of civil society, and the philosophy of Bolingbroke, scourging me into frantic ambition, and ending with a prayer that I would ever keep my honor untainted. My _honor_ was then the subject of their hopes and fears; and, as I eyed the pistols, I found the fierceness of my nature lurking with a tranquil rapture around the open, and undisguised hints of my family. To my temperament, the neat and elegant workmanship, and the beautiful polish of the pistols, argued sternness and chivalry: and under the protection of the code of honor, I was determined, by braving every conflict, to gratify my long, deep, and vindictive hate of Pilton. How curiously constituted, how wayward, and yet how uncontrollable is the swelling pulse of the human heart, when agitated by some momentary and master passion; at any other period, the remembrance of Isa Gordon, would have soothed me into a lover's thoughtful gloom, but now every gentle and luxuriant tendril which was woven around my heart was a crushed and bleeding ruin, and I examined my uncle's gift of blood--only to murmur the name of Pilton.

My visits to Miss Pilton's had been attentive, and constant, and I had concealed my fraud with such art, that I found her listening with unhesitating confidence, to the deceitful passion which I daily uttered. Cautious of proposing matrimony, yet ever alert to hint it--affecting distress and melancholy--and alternately jealous and confiding, I awoke her sympathy, only to gain her passionate and abiding affection, while I secured my victory by every art which duplicity could invent, or falsehood suggest. I saw her reject the accomplished and educated youth whose pure and guileless feelings had retained the early romance of childhood's love, and when I found her in tears, with her head reclining on my bosom, she told me, with a blushing cheek, that she had sacrificed him, whose singleness and purity of heart she could not doubt, for me alone.

'Twas a calm and soft evening when Miss Pilton left Williamsburg, and, ere we parted, I extorted from her unsuspicious feelings a promise that she would write to me. Day had languished itself into night, when I found myself a solitary loiterer in the noiseless grove which skirted the city. The wind sobbed through the dreary and desolate silence of the forest, and when I looked up to the twinkling and radiant light which blazes in a starry sky of Virginia, the innate piety of Nature almost chastened me into repentance. How vain is that feeble wisdom which impotently labors to read those mute and living oracles of God? yet who, in searching into them, docs not feel that his heart is kindled into enthusiasm, by their wild and spiritual eloquence. May not each bright and dazzling star whose lambent fire dances over the cloudless sky be the abode of spirits enjoying a realm of mind--of philosophers who rived the adamant of vulgar error--of patriots who offered their blood at the shrine of their country--of those who opened a vista for freedom through the gloom of tyranny--and of the poet who, fettered to the earth, boldly anticipated a foretaste of his eternal home, in some earthly, yet beautiful and rapturous dream?

THETA.

THE DREAM.

I.

I dreamed a dream--and still upon my mind The image of that dream, on Memory's page Inscribed in letters large and legible, Rests vivid as the lightning's scathing flash. Beneath a spreading oak, that towered high And lone upon a hillock's grassy plot, A Maiden stood--and by her side a Youth, Whose summers did, tho' few, outnumber hers; And _she_ was beautiful as rainbow tints-- Her voice, like sweetest music borne upon The bosom of some gentle breeze far o'er The hushed and silent waters of the deep-- Her breath, like fragrant odors from the lap Of Flora sent, when Morning's blush appears-- Her heart, the home where wild affections dwelt-- Her mind, of intellectual power the seat-- Her eye, the mirror to her speaking soul! Upon her marble brow was set the seal Of _Dignity_--and in her slender form Were blended grace and perfect symmetry. The Youth was tall, erect--but unlike her In all things save affection's swelling tide: Unknowing of the bright and quenchless fire, At Beauty's altar lit, that constant burned Within his bosom's deep recess, the world Had deemed him changeful as the fitful wind. Silent they were, and round them silence reigned: Above, the clear blue ether spread her veil, And by them swept the gentle, fresh'ning breeze That cooled the burning temples of the one, The flowing tresses of the other waved. Beneath them was a wide spread plain, o'er which The full Moon poured her streams of silver light, And in a flood of glory bathed both plain And rugged cliffs that wildly rose beyond. Upon that lovely scene the maiden looked That joy and stillness breathed into her heart; But he that meeting, had not sought to gaze On landscapes, living though they were. He saw But her whose form before him rose, so bright, So beautiful, that all else faded from {32} The view: He heard no sound save that alone Which from his beating heart was sent: and oft He did essay to breathe the hallowed thoughts That in his bosom long had slept--the pent- Up fountains of his love to ope; but oft In vain, 'till faltering accents came at last, And told the feelings of his inmost soul. But _she_ was calm; no falling of the eye-- No heightened color's tinge--no trembling of That silver voice, spoke aught of passion there. Yet kindness breathed in every word that fell From off her Angel lips--and told that though Her heart with his beat not in unison, It still could feel for sorrows not its own. Though soft, like breath of pois'nous Simoom came Her voice. Young Hope her dewy pinions shook, And as she winged her airy flight away, Came casking Care her place to fill. And yet A moment's space he lingered there; and as Upon her saddened face he once again Did look with mingled feelings, inly swore To perish ere his love should fade and die. And she did pensive turn her steps along Their homeward way, again to be the life, The light, the chiefest joy of all around.

II.

A change swept o'er the aspect of my dream, And in its mystic flight my spirit bore Me to the festive hall. I saw them 'midst The thoughtless throng--their eyes lit up with joy-- Their lips all wreathed in smiles--and on their cheeks The glowing hues of pleasure mantled high. He spoke not oft to her, but frequent did Address him to some other fair--and all Did deem, and she did hope that love of her Was buried deep in Lethe's magic pool; And lighter then of heart to think that care His mind had left, unwonted gladness beamed Forth from her speaking eye, and lit with ten- Fold lustre up those features ever fair.

III.

The scene was changed. Apart within the walls Of his lone study sat the youth. Before Him lay a letter, breathing much of deep, Impassioned love. Yes, he again had dared At that same Angel-shrine his heart to lay, And, well as _words_ could speak, a love to paint, Not torpid, cold and calculating, like The selfish feeling of a worldly man-- But with the every fibre of his heart Inwove. For he had seen her oft, and well Had studied both her features, mind and heart, Since first the pangs of unrequited love Across his bosom shot: in all things had He found her of such perfect, faultless mould-- So far beyond compare with all that e'er His eye had looked upon--yea, e'en than aught Of fairy form, which frolic fancy in Her wildest mood had shadowed glowing forth To young imagination's quickened sight,-- That madly had he drunk at passion's fount, Ere yet the voice of reason whispered late, (Too late, alas! for in the vortex was He twirling then, unskilled the yawning gulf To shun,) that she was not for one like him. Perchance the spell that bound him unto her And deep affection's gushing waters stirred, Was wrought into its present strength--for that She minded him of one--a sister dear-- Like her in nature as in name, on whom His heart did centre once, when joyous, bright And sunny hours e'er gilded o'er the stream Of early life about their childhood's home; When each was to the other all that earth Of joy could give--a little world--beyond Whose narrow bounds their youthful vision then Extended not. And now in her he saw The image of that sister's mind and heart Reflected back in colors yet more bright, And felt that life to him was nothing worth, Except with her its joys and ills were shared.

IV.

The scene was changed. Within her father's home The maiden sat, and bent her o'er the page On which were traced the wild outpourings of Her lover's heart. A cloud was on her brow-- Not gathered there by anger, but by grief. And long she sorrowed o'er the fate of one Whom she had learned to value far above The worthless crowd that throngs round Beauty's form; Then sudden snatched a pen, and tho' it pained Her much, did haste once more in kindest terms To bid him banish Hope--for tho' a _friend_ She'd ever be--to him she could no more.

V.

Again my spirit bore me to the youth's Lone study, where I saw him pacing to And fro, with heavy step and downcast look. His eye was fixed and dull--all smiles had fled, And o'er his pallid, bloodless cheek had woe His sable mantle flung. But whilst he thus Was moved, anon there entered one endeared By Friendship's strongest ties, who knew the fate His fondest hopes had met, and told a tale Of which he deemed not aught before--a tale That scarce at first could credence gain, so dread Its import was; yet soon he found 'twas but Too true--"His sacred letter, ere it reached Its destined port, had by some strange mischance Been torn, its secrets filched and heralded Abroad: yet, by the wakeful kindness of That much-loved one, his hallowed thoughts had reached The ears of few." Then sudden o'er him came A fearful mood that shook his every limb. Like liquid fire his blood along his veins Did course, and to his throbbing temples mount-- Then rush tumultuous back upon his heart That sent it once again with quickened speed Along his swollen, well-nigh bursting veins; And from his lips at times did fall unmeet And vengeful words, that told what passion stirred Within. But that soon passed, and to the eye His troubled soul, as that of infant hushed To sleep upon its mother's breast, was calm.

VI.

The scene was changed. Before the altar stood {33} The maiden, in her bridal vestments clad, And gave her hand and virgin heart away-- Whilst mantling blushes o'er her features spread Like Iris' colors on the deepened blue Of Heaven's high vault--to one whose kindling eye Was turned with rapture on her matchless face, And who in part was like unto the youth That first beside her stood--_yet not the same_. And she did love him with a boundless love-- Deep, pure and changeless as Jehovah's word-- The very essence of her being, that life's Quiescent stream with fairest garlands strewed-- For he her youthful heart's responsive chord Had known to touch with sweet and winning words, By graceful mien, and giant strength of mind. Unblest he was with Mammon's glittering hoard-- In nothing rich, save worth's neglected store; And yet for that, her heart with wildest joy Did but the closer cling unchanged to him. And he, with pride and pleasure took her to His bosom beating high; for none could know, And knowing not admire. But his was not The fervent adoration of the heart, In prostrate homage bowed before her shrine, That moved the soul of him who first essayed Her peerless love to win. And yet before Them to all seeming lay a flowery path, Along whose scented walks they might their way With noiseless step and even tenor wend.

VII.

Once more, and only once, a change passed o'er My fitful dream. In sultry, southern clime, Again upon my vision fell the tall, Attenuated image of that youth, Whom first beneath the spreading oak I saw; And he was changed not less in feature than In heart. The glow of health had fled his cheek, Now haggard, swart and bronzed by burning sun. His eye, once bright with joyous life, had lost Its lustre now, and deep upon his brow Had care her furrows traced. His spirit too, So light and buoyant once, was now all bound And broken like the willow's drooping branch. But o'er his heart a yet more fearful change Had come. _Once_ warm and sensibly alive To pity's cry--e'er breathing love for all-- _Now_ cold and seared--the living fountains of Its sympathy were dried--and dead it was To all things save the worldly schemes that fierce Ambition wrought. And none did know the weight Of anguish on its aching chords that pressed, Since living man no commune held with him: For he did spurn them as unhallowed things, And 'round him wrapt the cloak of selfishness: For what was now the world to him, since she Whose presence had made all things beautiful, Was lost, forever lost? And he did look Unmoved on fairest form, and brightest eye; Unmoved he heard full many a voice attuned In sweet accordance with the soft piano; For mute were all the echoes of his soul, Since never could he hope again such pure, Such bright, such dazzling purity to find, As dwelt within the heart of her he loved. And naught the slumbering powers of his mind Did rouse and prompt to grapple with the herd That crossed his path, save only the desire To banish thought and leave a name behind. For he did feel that none would glory in His present fame, and that he was a lone And desert being--all forgetting, and By all forgot. And though his soul did thirst At honor's fount to drink and laurels win, He inly scorned the world--the world's acclaim-- And whilst it flattered, loathed its fulsome praise. And yet unto all outward seeming was His spirit calm as ocean's waves, when lie The winds of Heaven upon her bosom hushed.

Here ceased my dream--for on my slumbers broke The glare of day, and called my spirit home.

SYLVESTER.

MS. FOUND IN A BOTTLE.